Return To Maxipad - A guest blog.

Less than sixth months after his last expedition (read that here), prominent TommyIsCool guest blogger REDACTED returned to Maxipad Island a few days ago. This is his guest blog.

It was the last thing he ever wrote.

MAXIPAD IS-LAND 2:
JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE PLANET OF THE CRABS

Fresh Crab Claws with roasted sweet potato, served with a cold beer. After dinner enjoy a 30 year old port and a fine cigar. Sound like the menu of some shmancy restaurant? Guess again. It’s the food served up on the infamous MAXIPAD Island. (Tommy can thank me later for writing a blog with both "maxipad" and "crabs" in it, so he increases his sicko search hits from Google).

Yes, its uni holidays again, so it was time for another expedition north to re-claim the fabled land and determine whether anything was learnt from the last time we went. Several things improved the journey immensely, and only move to establish Maxipad as the number one holiday destination of the adventurous.

Firstly, we went in Summer, instead of the middle of Winter. This meant that we had several more hours of day, and several more degrees of temperature at night. We also changed what we took. We ditched the hammocks, water and machetes, and replaced them with a 30 pack of VB tins, sweet potatoes and a hatchet. Subtle differences I know, but they added hours of fun. We could spend time creating the greatest wind chime ever, or seeing how much we could chop out of a tree before it fell over.

not a tree - REDACTED's leg after a poorly aimed chop

But it didn’t stop there, Maxipad gets even better.

One of the downfalls of the last journey was that we left the cars in a conference centre about 7kms down the road, hence having to come up with methods to hitchhike. This time though, no plans were made. We found a caravan park right on the water, and just dumped the car. Much easier.

shots of beer cans to establish masculinity

We also figured out how to get food from the lake. Despite many hours spent fishing last time, we were overwhelmingly unsuccessful. This time, we realized that if you cover your hand with a sock, and kayak out just before it gets dark, you can find other peoples crab-pots and take out your own “Operation Crabi Freedom”.

However, crabs are quite difficult to get out of a crab net when its dark, you’ve been drinking, and you're sittting in a kayak. So I really recommend just teasing the crab till it trys to bite you between the wire, then grab its claw and pull. They are the best bit anyway. Just be a bit nice and leave every crab with at least one claw.


The only sad bit about Maxipad this time, was the absence of the softest person in the world, REDACTED. Our mate REDACTED talks trash about others being soft. Up at Nelson Bay several weeks ago, REDACTED would berate someone at four in the morning, wanting them to walk an hour in the rain for Maccas. But now, oh how the tables have turned.

I guess we should have seen this coming. Last time on the island you spread a tarp over your hammock, and brought a sleeping bag to keep warm at night. I think I even remember you taking a change of clothes. Why didn’t we see the signs?

You are as soft as REDACTEDis bitter (and likes cats), REDACTED. If they have computers made out of marshmallow in SoftLand, and you are reading this, just know, your name has been added to the “Soft Tree” on the island.

And there it will remain until you return to scrape it off.

Because there used to be a show called Jake And The Fatman...

In keeping with this week's tradition of short blogs with only one joke that only take me two minutes to write, here is today's offering. To keep effort to a minimum, I just copy/pasted an MSN convo. Ok, I added a few lines at the end, so there's a bit more effort than I expected. See if you can spot them.

Names have obviously been changed to protect the innocent. The way I figure, why choose lame pseudonyms like 'Dude #1' or 'Really Hot Guy With A Funny Blog', when you can use COOL names? After all, isn't that the name of the blog?

Isn't it?

So please sit back and enjoy the very first edition of....







12:25:57 AM Jack Bauer
it's double standards
12:26:01 AM Jack Bauer
chicks can buy giant black dildos
and its whatever
12:26:10 AM Batman
yeh
12:26:21 AM Jack Bauer
but try buying lube
12:26:30 AM Jack Bauer
there's no combination of things you can buy lube with
12:26:36 AM Batman
hahaha

12:26:39 AM Jack Bauer
magazine - no
food - no
vegetables - NO
12:27:13 AM Batman
just go ultimate mundane
12:27:20 AM Batman
like bread or milk
12:27:23 AM Jack Bauer
haha
12:27:28 AM Jack Bauer
the essentials

12:28:07 AM Batman
yeh thats right I eat toast for breakfast and I fuck girls dry for dinner
12:28:12 AM Jack Bauer
ahahahha
12:28:33 AM Jack Bauer
and a copy of zoo thanks
12:28:37 AM Batman
hahahaha
12:30:40 AM Jack Bauer
i think there's a blog in that lube thing, Bruce
12:28:42 AM Batman
i told you not to use my real name, kiefer
12:28:48 AM Jack Bauer
that's it i'm blocking you

Jack Bauer has signed off

12:28:57 AM Batman
pussy

Tommy Is A Renovator's Delight

Ever felt like property?

Me and my Dad are moving to a new place near a golf club (an actual Clubhouse, not a four iron), and my sister is moving to Little Seoul (Eastwood), and so we're selling the family home. This morning, some tosspot real estate agent guy in a white shirt got given a tour of the place, and it sounds lame and emo, but I almost felt like a piece of the house itself. Mainly because I never got introduced to the agent, I just sat there, gave a compulsory 'hey' and went back to looking up pictures of Molly Meldrum.

