I'm going to start off my series of posts listing the inane details of my trip to America with the one most embarassing to me, so people don't think I'm trying to hide anything. Except the murders, of course.

I am a lousy quitter. While we were in Vancouver, in the last few days of our holiday, we did a day trip up to Grouse Mountain for some skiing. I had never been skiing before this. I had only ever been to the snow once before, and that was for a school excursion in Year 6. We had tomato soup and it was warm. I am a lousy quitter.

So after an hour and a half waiting in the Ski Rental place, I am finally suited up to go make a dick of myself on the slopes. As I have the balance of a drunk, cerebral palsy stricken child with no eardrums, I fall a few times. I don't stack it like Fatty Vautin on the Footy Show, but I fall. And after about the third fall, after only about half an hour on the slopes, I fall and land cross legged. Landing cross legged poses a problem when you're wearing skis, because it means you can't get back up without taking your skis off. It also makes you look like a frigging retard. I am a lousy quitter.

So much cocaine, so little time

So, I take off my skis. Mistake #1. See, in all the waiting around for jackets, pants, gloves and goggles (they ran out of adult sized goggles, so I got 'junior' sized ones, which was great because I got to have foam sticking into my eyeball), nobody ever showed me how to put your skis back on in the snow. I spent, and I'm not exaggerating, fifteen minutes in the snow, trying to jam my feet back into these fucking skis. I lent against trees, I jammed the skis into the snow, I grabbed my leg with my hand and tried to force it in (the Danika method), I invented new swear words like 'shifuckunt', and after the fifteen most frustrating minutes of my life. I quit.

I am a lousy quitter.

I grabbed my skis, and walked twenty minutes in the snow, with about 8 metres of visibility, gloves that didn't fit and goggles that raped my eyeballs. And then, when I reached the lifts at the bottom, this middle-aged guy sees me leaning against the rail, trying again to put my skis on, and tells me all I needed to do was unlock the heel clamp. Something I probably should have learnt at the top of the slope. So, five seconds later, my skis are back on, I jump on the ski lift, return to the top of the slope and... return my skis to the rental shop. I am a lousy quitter.

I rationalised it by saying I didn't spend $80 on skis just to have a shit time, and that I was sore and hungry, but the truth is I'm a lousy quitter. Such a lousy quitter that I was going to bold 'lousy quitter' just then, but quit halfway. I'm such a quitter I'm not even going to spell chack this blog.


Next on Tommy's holiday blogs: Tommy The Criminal.

Hi I'm back.

I would like to give mad props to Matt for steering the mothership while I was away on business. I won't even take away his posting privileges until tomorrow, so he can write a nice farewell post.

Without using the word 'the'.

I'm such a bitch. This is only because he embedded video in a blog before I did. I'm such a damn bitch. Anyway, blogs about how I can't ski for shit and a freestyle rapper on a Contiki bus will be coming soon. Thanks for stopping by.

Now, I'd like to be serious with you all for a moment. There are times in our history where we know things have changed, that it is impossible to go back to the way things were. Where the fundamental nature of our reality has been changed so completely, so profoundly, that to continue on as we once did is not only an impossibility, but an insult to the new, superior existence we all such share.

Ladies and gentlemen, today is such a moment.

Because, truly, you have not lived until you've seen David Hasslehoff flying whilst riding a motorcycle. This is possibly the most awesome thing in the awesome history of awesome.



Can you imagine what it would be like to be the Hoff? Flying baby angels and sausage dogs and flying on motorcycles and jumping out of cocktail parties and hanging out with African tribes? If being incredible was body hair, this guy would be Robin Williams.

In honour of Australia Day, and Australia being one of the laziest, most laid-back countries on the planet, I have decided to make a blog article entirely about a few things that I figure I could maybe write a few paragraphs on. Maybe not even a few things, maybe not even a few paragraphs. We'll just see how I go.

God Bless Australia, Our Land Australia..

