Hope all you megabrainy wonderkids have recovered from my last article. Because the bell has rung and reality is comin’ out swingin’.

Do you remember me telling you about the Ancient Egyptian Mummy found by Mr. Wesley Byron Prufrock? Do you remember the deplorable actions of the scurrilous government agents (Media blackouts, meaningless explanations, threats, secrecy)? Do you remember me telling you everything would change? Well, gollygee gumpus! Cram a load of this up your cranium and tell me what you think:

Government strategists are laying square eggs over what they have now termed Mummygate. It seems I was right on the money. Human perspective and brute reality have gone into the ring together, and only one of them is coming out.

So in the left corner we have Pharoah Whoever-He-Is. 3000 years old, if he’s a day, inconvenient truth, and undisputed brute reality. And in the right corner we have us, with more problems than Lazarus with a triple bypass on an Al Quida bungee jumping expedition in Washington D.C.

The questions being asked by those oily eggheadded nerds in the government are: How does Mummygate fit into our web of knowledge? And what does it mean for us (the government of course, they’re not concerned with how it would affect the rest of us). And the answers, my fine caped heroes, are more confronting than seeing your Mum at an ‘abortions on demand’ rally.

Mummygate stands in direct contrast to everything we thought we knew. Simple as that. And what does that mean for the rest of us? Well, it proves, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the reality we live under is wrong.

Wallop! K.O. Here comes the ambulance!

Okay, okay, I’ve got some good news and I’ve got some bad news.

Probably better get the bad news out of the way first. Mummygate has the government wondering why anyone should listen to them when they have as tenuous a grasp on reality as the rest of us. For centuries the model of government has been thus: The constituency is a madhouse and the government are its keepers. Mummygate shows them to be just another inmate, with absolutely nothing to justify the influence they exert upon us.

Now for the good news. Realising the impact brute facts have upon our ‘perceptions’ of reality we can now answer an age old Zen Koan once and for all. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it in fact fall? The answer is, ‘Yes’. Facts are facts, if a tree falls in a forest, it falls, regardless of what we might think.

Lots of complaints since the last article ‘You’re confusing pants with dresses Nigel!’ says some angry crossdressing P.C. accuracy Nazi.’’Loincloths, Gladiatorial skirts, Kilts and Caftans are NOT pants,’ writes another self-absorbed Yowie-writer-wannabe. ‘I don’t want to know where you shop for clothes Nigel. But you sound a little confused.’ Doesn’t deserve comment really.

Are you ALL idiots?!

Ok, these are not, strictly speaking, pants. I used these to illustrate the history and growth of the Scary Pants Phenomenon. Background is essential people. Try and think a bit laterally, alright.

The apparel used in my previous article spawned such horrors as:

1930’s, Jodhpurs. World War war brewing. Jodhpurs: tasteless, shapeless, an affront to every clothed creature on the planet. Jodhpurs were the convergence between skirts and pants. See where I’m going now? Jodhpurs were fifty years ahead of the unisex revolution. And seventy years before the metrosexual look. A little known fact is that Jodhpurs were originally used as catheters by chronic overeaters Always wondered about that bulge around the hips didn’t you? Not only hideous, gender neutral, and misshapen Jodhpurs assailed their wearer’s opponents with smell.

1940’s, Stovepipes. Now we’re in the realm of scary pants pure and true. Stovepipes turned regular men into straight legged, toy soldier clones. Precisely what the times called for (WWII). Only a sartorial masterstroke could halt the fat arsed Nazi ubermensch waddling through Europe in their Jodhpurs. A fashion holocaust needed a fashion A Bomb. And Stovepipes were just that.

1950’s, Bellbottoms. The Cold War was inevitable really.

I’m not going to detail everything. Rest assured, atrocities in history are accompanied by atrocities in fashion. By now you should be able to see where I am going with this. So let me tell the story, okay?. Trust me.

Gee Whiz have I got a blockbuster today Kid-er-inos! It’s more explosive than God’s orgasm – the Big Bang.

Remember Mr. Wesley Byron Prufrock Super Kids? Remember he’d discovered a genuine Ancient Egyptian Mummy? In the wall of his 41st floor apartment no less? And do you remember I said everything would change because of this? Well EVERYTHING IS CHANGING!

Wow, wow, and Super Wow! (Sounds like a dog with a harelip!)

The authenticity of Mr. Prufrock’s find is beyond dispute. The eggheads agree (and these people are so smart they have trouble keeping up with themselves): the Mummy has lain UNDISTURBED for three and a half thousand years. All that remains is to explain how it got there. Bit of a head-scratcher if you consider that until last year the Q1 didn’t even exist!

The tub-thumpers have made up a name: ‘Latent Transcognitive Postactualization’. Gadzooks! No one knows what this means. If indeed it means anything. I think it’s another political Band-Aid. Make us think they have the situation in hand. Scoundrels!

But the word from the inside is far clearer, and far more confronting. Stop right here Brainiacs if you’re not prepared to have your academic pants kicked. Alright. For those brave few still reading put your minds in hyperdrive!