Well Kieran, this is our upstairs study. It's built on top of the garage, and it's pretty spacious. There's a bedroom attached, and sitting in that desk in the middle is Tommy, he's an extension we built 22 years ago. Inbuilt plumbing, not the biggest but a fair bit of room.

Open your mouth a bit son

See, you could easily fit a walk-in wardrobe there. Room for two, I'd say.

Could do with a new coat of paint

Feel the heat coming from his crotch, Kieran. He's born to breed this one.

Yes, it is a bit warm.

That's the reverse cycle.

Aah.


I'M A HUMAN BEING DAMN IT!!


A HUMAN BEING!!!

Tommy Interviews A Worthless Druggo justkidding

So, I was on MSN right. And I was talking to my mate Matt, right (not the one who writes the guest blogs, he's not my mate). And I was like, all like, wow, that's an interesting story. I should like, put that on my blog, cause it's interesting and like, people like things like that.

So, I did. It's about his experience with a little drug called LSD, his trip, and checking out his own package. I was going to format it up and make it all pretty, but I think I like it better as-is.

I'm the one named Tommy.


Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:07 PM):
hello
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:07 PM):
hello
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:08 PM):
please, take a seat
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:08 PM):
/me jumps out window
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:08 PM):
/me rub chin while holding pen
if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:08 PM):
a magic wishing tree
like in the book
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:08 PM):
awesome
ok, let's talk business
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:09 PM):
last saturday, did you or did you not consume some lucy, in the sky, with diamonds
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:09 PM):
yes i did

Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:09 PM):
for my lovely lawful readers, describe how one takes LSD
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:09 PM):
LSD comes in a number of forms
most common is a 'tab'. which is basically a small peice of blotter paper with a drop of LSD
most tabs have pretty pictures or patterns on them
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:10 PM):
right
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:10 PM):
(please correct spelling and such for final copy)
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:10 PM):
(of course)
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:11 PM):
other forms are liquid, geltine capsule, or something i forget
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:11 PM):
so you used the tab?
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:11 PM):
yes
about .5 cm by .5 cm in size

Harmless primary school stickers.... OR DEADLY DRUG?!

Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:11 PM):
and how much did it set you back?
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:12 PM):
$20
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:12 PM):
chump change
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:12 PM):
was indeed
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:12 PM):
so you've got your tab, you're $20 short in your wallet, now what
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:12 PM):
we make the trip (LOL!) down to Barwon Heads, to a mates caravan
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:13 PM):
LOLPUN
barwon heads being in fuck-toria for sydney readers
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:13 PM):
arrive at about 6, have some dinner, sit down at 7.00, and place the tab under our tongues
for 30 mins
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:14 PM):
so you just wait for it to absorb, then get rid of the paper?
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:14 PM):
one mate threw it out and the rest of us just swallowed it
might as well get our moneys worth

Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:14 PM):
then how long did it take to kick in?
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:15 PM):
around 40 mins or so after we first put it in our mouths
we were watching a christmas episode of family guy
and suddenly all the animations started looking really shit
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:15 PM):
haha
so it was almost like King Of The Hill?
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:15 PM):
like just subtle things about it
similar

The #1 Reason Not To Do LSD

Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:16 PM):
then i noticed on the wall there was an indian pic of ladies with their tits out, and the tits were slowly moving
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:16 PM):
haha
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:16 PM):
actually i think before that we had like laughin attacks
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:17 PM):
laughing so much we were crying
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:17 PM):
well, moving tits are no laughing matter
so you're laughing, family guy is looking shit like anime, and indian womens tits are playing dodgem cars
what happened next?

Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:17 PM):
hmm
im not totally sure, but next thing i remember my mate is spewing in the sink
but not your everyday run of the mill spew
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:18 PM):
prob cause he saw an indian womans tits
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:18 PM):
it was like just pure batter from his piece of fish
and then my other mate started cleaning it up with a spatula
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:18 PM):
haha nice
ok, before when we were talking about it, you described the overall feeling like a wave?
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:19 PM):
correct
its hard to explain, but you become aware of your body clock, the circadian rhythms and such
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:20 PM):
you get an appreciation of the whole yin and yang thing

Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:20 PM):
that's... pretty deep
but how so, like how do you become aware of your body clock?
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:21 PM):
hmm
im not sure, you can sort of just feel it
like time seems to speed up and slow down
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:21 PM):
so you're kind of... seperate from external time
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:21 PM):
like a wave
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:22 PM):
yeah
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:22 PM):
i've never been to the ocean :(
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:22 PM):
except the mother fuckers kept asking what the time was
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:22 PM):
haha
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:22 PM):
and im like stfu, just enjoy it
actually time had something to do with my slight freak out

Lol Japs can't even draw a circle properly

Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:22 PM):
now you also said that the trip helped you figure out some personal stuff
without getting to far into detail
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:23 PM):
mainly some family and personal issue i didnt understand
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:23 PM):
so it just gave you some clarity
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:23 PM):
some unresolved things - why im feeling the way i am about certain members, etc

Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:24 PM):
rightyo, very cool
now back to your freak out
what happened there?
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:24 PM):
it was quite unexpected
ok the freak out
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:25 PM):
well i was holding onto a piss, and someone asked the time which made me worried id been holding on to it for hours
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:25 PM):
haha
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:25 PM):
so i race outside to take a slash, and i suddenly thought id pissed my pants
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:25 PM):
ahaha
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:26 PM):
and like, i looked at the wall of the caravan and could see my friend inside cleaning it up
then i saw myself walk into the caravan and thats when i really freaked out
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:26 PM):
woah
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:26 PM):
like falling, except in your mind
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:27 PM):
that's insane
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:27 PM):
i thought i was
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:27 PM):
hehe
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:27 PM):
but after i went back inside and explained it, i was ok

Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:28 PM):
so once you understood you were just tripping then it was sweet
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:28 PM):
its very much a verbal communication drug
yes
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:28 PM):
you didn't perve on yourself did you?
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:28 PM):
i was quite impressed by my crotch
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:29 PM):
(i cant think of anything funny)
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:29 PM):
a small package isn't funny
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:29 PM):
haha

A small package rofl

Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:29 PM):
so, anything you'd like to close on
this blog will probably be the entire length of my blog
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:30 PM):
that makes no sense
i'm trippin man
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:30 PM):
hmm
on closing id like to say...
um
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:31 PM):
haha you're shit at closing
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:31 PM):
do it with friends
do it somewhere quiet
do it
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:31 PM):
just do it
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:32 PM):
thats right, just do it
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:32 PM):
thanks for your time, matt
say thanks tommy
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:32 PM):
no worries gareth
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:32 PM):
hahaha
cunt
Fuck, the king is dead. says (8:32 PM):
i mean tommy
thanks tommy
Tommy 'The Tommy' Tommy says (8:38 PM):
so....
wanna cyber?

Making a Video Call to Fuck, the king is dead. ...

THIS INTERVIEW IS OVER

When you're young, life is simple. When you're playing with your brother in the front yard and you graze your ankle, you go to the big tree near the neighbours fence and rub some purple flowers on it. And damn it, it works. And when you're bored, you don't need an XBox 360, or Foxtel Digital, or Jenna Jameson. All you need is some ACTION FIGURES

Action figures provided the staple of my entertainment needs until the invention of the internet. At first, they were hand-me-downs. My brother's old Action Man, complete with eyes that you could move from side to side (shifty eyes). My brother's old G.I Joe and M.A.S.K figures, my sister's Playhouse Barb-

And then, in 1989 at the ripe old age of 6, I got my first action figure of my own. It was one of WWF Superstar Rick Rude, complete with poseable headlock grip. That was quickly followed by WWF Superstar Jake 'The Snake' Roberts, who had a spring-loaded arm (though, unlike his real-life counterpart, no crack addiction).

My collection rose quickly. Batman, Robin, more wrestlers, a few more wrestlers, another Batman, Ninja Turtles, more wrestlers. I even got some vehicles, like the Batmobile and the Ninja Turtles armoured car that shot plastic pizza. Awesome.

But as I got older, playing Batman vs Hulk Hogan in my scale WWF Ring got boring. I was getting older too, in my pre-teens, and I couldn't be seen playing with tiny little dolls, no matter how wicked my Bruce Wayne To Batman action figure was. So, I started painting them.

It was like those guys who used to collect and paint Warhammer figures in Year 8, except mine were half-naked men, and rather than painting in minute detail, I coloured them in odd combinations of child paint and Posca pens. Black was my primary colour, because black was cool, and so was painting wrestling figures.

This post is really useless without pics, so for some god forsaken reason, I'm going show you how fucked up I was as a child.

My first wrestling figure hand-me down.
A Hulk Hogan thumb wrestler, which I drew
'CHAMP' and a fake title belt on for some reason.

It's for your THUMB, you sickos (trust me, I tried)


My very first figure, Rick Rude, giving a noogie to Tatanka


Classic, Gay Robin


Bruce Wayne, complete with the only two parts
of his Batman costume I didn't lose or eat

Bruce Wayne running Gay Robin the fuck over

My sister had a Princess Jasmine figure from Alladin,
so I stole it and turned her into a slut for my wrestling figures

Kane raping Princess Jasmine. She was asking for it.


I didn't have a Ric Flair figure, so I made one. The resemblance is uncanny.

The Ultimate Warrior has no fingers


My evil Doink The Clown figure, next to what he looked like before I molested him with paint and cut off his hair so he looked like a lesbian

Batman, if he lived in Rome and had access to high quality bulletproof rubber

So ends the tour through Tommy's childhood subconscious. I'm perfectly sane, seriously.

After finally and permanently attaching the ball and chain around his ankle, frequent guest blogger REDACTED the Thong-Kicking Faggot has graced us with a GUEST BLOG! If only more of you were like him. I'm looking at you, Mitch.

It concerns his recent trip to an island (and by island, we mean a collection of rocks, trees sticks and bush spiders) discovered many, many Schoolies ago. Ladies and Gentlemen, please have your boarding passes ready as we journey to......

MAXIPAD IS-LAND
The land cool people forgotEwwww

To move away from GoatGate ’06, and onto a human interest story, Tommy asked me to write a guest blog concerning my recent return from a journey steeped in fable, that is, a trip to Maxipad Is-Land (pronounced “is land?”).

The MaxiPad Is-Land Plaque, the world's shiniest waste of time and money

I first traveled to the Is-Land four years ago, and despite returning several times since, have never spent longer than 20 minutes there. So, late last year I decided to get to know this mysteriously named block of land a little bit better.