Fish vs Fishes
Now, everyone knows the plural of fish. Fish. But there's this other plural there, fishes. Now, what's all that about? I had always assumed that the fishes plural was restricted for use only when more than one type of fish was involved. As in, there are many fish of the species fishus barbequemeatlovers, but in the entire fish genus fishus pizzahutflavours there are many fishes. However, I was recently challenged on this point by a similarly bored acquaintance of mine.


Note: Fish are not attractive. If you are a fish, chances are you are not attractive, but kudos on learning to read.

His postulation was that there are many fish in a school of fish, but if you're talking about small numbers of fish, you say look at the couple of fishes. I asked him what the exact number was for the conversion from fishes to fish, but he somehow passed out and may or may not have drowned in a pool of his own drool. So, one quick Wikipedia search later, I found that I was right and thusly danced my 'the Internet proved me right' dance, but still, I was profoundly mystified.

What were the implications of this? Were dogs to become 'dogses'? Hobbits to become 'tricksy little Hobbitses'? I feel that the effects will become most felt in the Western Suburbs, where the emergence of new slang terms truly has our civilisation's language on a razor's edge.


wha.. WHAT are youse cunts lookin at? Do.. da ya wanna fight, cunt?

The reader's of Socko's blog probably wouldn't understand this, growing up in your posh houses on the Northern Beaches, drinking hand-mixed dacquaris driven to you from Jamaica by a butler in a golf cart, but out there in the ghettos of Lakemba, Bankstown and Yagoona, the word 'youse' refers to a group of people, typically resembling vaginas, as it is often paired to make 'youse cunts'. The vaginas, like most women, obviously are not very well read, as 'youse cunts dont know nuffin' is as common as teenage pregnancies and racially-motivated bashings. So, what happens when there are several groups of youse cunts out there, probably throwing bottles and knifes and unwanted foetuses at each other? Look at all the youse's. Holy shit, there are a lot of youse's out there.

It's chaos, I tell you, utter fucking chaos.

Dominic Monaghan and Evangeline Lilly
Now, being a man of science (NOT A MANOFFAITH? WHATSDESTINYLOCEK OMGORFL LOST HUMOUR), I believe that there is balance in nature. So, perhaps you can explain this one to me.

THIS :


is getting married to

THIS :


In case you didn't get that..

THIS:


is getting married to

THIS:


One more time for the slow ones..

THIS:


is getting married to

THIS:
.

You may as well kill yourselves now, people. There's no justice in the world. Although, if you're an annoying, bad-acting, layabout fuckball, you may have a chance of scoring one of the hottest women on the planet. Good luck.

Eggs
I mean, one minute they're bad for you, now everyone's like, 'hey have you tried eggs yet wow how about eggs.. eggs..'. What's all that about?


They're planning something. I know they are..

OK, I'm out.

Well folks, Tommy asked for it, now you have to sit through it. It's the socko.blogspot.com not-at-all-exclusive about the Mark Latham brain snap that ended with a camera in ruins, a photographer with an injured wrist and a nation left wondering why the fuck this guy isn't our Prime Minister.

Legal pundits are speculating whether Mr Latham's 'sad clown' impersonation will actually hold up in court.

The Herald Sun reports, without bias of any kind, that 'Mark Latham destroyed [a photographer's camera] after throwing a trademark hissy fit outside a Hungry Jack's restaurant'. Adding insult to injury and terrible reporting, they continue, 'the Nikon camera is armour-plated and designed for use in war zones -- but it was no match for the tortured mind of Mr Latham. After sharing a hamburger with young sons Isaac and Oliver on Thursday, Mr Latham stole the camera from photographer Ross Schultz and then tried to king hit him when he was asked to return it'. The great part about this all was that this was between calling the photgrapher a pedophile because he was trying to take photos of Latham's kids, and later attempting to run over reporters who were waiting outside his house.


Reports indicate Mr Latham's political career was also found strewn amongst the wreckage.

