A Big Toothy Grin from Ear to Ear...

The Missus is a Blues supporter. Ever since the team for the second game was announced she's been a little morose, but today that feeling was replaced by puzzlement and rage. All of this was brought about by Timana Tahu's shock exit from the Blues training camp. All of this madness can be traced back to Andrew 'Joey' Johns.

Apparently Joey launched into some weird racial tirade that caused Tahu to give the Blues the proverbial middle finger and flee. The Missus is not impressed. "I just can't believe it," she moaned. "The Blues are their own worst enemy."

Which is true enough. The Blues have made some baffling moves for the second game - a deciding game no less. First of all they named a twenty-one (21) man squad - a first - and then whittled that down to the conventional seventeen (17). They're captain, the confused man-child, Kurt Gidley, is starting off the bench. The Blues have also decided to drop one of their most effective players from Game One, Jamal Idris. Instead they have recruited Trent Barret and Paul Gallen, obviously a couple of blunt instruments intended to inflict some sort of under-handed damage to the Maroons.

Bizarre choices for a desperate team that seems to be imploding. And so, The Missus is stunned by the absolute recklessness of the dim-wits pulling the strings of the Blues. But as a Maroons lad through and through, all I can do is sport a big toothy grin from ear to ear...

They Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time...

Cars. I'm sure they seemed like a good idea at the time. But did Karl Benz or Henry Ford ever have to sell one of the bastards and then buy another? I'm sure if they did have to endure the absolute pain and humiliation of buying and selling a second hand car they might thought twice about unleashing the automobile plague upon the world.

We've spent the last two weeks wheeling and dealing. Selling the ute privately was a nightmare that not even Freddy Krueger would inflict upon some promiscuous teen. We had to run from one end of the city to the other for meetings, inspections, mechanics and all manner of legal paperwork. In the end we settled on a price out of exhaustion and frustration.

It was a hideous experience but there were still perrils to be dealt with: Used Car Dealers. After trudging through half a dozen car lots I learnt one phrase: money talks, bullshit walks. I still can't tell whether I was the money or bullshit.

The Used Car Salesmen Caricatures that we encountered lived up to their stereotype. They were crooked as a pit of snakes and about as easy to nail down. After finally romping through the savages and sorting the duds from from those kept together by gaffer tape and bubble gum, we settled on a car.

It was green, but I was determined not to hold that fact against it. The thing didn't rattle, smoke, squeak or crumble. There was no rust, dents or corrosion. It seemed to work. Just to rattle the dealer I popped the hood and 'Ummed' and 'Ahhed'. We had this bloke where we wanted him: in retreat on the price.

It worked. We put the screws in him and were sitting pretty. We had managed to come out of the entire experience generally depleted but unscathed. Now we have a car to put the Little Miss in when she's born, which is another story altogether...

A Peculiar Contradiction...

The days are slow, hobbling along like a three-legged dog with lupus. Everything is happening, but nothing is happening at the same time; a peculiar contradiction. These are strange times, that's for sure. It's four (4) days out from the due date for Little Miss and I feel no fear or trepidation, only an all consuming anxiety deep in my marrow.

Charlie's room is decked out: lock, stock, the fucking lot. There is a sickening amount of pink and most of the furniture came with obscure instructions, or none at all.

Hopefully the next time I have something to gibber on about I'll be a Daddy. I've never been a patient man and I don't think I ever will be.

The Butt Plug of Australian Journalism...

It was a sad and enfuriating day for me today. At university I studied journalism with great fervour, picturing myself as an Aussie, yobbo Hunter S. Thompson. In my studies I developed a keen respect for the ethics of journalism: what made a good story. How to follow up a lead. The legal in's and out's.

Ever since those heady days of amatuer journalism I've noticed the shocking truth of news reporting in this country. Putrid shows like A Current Affair and Today/Tonight aim for the cretinous and gullible, while the 'reporters' have the audacity to claim that their work is 'Hard Hitting Investigative Journalism'. The fact of the matter is that these hacks are the used-car sales men (and women) of the news world. They are buffoons, getting stories via email from ignorant victims.

These shows have no sense of originality either. It seems as though every month we are confronted by what we're really being served in meat pies. How our shonky butcher is selling us mutton dressed as lamb.

Usually I can let these shows float in their own flotsom, because only the stupid or bored would watch them. But lately the same sorts of shoddy reporting preactices have beeen worming their way into the general media. This is typified by Channel 7 airing pictures of MP David Campbell emerging from a gay sauna club. The fact that Channel 7 stalked him to get the pictures and then actually put them to air, despite ANY political relevance whatsoever is quite simply pathetic. Whoever gave the green light for this story should be tied to the back of a Channel 7 news truck by their annkles and driven around Sydney at 45 km/h.

I feel for David Campbell. There was no validity to that story at all, it would seem Channel 7 set out on a campaign to ruin him. We should now stalk and film the executives of Channel 7 and find the skeletons in their closets. I'm sure there would be revelations of raging drunkards, snorting massive lines of cocaine off the bare arses of ten year old Asian boys.