For those not familiar with my prime piece of real estate, the Maxipad is located four hours north of Sydney in the Great Lakes. It is roughly 5 kms from land, on the other, other side of the beach. The Is-Land itself is difficult to get to, and many expeditions there have failed.

About the size of two blocks of land, it supports little wildlife. Nothing bigger than a spider could be found by day, and at night, a creature nicknamed ‘The Marmoset’ scuttles around the Is-Land. Like the beast from The Village, it cannot be killed, nor caught - only heard.

This journey was ridiculed by many from its inception. (Tommy Sez: Hi)

The Plan - Go to the Is-Land from Sunday morning to Wednesday night with nothing but some water, machetes and a hammock. Our only transport was two kayaks and an innertube from an old Corolla. True, we ended up taking a bit more stuff, namely some port and a towel or two, but there were no creature comforts.

So, without further ado, I give you...


REDACTED'S Top Tips For Living On An Is-Land.

1. Nothing gets you to sleep easier than polishing off a two litre goonbag of Port in two hours.

2. No matter how high off the ground you put your hammock, it will always stretch a bit and you will end up hitting that big rock. For amusement purposes, tie your hammock with the same rope as someone else, that way, everytime you get up during the night, their hammock will drop several inches and then they will hit a rock.

3. It is very difficult to stand up in a kayak. It is impossible to do so while throwing a machete at a stingray.

4. Playing The Food Game is a great way to pass time. It is very simple to play. You sit around describing in detail the thing you most want to eat at that moment.

5. After playing The Food Game for several days, do not let the first thing you eat be Maccas. You will wreck not only your Food Game plans, but your health for the next 24 hours will suffer. Watching Alex slump in his seat as he struggled to fit in his 4th cheeseburger is not a pretty sight.

A veritable smorgasboard of food selections

6. This rule is good advice for everyone. If you need to hitchhike, you can do several things to increase or decrease you chances of getting picked up. For instance, looking like REDACTED will automatically decrease your chances. On the other hand, nothing will improve your odds better than carrying a petrol tin. Just be careful to have a reason why you need to get dropped on the side of a lake 20kms from the nearest petrol station.

7. It is difficult to kill a pelican with a hatchet.

8. Accept you will only get about 2 hours of sleep at night because you are hungry and it is only 2 degrees. Plan your evening around this. You will probably want to start the fire again about 3 in the morning, so finding wood beforehand will make this easier.

9. Make sure that you don’t use the leaves that make your skin feel as if it is on fire to wipe your arse.

10. Do not take your dumps upwind of the camp site.

11. When you come ashore, do not land in the middle of the National Parks Officer Station. They might start asking questions.

12. Sleeping in the dirt next to the fire can be really comfortable, but you need a pillow of some sort. Rocks are quite painful. Innertubes are cold. Shoes are a bit lumpy on their own so fill them full of leaves and they should work fine. Your arm will work alright, but if you lose feeling in it, be careful when you warm it in the fire after you wake up.



That’s probably it. I really do suggest that everyone spend some time on an island sometime. There is no way to accurately describe how good it is to play the Food Game. Nor how much you long for 6:56AM when you know that the sun will rise above the ridge and you can go sleep on the patch of grass on the North side. Nor how being so hungry will make you hypothesise whether the dead fish floating in the lake are still safe to eat.

But it's not all bad.

Sleeping in the sun on the grass was fantastic. Sunrise kayaks in the Ocean after a pre-dawn journey over the lake are awesome. Going a few days with nobody else within a couple of kilometres is a surreal feeling.

Let me know if you want to join the next expedition.

So like, I'm a Lost fanboy from way back. Like, all the way back to the year 2005. Rockin dat shit old school. Anyway, there is a character in Lost called Walt. Walt's a little black kid who we think has magic powers. A flashback to his life before he crashed onto PlotHole Island showed him reading a book about birds, then get angry at his Mum, only for a bird to appear out of nowhere and smash into the window. Then, he reads a comic book with a polar bear in it, and a polar bear appears on the island. Freaky, huh. Pity he gets eaten by an anaconda in the season finale lol spoilers.

Basically, Walt has pre-cognitive powers. He thinks something, then it happens. If he was an X-Man, they'd call him... Future Making Boy or something. Or Black Magic.

I sense Captain Picard will play me in a dissapointing
but commercially successful sequel to X-Men 2

The point of me re-hashing unused, average jokes from the Guide To Lost is simple.


I think I have the same power.


See, last night at about 6pm, I was picking my sister up from Baulkho shops. Because Baulkham Hills always votes Liberal, we don't get a train line, so people coming from the city catch the M2 bus and get picked up. I was parked in the car park, listening to old tapes of Latham press conferences, when I spot my sis about 50m down the road, waiting at the crossing. And for some sick reason, maybe because I was bored, I was thinking to myself 'I hope she doesn't get hit by a car crossing the road'. Just one of those thoughts that flies through your head without you knowing, brett finch i want to kill you.

Anyway, she crosses the road safely and all is well. But here's the twist. In the business, we call this next bit a swerve. That's why I'm going to write it in capitals.

As she walked towards my car in the carpark.... (here it comes) SHE ALMOST GOT HIT BY A VAN!