Have you ever noticed that every time Mark Latham gets into a scrap with someone, he always tries to 'king hit' them? The reason for this is surely obvious. Mark Latham is a king. If you tried to take photos of me and my kids while we were having lunch, chances are I'd be pretty pissed as well, but this guy has the stones to ante up and actually physically attack anyone who comes near him, his family, their friends, pets, relatives or distant acquaintances. Pancreatitis can't stop him, law suits can't stop him, and being banned from riding taxis sure as shit can't stop him, although it has inconvenienced him somewhat.

Now, any 'discussion' regarding paparazzi and privacy laws is bound to include some of the following, so let's get those out of the way right now:

Princess Diana was probably killed because of the paparazzi, but it was only days before the Queen planned to have her offed anyway, so it was no big loss.

Yes, Jennifer Aniston had nudie pictures taken of her from miles away, but they weren't that good anyway, plus Friends is over and Brad Pitt's moved on so no one cares about her anymore.

No, Heath Ledger did not spit on photographers at a recent premiere, but yes, it was hell funny to see him and that blonde twig he hangs out with now get soaked.

Yes, celebrities should seek complete privacy by bunkering down in their climate-controlled germ-free hyperbaric chambers, never emerging to see the light of day except to buy frogurt and make the occasional Police Academy movie.

Yes, Mission to Moscow was the superior of all Police Academy movies.

The sad thing about the Latham story is the blatant attempts at character assassination that have been going on, originating chiefly from the Daily Telegraph, that pillar of Australian shlock journalism, who the photographer in question worked for. Since the 'scandal erupted', they have accused Marky Mark Latham of boasting about his inflated pension, attempting to kill members of the press, insanity, depression, vulgar language and there have been thinly veiled implications of transexuality. And it's completely ridiculous, Mark's pension is not inflated at all.

This is one of those Jack Bauer-like situations (new series of 24 is awesome, by the way), where the guy should go from public enemy to public hero in the space of an hour (or, in Jack's case, probably wanted dead by CTU to LEVEL 5 ACCESS ALL SYSTEMS OMG ROFL). Give the guy carte blanche for whatever ass-kicking, taxi-driver-beating, camera-smashing, pedophile-calling he wants, leave it in place for four years, see if it worked, if not go back to what we had.

In other words, give him the chance we never gave the Labor Party.

All stories of lawyers and ninjas aside, It's time for the Miss America pageant again. Why, I remember being a little girl and getting excited to see the pageant, imagining what it must be like to be a beautiful grown up woman that is admired by millions of people, and later watching it with my sorority sisters and we would pick favorites and make bets and have pillow fights in lingerie.

You can now see the 'favourites' for the Miss America pageant at http://www.missamerica.org/, but let me tell you, the old grey mare? She sure as shit ain't what she used to be. I'm wondering if my memories of the beautiful ladies are totally skewed by innocence and an unprejudiced child-like view of things, or if the women have just gotten so much damn uglier it hurts just to look at them.

So, they aren't all hideous. A few of them might even be considered hot. Maybe. Most of them MIGHT get a free drink if they showed up to a bar on a slow night, but on average they are, well, average.

Gentlemen, meet your contestants...


Miss Alaska - Now, to be quite frank, this woman scares the everloving shit out of me. She's the type that you'd be out with.. she'd whisper to you, 'Come closer... come closer... come closer, darling... I'M GONNA BITE YOUR FACE OFF!!'


Miss Arizona - Wow, it's like what Reese Witherspoon would look like if she, you know, wasn't Reese Witherspoon and had been run over by a truck when she was a child. I hope I am not the only one who after seeing this picture, suddenly started singing, "Who let the dogs outttt?"


Miss Arkansas - Miss Arkansas is clearly the type of woman who thinks that being perky and super-keen can get you through even the worst of situations, and has massive pictures of Condaleeza Rice on her walls so she can pray to them nightly.


Miss California -
'But, honey, I asked you to wake me up after three hours so I could turn the tanning bed off.'
'Now, Frank, I'm sorry, but hurry up, you're going to be late for your Miss America photo shoot.'


