Daily Diatribe

One of the chief tree hugging activists was climbing a big tree to have a look out over a patch of forestry in the Pilliga, when a Tawny Frogmouth owl attacked her for invading its nesting sight. In a panic to make her escape, she slid down the tree, getting many splinters in the crotch of her designer shorts.
 In considerable pain, she hurried to the nearest doctor, told him she was an environmentalist, and explained how she got all the splinters.
          The doctor listened with great patience and asked her to go into the examination room and he would see if he could help her.

Ever wondered how the Mad Muftis Main Man (and apparently Man of a Thousand Leaky Condoms as well) manages to pop up the instant Sheikh Taj Din el Hilali is taken out of context by the Islamophobic zealots of the Australian meeja?

Some may think he’s a media-savvy operator, with his ears and eyes open for anything that puts the Religion of Peace in a less than favourable light; personally, I think he’s in fact a Djinn who is conjured whenever the Vizar of Villawood rubs his magic lamp a little too vigourously, an event seeming to increase in repetition of late.

One must wonder what Ask An Imam thinks of such activities. 

Watch this horror, and you’ll think the deaf, dumb and blind existence of Tommy is pretty bloody appealing:- 

 

Which is more that can be said about most of the fielding side when this medium-pace mong is bowling; as a cricketer, Brett Lee is a great singer.

(Apparently this is the biggest selling single in India this week. I’m thinking of recording a ‘65 Volkswagen 6 volt horn, hooked up to the mains until it fries, then the charred remains fed into an Insinkerator as a follow-up. Do it on a loop on the sequencer, with a Bollywood disco riff as backing. Should make millions*)

*Of rupees, anyway- they’re about 40 to the pacific peso at the moment, so I’m hoping to get a vindaloo out of the deal.   

Thanks (I think) to Murph for this audiovisual feast.

 

I realise there’s no shortage of loons, fruitcups, bucketheads, flapdoodles and yahoos already polluting the interwebthingy with their lame gibberish on any number of lame subjects, demented conspiracies and endless dribbling about every excruciating minor detail of their pointless existences, but the Murdoch Empire has managed to sink to a new depth (and I don’t mean giving Tim Blair a job)- they’ve given the Phat Phuck a blog. 

Talk about being off with the pixies (and the little bastards must be like ants, able to lift 20 times their bodyweight if they carted off that corpulent commie cretin); his opening gambit reads like a wonderful, cogent justification for the West invading Iraq and liberating its people, and gives valid reasons to go ahead and sort out Iran, fix Syria’s little red wagon and give Kim Jong Ill a thermonuclear wedgie.

Unfortunately he’s using the argument to advance the cause of Chicken Little polar paranoia, and the girding of Gaiea’s green girdle. He also has come up with the novel theory that Rolls Royce supplied the Luftwaffe with aero engines prior to World War 11; that would explain why Daimler Benz and BMW stuck gone fishin’ signs on their gates for the duration, and why the USAAF and RAF had to bomb Crewe around the clock.

Go and pay a visit, and leave a comment- his fragile ego needs some balm.  

 

I realise it’s a bit of a slow news period, but enter “Paris Hilton” into Google News, and you get 45 hits, all to breathlessly cover the vital information that a wealthy, not especially photgenic, shallow, facile and rather stupid woman has been swanning around the eastern suburbs of Sydney, reportedly picking up A$5 million to launch a beer.

Good work if you can get it, and while I don’t begrudge any one picking up some easy scratch, I wonder at the marketing genius who came up with the idea of using a vacuous bimbo who wouldn’t know beer if it was used as a douche on her in a grainy internet porno vid to sell said ungent.

That being said, at least she eventually goes home- unfortunately I’d say these delightful nymphs will do likewise.

Hurled out of the pub before 8PM on New Years Eve, a new nadir in sordid behaviour.

All thanks to Commissar Beattie’s  ”I Think You’ve Had Enough Sir, And What’s More You’re An Ugly Bastard And You’re Frightening Off Punters” legislation, and along with his “Just Try Lighting A Darb Within Cooee Of These Licenced Premises And We’ll Stick Your Nuts In A Mangle” Act, he’s made a trip to the local boozer a night to remember. Wonder why I can’t.

New Years Eve is a load of old bollocks anyway- two thirds of the world’s population don’t even work off the calendar involved, and frankly I’ve always found  Kung Hei Fat Choi to be a much more lively and entertaining knees-up, but it does lack the spontaneity of mindless bogan violence which inevitably erupts on the 31st of December.

Still, yobbos punching on and hurling debris at the Old Bill isn’t the only unpleasantness which occured this particular hogmanay- my erstwhile former co-contributor to the old site, Carl, has been further destroying sustainability and ensuring the destruction of the planet by breeding again, this time a daughter, yet un-named, weighing in at nearly 3kg. Mother and daughter doing fine.

And a real cutie she is:-

I reckon she’d be a shoo-in for a gong in this competition. Feel free to suggest names in comments, I’m rather taken with Hortense, or perhaps Schapelle Mercedes.