I bolded the swerve there too, just in case you missed it. But this van dead set only stopped about 60cm before my sis. Granted, she was wearing a black jacket and it was pretty dark, but this dick almost hit my flesh and blood, so I fired up and was all like FUCK YOU MATE bam flicked him the bird and hoped he didn't get out of his car because I had my seat belt on and I'd be defenseless but also because he was a wog and I don't think I could have taken him and he had more hair on his back than i did on my entire body

Luckily for me and my underpants, he just said some lame excuse about how it was 'dark'. And here I was thinking they invented the HEADLIGHT. Or maybe his headlights were just covered up with the BLOOD OF THE OTHER PEOPLE HE'S RUN OVER.

But the point of this article is - I think I'm psychic. I believe that by thinking about my sis getting run over at the crossing, I cursed her to almost get hit in the car park. I also believe that by posting about my sister on my blog, I'm opening myself up to a parade of sister jokes in the comments. I also believe that when typing that last line, I shouldn't have said 'opening myself up'.


Anyway, don't mess with me or I'll make you almost get hit by a car

Nothing that starts with 'I'm not racist, but..' ever ends well, so I'm going to give this story a different intro. Obviously, I can't think of another intro, so I will just use someone elses. Ladies and gentlemen, the intro to Matthew Reilly's epic classic 'Hover Car Racer'...

The race was barely nine minutes old when Jason Chaser lost his steering rudder.

At 690 kilometres an hour.

The worst thing was, it wasn't even his fault. Some crazy kid from North Korea driving a home-made hunk-of-junk swamp runner had lost control of his car while trying to pull an impossible G-9 turn and had crashed spectacularly into the crocodile-infested marshes right in front of Jason, sending sizzling pieces of his car flying in every direction - three of which punched right through Jason's tailfin like a volley of red-hot mini-meteorites, rendering his steering vanes useless.

Truly classic literature. Absolutely no gross-over-use-of-these-things. Or any unecessary itallics, or extremely long run-on sentences that just keep going and going and going that get broken up by a last minute dash - a dash so powerful that it can turn one sentence into an entire paragraph, breaking right through established literature convention and making the reader forget what you were writing about at the start of the sentence, rendering the entire work useless.

So anyway, I was at Castle Towers Greater Union, walking out from a session of Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible 3: Convince People I'm Straight By Ruining Joey From Dawson's Creek, when I spy a MASSIVE line to get into the cinema. I'm talking a double decker line, half after the forbidden line of ticket-ripping, half before it. It was massive like Ving Rhames.

And I was a little confused, because Greater Union have that bullshit allocated seating thing, which means you don't have to line-up to get into the cinema because you have reserved seats. So why were these people lined up?


And how come they were all brown?


Zoom in on Tommy.

:O

Oh my god, they're all Arab!

*Tommy sees poster for Persian Film Festival*

Oh my god, they're all Persian!

But didn't Persia cease to exist? Isn't 'Persian' just code for 'Iranian'?

AREN'T IRAN IN THE AXIS OF EVIL?!

An artist's impression of what a Persian film festival would look like if it was a cat

I was scared enough to reach for my taser (Mr McZapALot), but I wasn't scared enough to run. Instead, I did exactly what 'these people' weren't expecting me to do - I walked straight through them. Oh yeah, that's how I roll.

They were there with their children, with their parents, with their grandparents. Yes, they were multiplying. Not in the cinema line, although it is a good way to pass the time (does anyone want to see X-Men 3 with me?). But worst of all, these people were SMILING. These axis of evildoers were happy that they were lining peacefully in a suburban shopping centre.

So, needless to say, I informed ASIO and the whole business was resolved peacefully.


And so ends today's story. I'll let Matthew Reilly take us out.

He turned to The Bug. The Bug's face was a mask. He slowly kicked back his chair and came over to Jason, stood on his tiptoes and whispered something in Jason's ear.

Jason smiled.

'What did he say?' Syracuse asked.

Jason said, 'He says your race computer must be broken. His race plan was perfect. Then he said "When do we leave?"


The End?

Unlike some people who comment on my blog that think miners are the scum of the earth, I have a different view. The scum of the earth are not the men who risk their lives in dank shafts (hehe shaft) so we can wear pretty jewellery and have...metal...things, they are a different breed of person entirely.

The scum of the earth are pub trivia and karaoke hosts.

If you're looking to break into the world of entertainment and don't look like Angelina Jolie or Dennis Hopper, you have to start at the bottom. You become an extra in some independent films and build a CV.

However, if you're completely unentertaining, uncharismatic and unfunny and looking to break into the seventh layer of a miserable hell, you become a pub trivia/karaoke host.

I went to trivia at a pub in Windsor last night, and while my team came 3rd behind people who wouldn't be out of place at Texas Chainsaw Massacre family reunion, it was fun.

THE ANSWER WAS 'HONDA'!@#

No thanks of course to the dicky trivia guy, who made hilarious jokes about Brokeback Mountain (5 times), George Bush being a wanker (2 Times) and even Harry Potter. I believe the Harry Potter went something like this, my delivery might be off because unlike him, I was not beaten as a child.

Here goes...

Achem.

I hear Harry Potter was in the Mardi Gras... Yeah, he called himself Harry Poofter!


LOL!@#e


I know what you're thinking to yourself. Why was Wil Anderson's less funny boyfriend hosting trivia in Windsor? But wait, it gets better. Because after a question about who won 7 ARIA Awards in 2003, he made a joke about how Delta Goodrem had cancer!!

LOL2000!@$%

He even bitched about how she got the guy from Savage Garden to sing her song, because she was weak from the drugs they gave her to fight the cancer!