Miss District of Columbia - Okay, this is our first semi-rest stop in the endless parade of uggos. If you never go above the neck, things aren't looking too terrible here. God bless the District, it's obvious why Tom Cruise decided to set up Pre-Crime there instead of somewhere crap, like...


Miss Delaware - DELAWARE! That's right, this horrific piece of meat constantly doing the Monster Mash was actually selected as the most excellent example of womanhood to come out of her state this year. They've got to be shipping a heap of radioactive waste through Delaware, or pissing in the water supply or something, because there's some truly terrible shit going down in that gene pool.


Miss New Hampshire - Miss New Hampshire, whose 'Special Talent' category is 'Duuuuuuuh' and her Platform is 'I wush muhself with a raaaaaaag on a stick'. I think she got her nomination at a state fair where the beauty pageant and animal judging events shared the same set of judges and inner beauty went hand in hand with things like wide hips for birthin' and a strong back for occasional plowin'.


Miss Hawaii - To get over those two, here is the delicious Miss Hawaii. I'd like to spit roast her pig. She could put her ring of flowers on my neck. I'd let her [Hawaiian Stereotype] my [Hawaiian Stereotype].


Miss Idaho - This woman is notable simply for the fact that her forehead is slowly melting down past her eyebrows. By the time the finals come around, she'll be touching brow to nose, baby.


Miss Illinois - Surely all women over the age of 40 are banned from this competition. As well as all cast and crew from the Sopranos. Well, apparently not.


Miss Indiana - Miss Indiana, whose Special Talent category is 'Using my breasts to get ahead in life'. I think that if my best friend showed me this photo and told me that was his new girlfriend, I would be forced to do the following: 'Mmmmm.. hmmm' *Nod head slowly*


Miss Iowa - So here's our third rest stop, Miss Iowa, who's as cute as the buttons that will be flying off her shirt as I give her a rough dose of surprise sex in the back of my van.


Miss Kansas - Miss Kansas? Well it looks like when that Wizard of Oz tornado came through she copped a big plank of wood straight to the face. We're not in Kansas any more, Toto, we're in the Intensive Care clinic preparing for hours of facial reconstructive surgery.


Miss Mexico - It's been a rough year for New Mexico. Their girls can't even tan themselves evenly. What? Excuse me? Goggles are the new look? OK, well, apparently everybody is tanning in their own goggles. It's obviously why she's up for Miss America. Get with the times, man.


Miss Minnesota - What the hell is wrong with this competition? Is it a coincidence that every single girl in the pageant has a nose that casts a shadow that long or cheekbones that could be used for harvesting wheat? Does anyone like gum? Cause I'm guessing this girl has plenty.


Miss Missippi - This girl's special talent is 'Looking as much as possible like that underage chick from the Gilmore Girls'. I don't want to bag her out too much because she's a small window of hope in the cess pool of this competition.


Miss Montana - Not only does this chick look like she's half drunk, it looks like they took an almost attractive chick, grabbed her by the hands and feet, and stretched her until they had this monstrosity.


Miss Nebraska - Wow, it looks like that hot chick from the Drew Carey show. Actually, wait, it looks like she ate that hot chick from the Drew Carey show.


Miss Nevada - And here we are. The piece de resistance of Miss America, 2006. There are no words for this. Just point and laugh, then move on.


Miss Ohio - Ohio? More like OhHellNo! Am I right, guys?


Miss Texas - Miss Texas, whose Special Talent is sleeping around, and whose future involves being a trophy wife for some alcoholic rancher.


Miss Vermont - Miss Vermont, also title holder of the 2005 Miss Frumpy Competition and whose sister is coincidentally a horrible fashion stylist, working for Miss Vermont herself!


Miss Virginia - Oh god. Here's your winner, folks. This is going to be an easier victory than the time I challenged that retarded kid to checkers and struck him repeatedly around the head whenever he started to win. The only thing is the name of her state? Virginia? Yeah right, and I'm humping Donald Trump.