The Mummy (say the super thinkers from the shadows of Government) was always in the building’s walls. Even before the building was built. Once the building was built the Mummy could be discovered.

What Ho!!!??? It sounds like these people would understand me if I told them they’ve got their heads stuck so far up the arses only their feet are sticking out.

Look at it this way: When Dr. Stanley Livingston found Henry Morton living with the tribespeople of Africa, he gave Mr. Morton a copy of the Times. Reading material or toilet paper? The decision must’ve been agony.
The natives, not knowing information could be relayed through print, interpreted what Mr. Morton was doing (reading) the only way they could: ‘Anything,’ they said, ‘that could make a person want to stare at it for so long must be some sort of eyebalm.’ As far as the natives were concerned the Times WAS eyebalm (Golly how times change).

Knowing this it’s easy to understand the Mummy problem. Until the Q1 was built we (the human race) didn’t have the ‘perspective’ to recognize the Mummy where it was, for what it was. It (the Mummy) was always there. It wasn’t on our radar because our radar wasn’t sophisticated enough.

Now for me that makes about as much sense as a metaphysical riddle scrawled in a dead language by a madman who was illiterate. Wowza!

Any readers not knocked to the floor? This is a lot to take in, so I might leave it here for today. Be assured I’ll be back soon with the latest news (If I get paid).

P.S. I’m getting very, very fed up with Minute Noodles. Since I get paid per comment I’d really like some attention here please.

Scary pants. The mark of civilization or the measure of barbarity?

The scariness of pants has always provided a yardstick of the times: Ancient cavemen frightened friends and enemies alike in their feeble loincloths. This was in the time before the advantages of scary pants were fully known. The scariness of loincloths was not by deliberate design. It either worked or it didn’t.

Gladiators in Ancient Rome improved upon loincloths and were the first to see the incalcuable benefits of wearing scary pants. They hit upon the idea of wearing leather straps hanging from a belt. This design allowed them to distract their opponents in the Gladiatorial Ring by flashing their wangers at them during the heat of battle.

The Gladiatorial ‘skirt’ found a medievil form in the Scottish kilt (now this puts the willies up me). Scary pants had hit a high point. Rather than flashing in the heat of battle, Scottish warriors would raise their kilts before attacking and shake their goolies at the enemy. Opponents, if they didn’t run away immediately, would, rightly, be afraid of another goolie shaking. Thereby distracting them from the battle at hand.

So you can see how the scariness of pants contributed a significant strategic value to men of all times and places. It is no different today.

Remember the Hard Yakka shorts of the eighties? Mortifying weren’t they. These shorts were the product of the Cold War. A time when ‘Mutually Assured Destruction’ seemed to put the Superpowers at a stalemate. However, private enterprise came to Jimmy Carter’s rescue. And the Hard Yakka shorts so terrified the Soviets that Glastnost was inevitable.

Look at the TV any night and you’ll see the horrors of modern warfare mirrored in pants. Terrorists are so called, not because they blow people up but, because they wear those funny kaftans in stifling deserts. There is something deeply wrong with this. The hotter it is, the less you wear. The apparent contradiction in the Middle East is designed to throw westerners off-balance. Just like scary pants should.

And consider this: In the Jewish slums of medievil Europe Jews would tip each other off when danger threatened. Everyone loved to burn Jews. So when someone got wind of who was to be chained to the bonfire they would warn the person by code: the number ‘501’ meant ‘fire’. Today the Levi (a good Jewish name) Jeans marquee product is Levis 501. Coincidence? I think not. Scary pants? Well, just look at the Israeli army today. Nobody fucks with them.

When it comes to fighting and scary pants no one, but no one, can top the Japanese. Whatever twisted mind hatched the idea of putting 250kg men in diapers is a Machiavellian genius. That’s why Sumo in single, unarmed combat are acknowledged as preminent among all fighting styles.

Okay. Now you fully understand the level at which war is, and has always been, fought. How do you defend yourself?

That, Oh Reader Mine, is an article for another time …

On trains fat chicks get to jiggle in ways that are truly seismic. All that eating finally pays off. It’s like the Jelly Monster of your childhood nightmares come to life. Furthermore, with space at a premium the social order is inverted. Space, on a train, is currency. So the fatter you are the the more currency you possess. On trains the fat chicks rule. Any dissention is brutally crushed as fat chicks, in a moving train, have physics on their side.

The question then is: If fat chicks are queens when it comes to train travel who are the kings? And the answer, my friends, is the druggy. Haven’t you ever wondered why druggies hang around train platforms? It’s not for the privacy. It’s sure as hell not for the safety and security. It’s because everyone looks as stupefyed as them. Hollow eyed, vacant from monotony, wrapped in their own electronic utopias. Train travel represents everything drug abusers strive for.