It's funny cause she was severely ill

Anyway, that's all I wanted to whinge about. Now onto business. Because I'm desperately running out of material... It's the Second Annual TommyIsCoolDotCom GUEST BLOG DRIVE!

Yyyyes, if you have something you want to get off your chest, a scathing critique of my blog or just some funny pictures of squirrels, e-mail me a guest blog, and I'll post that bitch like mail on a Tuesday. Doesn't matter how long or short it is, whether it's about Cats or even Bunnies, I will post it unless I disagree with it or don't like you

So send them in, and 50 people might skim over your hard work to get to the post about Big Brother! I want your business TODAY

Tommy: The Criminal

Aside from being a lousy quitter, my trip to America also unearthed another side of me. A sinister side of me. A repeating side of me. A criminal side of me.

It was a Friday night on the Las Vegas strip. 52 farenheit. Slightly overcast. We'd just returned from a visit to the Bellagio casino, and I was thirsty. I felt a bit dodgy, and 2 for 1 drinks at the Imperial Palace had ended a few hours before, so I walked with my accomplice Richie to get some bottled water at the Imperial Palace's cafe.

As you can probably tell by my last post, I'm pretty impatient. I don't like waiting around in a five-person strong queue at 11pm to buy a $1 bottle of water. And considering the only server at the cafe was busy making some weird croissant for a fat American (probably because they eat ham and cheese croissants at 11pm), I decided to speed up the process. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, hung around for a while, then returned to my table. Yes, I quit the line. As I never paid for the water, I also shoplifted.

how come that one cop has a red stripe

It was freaking awesome. I have never had a better tasting bottle of water in my life. If you had a machine that took nouns, turned them into liquid and bottled them, this water would be 'exhilaration'. Now I know how Sean Connery felt when he made 'Entrapment'. I hadn't been this excited since that time I accidentally put a tab of E into my own drink instead of the 14 year-old girl I was trying to rape. Rape jokes are kind of cheap. And, 14 year old boy would have been funnier. Oh well.

Anyway, needless to say I was arrested and tried, and I'm typing this from a Guantanemo Bay net cafe.

Love,

Tommy

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.

I've often said how much I dislike personal blogs and how people think others want to read about their day at the bus stop. I think unless you've got something to say about an issue that affects other people, or something genuinely interesting happened to you, or you can turn a mundane event into an entertaining bitch, then you should STFU about your boring life. But today I am going to make an exception

Cause I'm going to get a buzzcut

At least I think I am. I've been mulling it over for about two months, but keep pussying out when I get to the barber.

...

Alright, it's a hairdresser.

I used to go to a barber until the retard cut the back of my neck. He also had an egg timer of some description, and would time every haircut he gave me. When you have scissors a few centimetres away from my eyeballs, I don't want you to be racing the clock.

Anyway, it's a tough decision. I have a rather large noggin (I was going to write 'rather large head' and make a rude joke but fuck you for judging me), so it might look weird, but my hair has always been short anyway so a #2 all round won't make that much of a difference. Having a buzzcut would also save me oodles of time. I wouldn't have to put gel in my hair when I went out, and I would save on my fortnightly hair wash. Oh yeah bitches - I said fortnightly. Naturally occuring grease is sexy.

I'm pretty sure sometime in the next two hours I will get a buzzcut. Today is my last shift at Subgay, I finished uni a few weeks ago, and sometimes you need to mix things up a bit. And I'm going to America on Jan 7, so if the buzzcut is shit, hopefully it will have fixed itself by then.

And I can't believe I just wrote that much about my fucking hair.


UPDATE:

Tommy just got a buzzcut

He would post a picture but it would probably end up some man/boy love porn site

I really should wait until I graduate before I write this, but what the shit - I am completely out of material after I used the gay marriage card a few posts ago, so it's downhill from here anyway.

For the last three years, I've been completing a media degree at a university that shall not be named because I will get into trouble if someone reads this. I had about two subjects a year where I had to produce actual journalism - real stories about real events and real people. Problem is - I don't really care for that stuff. Calling people up for info, interviewing sources, unearthing scoops, it ain't for me.

So I made it up.

When I had to produce waivers for interviews I conducted, I made them up. Sometimes I'd use my mates and attribute quotes to them (and then forge their sigs). Sometimes I invented people, like my personal favourite 'unamed ALP campaign worker in the seat of Mitchell'. Considering the ALP primary vote in Mitchell, I don't think they have any campaign workers and if they did I doubt they'd be able to communicate verbally. Maybe a complex series of winks, I dunno.

Most recently I had to document my experience on the Sydney suburban rail network, so I wrote about a few trips that I never actually took. In my time at uni, 1 piece out of about 10 was legit journalism. The rest was... how you say... Daily Telegraph-ish

So in summation, I am a fraud. Anything I say on this blog may or may not be completely fabricated. I mightn't even work at Subway and like 24. For all you know I could be a fat chick working at Hungry Jacks who likes Alias. Wouldn't that be fucking trippy. Some fat bitch with two sets of tits because her stomach folds onto itself when she sits down lecturing you about gay marriage and terrorism, her acne-spotted face excreting grease with every keystroke while her abusive father hammers on her bedroom door

Stop writing your bloody stories in there Janice! he says (her name would be Janice)

...

I'm off topic.