So until I see the big-wigs of Channel 7 with their pants around their ankles, baring a butt plug, I shake my head at the state of Australian journalism. The news is dead.

NSW must Have the Blues...

I woke to find it splashed all over the news. NSW had finally settled on a team. A team they presumeably thought could halt the raging Maroon juggernaut. I, however, am less optimistic. Which is a good thing really, because I am a Queenslander born and bred.

The Missus, on the other hand, is a NSW supporter and she was absolutely ropeable when she read the NSW line-up. "It's a disgrace," she cried. "I thought we were trying to STOP Queensland from winning five in a row, not hand it to them on a silver fucking platter!"

She was right. We both knew it. How could NSW hope to win when they're being skippered by a no-hoper like Gidley and ordered around the field by a geriatric like Kimmorley? It just made no sense at all. There were some bright points for NSW though. Jamal Idris, Michael Ennis and Brett Morris will surely prove troublesome for the QLD deffenders.

With such a bizarre team set to take to the grass, one can't help but wonder if NSW has an ace or two up its preverbial sleeve. The only fathomable way NSW can walk away with a win is if they boast two extra players out on the field. Two extra players wearing pink. Those swine. The refs.

Time will only tell who will stagger out of this series with a win. But on paper, QLD looks to have it in the bag already. Thank Christ I am not a NSW supporter, because if I were, I too would surely have the blues...

Pineapples...

Well, it's official: The Missus is fed up with this whole pregnancy caper. That's right, she has had enough, she's sick of it. Mood swings, frequent urination, a lack of energy and low libido are just some of the things about pregnancy I find objectionable, so I can only imagine what The Missus hates about it.

After coming home from work yesterday, I found The Missus curled up in the foetal position on the couch. She mumbled that she would have sex with me, if only she wasn't so tired. I told her I appreciated the thought. "It's got nothing to do with you," she said. "They say there's some chemical in the semen that can induce labour." I felt loved, I must say. But to the best of my knowledge, it was my semen that got us into this mess, I would have never guessed the same semen could get us out of the same mess early too.

Apparently, while I was at work, The Missus was at home researching The Internet for natural ways to induce pregnancy. The solutions ranged from the absurd (sex) to the bizarre (eating seven pineapples) to the erotic (massaging the nipples) and the unthinkable (eating spicy food, which The Missus despises). In the end she settled on one scientifically unproven theory: taking bumpy car rides.

I sat, smoking for the next hour and a half as The Missus sped up and down our unpaved driveway. After ninety (90) minutes, she staggered out cursing up a foul storm. I was stunned that the scientifically unproven theory had failed. I was stunned and The Missus was dirty.

Now we have to rely on Nature, of all things, to get this thing done.

Past use by Date Prescription Pills...

For years now I've openly mocked people and their terror tales of wisdom teeth. There were stories of teeth being chiseled out of jaws, drunk surgeons removing the wrong teeth, two sets of wisdom teeth growing through, causing the jaw to dislocate. Real scary shit. But I always laughed and made snide comments, because it wasn't happening to me. But now the winds of Karma have changed direction and blown back in my face. It all began three days ago when I rolled out of bed, cringing in agony. Pain was radiating from my jaw, blurring my sight.

I staggered into the bathroom, clutching my jaw. I was clueless. I had no formal training in dentistry. First I needed a visual of where the pain was coming from. Had I chipped a tooth or had a spider crawled into my mouth while I was asleep and bitten my gum? I just didn't know.

It was tricky to get a visual on the source of my pain, due to the fact it was in the dark recesses of my mouth. Armed with a steak knife and a torch I finally caught a glimpse of a sorry excuse of a tooth, flanked by flaps of skin, that had never been there before.

Now I have joined that exclusive clique of people whinging about their wisdom teeth. But ever since opening up about this painful little problem, people have been throwing all sorts of multi-coloured, past use by date pain meds my way, leaving me in a perpetual prescription drug haze.

It will be a couple of weeks before I'll be able to hunt down a qualified dentist to knock me out and go to town on my mouth with a set of Black&Decker power tools, so until then I'll amble around, clouded by strangers' left over drugs.

All Fingers and Thumbs Accounted For...

Here I am, typing: all fingers and thumbs accounted for. That's right sports fans, Sydney couldn't finish the job it started so long ago. I walked through the valley of the shadow of death and swaggered out the other end boasting all appendages and a toothy grin from ear to ear.

That's not to say, of course, that the trip was incident free. For an hour and a half I was struck down by some bizarre fever. It was the best Sydney could throw at me, and it barely slowed me down.

Aside from that sinister business there was another aspect to the Sydney trip: meeting the The Missus' extended family. This went well, because when I wasn't devouring mountains of food, I was in hysterics, and it's hard to make a goose of yourself when you're mouth's full or you're laughing hard enough to bring on an asthma attack.

Back into the Belly of the Beast...

It's been a solid two years since I was in Sydney, and I don't have fond memories of the place. It cost me two thousand (2000) dollars and two years worth of public transport. And all because some weasely little judge had a grudge against Queenslanders (and drink drivers too it would appear).