Footy fans love train travel because they don’t have to clean up the vomit. Better yet, they’ve a captive audience to torture with their boorish, loudmouthed idiocy. The only time a footy fan’s IQ is lower than at the match is when they’re travelling by train. Me, I think it’s from the lack of oxygen: Rail staff deliberately reduce airconditioner output in a doomed effort to send footy yobs to sleep. But the footers have four things in their favour: 1. A blood system full of alcohol. 2. Supercharged, post or prematch emotion. 3. A group of equally boorish, insolent, noisy mates. 4. And a carriage load of quailing victims. The combination of these four act as a stimulant to the rank, drunken idiots. While the restricted oxygen reduces their already pitiful intelligence.

Ever wondered why Rail staff are drawn exclusively from the Merchant Navy? It’s because they’ve got the ‘sea legs’ for the job. No landlubber could could stand more than two train journeys a day without losing their lunch. Carriage seats remind sailors of their old shipboard bunks. The unexpected power blackouts of times on an ocean becalmed. The rocking motion of both ship and train sets an erotic rhythm to each day. Rail staff, like sailors, are a very close bunch.

Hi there Superkids! My name is Colonel Macdaver. And while I’m waiting for my taxi license I’ve swung a job with the Yowie. Bonza!

Now I’ve got tons of fun stuff to tell you. But it’ll have to be one thing at a time.

Okay chaps and chaperinnas, fasten your seatbelts. I’ve decided to begin my (probably short) career with the Yowie by dishing out a meal cold, hard facts: On Monday September 10, 2007 a genuine Ancient Egyptian Mummy was unearthed in a Surfers Paradise Highrise.

Wow! Put that in your almanac and file it.

As you might imagine this will knock the socks off those fuddy duddies whole failed me in highschool history. In fact it might turn a lot of commonly accepted ideas on their ear. That’s probably why no one else is reporting it: Media blackout. Too hot for the public to handle. Indiginous backlash etc. We at the Yowie, however, think you’re big enough to hear the truth; gadzooks, so here it comes!

It begins with Mr. Wesley Byron Prufrock. A resident on the 41st floor of the Q1 building, in Surfers Paradise. Mr. Prufrock reported an odd swelling in his eastern wall on September 9. With building maintanence still at least 3 to 6 weeks away, Mr. Prufrock began stripping back the wallpaper covering the swelling. And what do you know? As he peeled back a layer of bright pink and orange speckled paper he spotted a rotted, sepia colored finger wrapped in a rag and pointing up at him like a fishhook! Wowza!

Now Mr. Prufrock is a man of the world. He thought someone was having a bit of fun. Probably the maintainence guys who regularly hoisted his underpants up the thirty foot antennae on top of the building. So he decided to trump their prank by calling in the media!

Smashing idea; what!

I had to barge my way through the living room. Sixty Minutes were interviewing Q1’s manager, CNN were calling in experts, and photographers were snapping away like a crotchety mother-in-law in the back seat when you’ve got lost.

Damn bad luck fellows. But before I could interview Mr. Prufrock the riot police arrived. I thought I was in Sydney! Guns, shields, riot batons and capsicum spray. We were all told (by a very friendly fellow from the government) that if we wanted to live to see our next paychecks we would not print a word or image of what we had seen today. In fact, the buttoned up blighter threatened us so much, and so convincingly I could see some fellow reporters seriously considering the drop from Mr. Prufrocks 41st floor balcony.

(I must admit, I did egg some of them on)

Lucky for you, Super Champions, I’m virtually assured of being sacked before the Yowie gives me a dime. So that paycheck threat means nothing to me (Take that Mr. Government Cover-Up Person! Ha!).

Gee whiz; this is the most important archeological discovery since I found where the dog buried my remote. Maybe even more so. To cover it up because of political expediency or racial sensitivity is, darn it! wrong, wrong, wrong. And even though the project has been hushed up I have eyes and ears in places you people wouldn’t believe! Places I probably shouldn’t. Places that would probably get me a cell-buddy named Bubba. So I’ll keep you posted; right oh?

P.S. I get paid per comment on this story. So let’s hear it Wonder People!

Doors

How would you get out of the house or into the toilet without doors? A car without doors is a buggy. Buggies, the car’s poor cousin. Some things would be much better for having doors. Books and newspapers, for instance. With a little doorknob on each page you wouldn’t have to keep licking your thumb and forefinger to separate the pages. Or what about having doors on a football field? A row of doors across the halfway line and the ballcarrier not knowing which tacklers were behind which door!

Doors add class to any social situation. Without doors you’re just walking towards someone. With a door you can make an ‘entrance’. You can ram lovers and foes up against doors, before dragging them into the bedroom or throwing them out of the building.

Doors

The first impression upon any visitor. The last thing they hear when leaving.

Doors are portals to places. Providers of privacy. Sentinels of safety. Strong, boundary setting, tall, broad, and always hard. There are Swingers and there are Sliders, take your pick. Oily hinges, fat knobs, metallic locks. Hard and heavy, soft and smooth. Doors are everything the human race desires to be. Uncomplaining, impervious, fulfilled in their function. Freud masturbated endlessly over the symbolism of doors. Oh the treasures that lie within!

Doors rule.