Miss Wyoming - Look at that nose. It puts Paris Hilton to shame. How convenient, though, you can slice, dice and julienne vegetables with it. If you ever head over to Miss Wyoming's house and she's slamming her head repeatedly into a chopping board, don't be worried, she's just fixing herself a cool, refreshing snack.

The worst part about all this, aside from the faces on some of those mutants, is that Norway are sitting back, laughing. Do we get the Miss Norway competition televised here? Fuck no. We only get the American Skank Parade. Check out what some of those Norwegian bastards are dealing with :




Damn this war, Muckrakers, they've taken me house!

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Well, as you would all know, unless you are illiterate and, in that case, my sincerest condolences, oh, wait, you can't read this. Sucks to be you, jerk.

Anyway, I digress. As the reading-capable among you would be aware, Tommy has fled prosecution on lewd behaviour charges here in Australia and sought asylum in America. While he is there he has informed me he will be attempting to see some of the countryside aside from that he will see whilst trying to outrun police cruisers, and is thus doing some decidedly road-trippy things throughout the U S of A. He was kind enough to send me a copy of his itinerary, and I post it here now for you and for Senior Constable Walsh who assured me anonymity.

WE'RE GOIN ON A ROADTRIP!

Tommy's first stop will undoubtedly be the Dr Pepper Museum in Waco, Texas. While he imbibes bottle after bottle of the 'carbonated prune juice', he will learn all about the drink labelled 'distinctively different' and 'absolutely shit tasting'. The museum apparently includes, and I shit you not, 'the original drug store where Dr Pepper was first served as a brain tonic'. Well, no wonder everyone who drinks it is absolutely retarded.

Next up on Tommy's non-stop roller coaster ride of excitement is, you guessed it, JFK's Giant Ball of Twine. Now, I don't think this relates to the late, great President Kennedy, but rather some crazy old weirdo with a fetish for string. Says JFK : "I started in 1979," JFK tells us. "I seen it in the paper, somebody else working on a ball of twine, so I figured I'm gonna try and do one." Of course? What else could be a better use of your time. JFK has named the twine ball in quite an original fashion, calling it 'Mr Twine Ball', and is known to exclaim 'I'm the king of all dump people!' randomly and without provocation. He puts up signs over town that say 'I'M THE GREATEST LIVING SMARTEST DUMP MAN YOU EVER SAW and HIGHLAND PEOPLE COME TO THE WORLD'S ONLY NUMBER ONE DUMP IN GOD'S GREEN EARTH AROUND THE WORLD and I AM JUST SO THANKFUL GOD MADE ME THIS WAY. AND EVERYONE IN HIGHLAND IS SO THANKFUL OF ME FOR SAVING MONEY AND DUMPSTERS. JUST THINK ABOUT THIS MAN.' A true American hero.

Following his love for 'The Never Ending Story XXVI : The One Where The Dinosaurs Go Somewhere Far Away and Whine Alot and there's Another Fucking T-Rex', Tommy will then visit 'the town that time forgot' and also 'the town that can't come up with its own names so it steals them from other countries' - Glasgow, Virginia. Instead of being some cool place where Time stands still and you don't age so you stay there for a while and when you come out everyone is old and you're young so you go and bang all your friends' daughters in front of them and laugh because they pushed you over once in High School, it's just got stupid dinosaurs all over it. The reason, you ask? 'They were put up by Mark Cline, Glasgow resident and fiberglass artiste who, frankly, just likes making dinosaurs, and who wants to help his town in the best way that he knows how'. I don't have any idea how putting giant fucking dinosaurs everywhere is helping your town, but they're Americans, so what do I know? According to the tourist guide, 'a Tyrannosaurus Rex now stands beside the BP gas station'. Now, call me jittery, but I will not pump petrol at a servo that has a giant freakin dinosaur attacking it. I'm sorry, that's just not safe.

I shall reveal the rest of Tommy's itinerary soon so you can all stalk him around America if you have the inclination, unless I think of something more interesting to write about.

Not bloody likely.

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