If any of my lecturers are reading this, this blog is completely fabricated please don't fail me or I'll cut myself

Tommy's Trip To The Wrestling
A pictorial essay


On Thursday night I went to the Sydney Superdome in Homebush, to see THE WRESTLING~! As a fan of wrestling since I was tiny (as a sperm, I had a 35-minute cage match with wrestling legend Killer Kowalski), I never miss a chance to see the superstars of the WWE pretend to beat each other up (I won by the way, Kowalski had nothing). And because words cannot capture how incredible and beautiful professional wrestling is, here are some pictures (and boy did he get some weird questions after he lost a cage match to a sperm).

First off, a picture of the arena from our seats before it became choc-full of wogs, dickheads, rednecks, kids and Samoan security guards who could crush me with their eyelids:


Now don't let that beautiful, crisp, perfectly balanced shot fool you. I am the world's worst photographer. Isn't that right, Whyms' knee?


But enough about me. Here's The Big Show, a 7"2, 450 pound monster. Or as he's called in this photo, Blurry McBlurryson - the world's biggest blur


The dude in the blue T-Shirt is named Carlito, he is cool. The dude in the white jacket is Eugene, he is a mentally-handicapped person who is also a wrestler. I am not making this up, he's a grown-man playing a retard who wrestles. He brought a Koala Bear to the ring and then bit Carlito on the arse. Again, not making anything up. Except maybe the sperm story at the start, I was more of a fetus.


I am not a religious guy, but the man in the next photo is a wrestling god. He is Ric Flair, he's 56 years old and BLED for us on Thursday night, and based on the following photo, he has a hole in his chest under his left man boob.


And wrestling isn't wrestling without sex appeal, so we were treated to a womens match involving the lovely Trish Stratus and the even lovelier Torrie Wilson. Isn't that right, arse of 500-pound black wrestler Viscera?



WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Ok, flashback to this morning, Tommy wakes up with a bleeding nose due to having a cold and blowing and picking it too much (and having nothing to do with the four lines of coke he did the night before). He cleans it up then goes about his day (like making that fancy new logo at the top of the blog)

Cut to Tommy at university in the afternoon, hanging around waiting for a tute to start when he sees his feminazi friend REDACTED. He takes a seat next to REDACTED, who is probably reading some lezbo book, when Joy's manboy REDACTED arrives, and greets Tommy by kicking a THONG AT HIS FACE

The thong flies through the air, connecting DIRECTLY ON THE NOSTRIL FROM WHICH TOMMY BLED LIKE A STUCK PIG HAVING A PERIOD THIS MORNING

So needless to say my nose started bleeding again (IN PUBLIC!!@#) while REDACTED laughs it up and shakes his manboobs like a little fucking ballerina with his stupid hair and shirt that someone shat on while he jacked off as he got peed on by a 64 year old farmer from africa which is the same hellhole where he lived as the slave of a wealthy industrialist who tested dildos on him at night because he is a little thong throwing faggot who i will never forgive for kissing my dream girl at 21st on saturday because he likes it up the bum

And then I had my tute and went home.

I'm currently doing a public relations subject for uni, and as part of the subject we get into groups and design a Public Relations strategy for a real-life company. My group drew the long straw and got to work with Virgin Mobile, while other groups got stuck with dodgy local construction companies and law firms

Suckers

Anyway, I make this post to discuss the sensitive issue of midget rights

You see, we are designing a Christmas campaign for Virgin, and part of this campaign involves some promo people handing out flyers at shopping centres touting our top secret new Virgin product. Now when you think Christmas, you think elves. You think Santa's little helpers.

You think midgets.

Now, I wanted midgets for this part of the campaign. But members of my group don't think it's 'ethical' to 'exploit' midgets for such a purpose. Even if they're getting paid to do it. I don't think it's any different from a television show casting an old person, or an Aboriginal person, or a woman for a certain role. I'm sure there are midgets who make a good living out of being elves, so who are we to deprive them of theoretical money from our theoretical campaign?

I would like to hear your thoughts - if you hire a midget to be one of Santa's little elves, are you exploiting them? Leave a comment. Normal rules apply - if you use your comment to bag out Tommy be sure to make it anonymous because you're a fucking pansy.


A midget being Uncle-Slammed

As you know I am a Sandwich Artist at Subway. And as you know, after your Sandwich Artist is finishing making your Sub/Wrap/Poo Sammitch they will go 'Any drinks or cookies?' to try and get you to spend more money


Now I always had a problem saying it. Because when I say 'drinks or cookies', the 'k' in 'drink'' carries over to the next word, so I'm effectively saying 'any drinkorhcockehs'?'. And when you're the fuckin' king of Sandwich Artists like me, a small error like this really stands out. I mean, what's the point of making the greatest sandwich ever if you can't say 'drinks or cookies' without sounding like a deaf person? And I'd try and I'd try but I could never really master these words

Until today.

Yes, after two years of working at Subway, I finally figured out that if I reverse the order and say 'cookies or drinks' instead of 'drinks or cookies', I don't create a verbal abortion

And so you get the point of this post, let me repeat:

IT TOOK ME TWO YEARS TO REALISE THAT


Don't ever let Tommy call you dumb

I am a horrible person

Yesterday myself and my newly-engaged mate Cam were driving along Victoria Rd, past the Putt Putt Golf Course in West Ryde, when I saw a group of kids crossing the road. One of the kids was wearing a Metallica shirt, so I proceeded to give him the ROCK DEVILLL sign while sticking my tongue out and yelling METALLICCCAAAA


Then I realised he had Down Syndrome


And so did most of the other kids


And then to make my unintentional harassing of the Downies worse, when Cam asked how a Down Syndrome kid got a Metallica T-Shirt, I said (without thinking) "Oh he probably got it from the Salvation Army."


....


In related news if you need to contact me, email me at my new address tommy@hell.org

The last thing you expect when you're driving to Eastwood is to be in the middle of Carlingford Road picking up an unconscious woman's credit cards and ID (I normally do that when I drive to Coffs Harbour), but last night was a bit crazy.

Having picked up my friend REDACTED (PICKED UP EH EH EH) we troddled along in my mighty Corolla towards one REDACTED 'Thong Kicking Faggot's house in Eastwood. Of course, we had to make an unexpected stop when we turned after Carlingford Court to see a WOMAN GET HIT BY A CAR.

Well, we didn't actually see it, we just saw her lying on the ground in front of a Toyota. But saying A WOMEN LYING ON THE GROUND IN FRONT OF A TOYOTA doesn't really catch the eye.

Anyway, we stopped the car and ran down to the scene. REDACTED called the bambulance while I supervised. Having never been involved in something this exciting, it was pretty surreal. The chick who got hit was sprawled on the ground, while the drivers of the Toyota (they were Asian, in case you hadn't guessed by the fact it was near Epping and involved an accident in a Toyota) were on the footpath crying and screaming in whateverlanguagetheywerespeaking-ese. The strangest thing about the whole scene was that the headlights of the Toyota were still on, meaning the woman's body was lit up like a movie set.

Now, NOBODY was around the woman. Not even the passengers of the car who hit her. So, believing in people's compassion, we thought somebody had already checked on the woman and found she was dead, in which case we didn't really want to get too close. But, the 000 person wanted Joy to see if she was breathing, so we checked. And guess what - she was alive. At this point, two other people came over to check (the drivers of the car stayed on the side of the road), a girl our age and a middle-aged yobbo bloke in a flannelette jacket we will call Bruce.

Now, Bruce was no doctor. His first suggestion upon arriving at the writhing, moaning body of the victim was to suggest we grab her bag and put it under her head. My medical experience is limited to the ressucitation scenes from 'Baywatch', and even I know that's a dumb idea. Moving the neck of someone who just bumped off the windscreen of a car isn't cool. Luckily, we ignored his stupid suggestions. He then told us that the woman had a 'fractured leg' (it was in a funky position), only for the women to then move the leg four seconds later, then put pressure on it. Nice call, doc.

Of course, he wasn't the only person who made an error in the heat of the moment. Joy not only told the ambulance the woman wasn't breathing (only for her to move 1 minute later), but she also told them she was 35. Which would have been correct 15 years and one car accident earlier. This chick was pushing the big 5-0 (coincidentally the speed the car hit her at). But hey, she did more than me. The woman's purse and belongings were all over the road, so I collected all her shit and put it in her bag. I pocketed a fiver for my troubles too. I'm joking of course.

(It was a ten)
So yes, we hung around watching the drama unfold from the side of the road until the two ambulances came (the other girl called an ambulance too). Of course, like any accident, the TOW TRUCK arrived at least 4 minutes before the ambulance. The bastards.

Anyway, not much of a point or anything to this post, just make sure if you get hit by a car there isn't a yobbo in a flannelette telling people to lift your neck and put you in a hammock or something.


From Tommy, your hero

So I took a break from studying for my Year 10 exams and went bowling last night. I hadn't been bowling for a few years, and though I started off strong with a strike, it was all downhill from there. I have the bowling technique of Rainman if he were a twelve year old girl who couldn't judge distance. Anyway, my shitty bowling isn't worth a blog in itself. But SEXUAL DISCRIMINATION IS.

We bought unlimited games you see, and by about the sixth game you start to get a tad bored playing with your balls. And bowling them. So, we thought it would be neat to be even lamer and get some BUMPER BOWLING ACTION!@ Double the strategy, half the skill! Little did we know, however, that Castle Hill Wondabowl is run by a bunch of WOMEN-HATING CONSERVATIVES. We were informed, when we politely asked to get the bumpers put up on our lane, that they could only be put up 'for girls.' Apparently FEMALES CAN'T BOWL ACCORDING TO THE WOMEN-HATING NAZIS AT WONDABOWL. So, the bumpers only went up when it was the token girl's turn to bowl! So the rest of us got to look on, watching the bumpers slowly descend back into the gutters from which they came everytime it was our turn to bowl, all because we don't have VAGINAS.


The manager of Wondabowl (right) and his family

What next, guys get 2 games and shoe hire, girls get 2 games, shoe hire and a MOP AND BUCKET TO CLEAN UP THE LANE WHEN THEY'RE DONE? I mean I know our Prime Minister is living in the 1950's, but surely our bowling alleys are different. Surely a bowling alley should be the one place where men and women can co-exist as equals, all striving together to knock down white pins while listening to music that hasn't been updated since 1999? IS THIS NOT AMERICA?!


The new Female Only lane at Wondabowl

Lift your game Wondabowl, and let men enjoy the wonders of bumper bowling. Or else I'm getting a sex change