Then five (5) months before that I was exiled from Sydney licking my wounds. I staggered away with my tail between my legs, nursing a shattered collar bone, a broken heart and high as a kite on hillbilly heroin.

But this weekend I have to venture back to that wretched city to meet and greet The Missus' extended family. Which is no problem. I've never had any qualms about meeting the family.

The real fear comes from Sydney, diving head first back into the belly of the beast. If all goes well, I'll return penniless and missing a thumb. However, if things go poorly, and Sydney finally finishes the job, I won't return. Keep a sharp eye on news reports coming out of Sydney, because one day, they may find pieces of me washing up on the steps of the Sydney Opera House.

Or maybe I'm just overreacting a tad.

Code Red...

The Missus just sent me into a fit of panic. We had just finished a feed of balsamic chicken, with mashed potato and garlic, when she began stamping her feet on the ground with a baffled look on her face. She leant down to feel the couch and ground between her legs.

"Why's it all wet down here," she asked.

Instant flashbacks from the previous weeks antenatal class struck me like a wet bag of shit. People in the know call it amniotic fluid. I was dumbfounded and instantly clutched The Missus between the legs. Holy creeping Jesus, I thought, at least I finally finished The Girls cot before she decided to make her final bid for freedom.

The Missus was even more stunned than I was. She glared at my hand between her legs and asked what the hell I was doing. My fear and anxiety stunted my vocal chords. To signify the sheer magnitude of this situation I dabbed at the wet patch on the ground and sniffed it.

In the antenatal classes, the teacher told us that amniotic fluid had a very distinct, pungent smell.

There was no odour. I finally realised The Missus' pants were dry as a bone.

The Missus began laughing like a fiend, explaining the wet patch on the ground was condensation from her water bottle. As it turned out The Missus had forgotten that she moved it only moments before. So it's good to know that in a high pressure situation like that, I will turn into a mute buffoon with a blank stare on my face.

The Shit Storm Rages On...

There's an old saying: Rugby Union is a thugs game played by gentlemen but Rugby League is a gentleman's game played by thugs. That may be true, but after the revelations this week, Rugby League is not only played by thugs, but also managed by fraudsters, cheats and devious hooligans.

The Melbourne Storm have lost premierships, sponsors and fans by the bucket load since revelations they have been rorting the salary cap for five (5) years came to light. It really shouldn't be too much of a surprise that the Storm were conducting back-alley deals to sidestep the salary cap though. How else could they have maintained a dynasty of some of the most highly-regarded players for so long?

Of course, like the death of a flamboyant celebrity, jokes are flying around thick and fast about the Storm's little mishap. I heard one just yesterday that made me think: What do Jake Gyllenhaal, from Brokeback Mountain, and the Melbourne Storm have in common? They've both been fucked by a ledger. Which is true. It has been revealed that Storm management kept a record of their dodgy dealings, a bizarre move by any stretch of the imagination. Haven't they ever seen 'The Untouchables' or 'Casino'? Those two gangster movies taught me a great deal growing up: NEVER KEEP RECORDS OF YOUR BROWN BAG DEALINGS! It's corruption 101.

Now the newspapers around the country are calling this Australia's greatest sporting scandal, which is true. It has seen a couple of one-off's. First of all, the NRL's punishment against the Storm: stripping them of Premierships, Minor Premierships and declaring that the they will earn no premiership points for the rest of the season. Another first has seen sporting agencies around the country refunding a number of 'Wooden Spoon' bets. That's right kiddo, this is a humdinger.

Now the players are left to compete in a futile competition for the remainder of the year. The NRL are still digging for more dirt to find the depths of this farce. More heads will roll, that's for sure.

And me? Well, I'm going to sit back and watch this shit storm rage on with a slight grin, because the fact of the matter is, I was never much of a Storm fan to begin with.

End of an Era...

Australia is a country founded off the backs of convicts. No one is ignorant of this fact and perhaps that's why we have always had a deep fascination with crooks. Ned Kelly is a National Hero - he was also an armed robber and murderer. 'Chopper' Read is now a stand up comic, artist and author - he too was an armed robber and murderer. So it is no wonder that the death in custody of Carl Williams is front page news around this Great Brown Land of ours.

Williams' antics over a five year period captivated the Nation. His was a twisted, multi-faceted tale of double crosses, gun shots, drugs, police corruption and triple crosses. Williams was eventually convicted of four (4) killings, but the police claim he was an integral part of at least eleven (11) shootings around Melbourne, and let's be fair, they're probably bang on.

Now let's get down to brass tacks - fair enough, Williams was a convicted drug trafficker, but he was no devil incarnate. Push come to shove, if I were shot in the guts by a pair of maniacal siblings, I would probably go a bit sideways in the head too. Unleashing a savage reign of vengence throwing an entire city into fits of fear wouldn't be out of the scope of possibility for me either.

Williams has become such a cultural phenomenon that Channel Nine, in their infinite wisdom, based an entire television show on him. There were Carl Williams T-shirts, a Carl Williams Facebook page and half a dozen books about him.

But alas, now he is dead. Pummeled about the head by some sort of prison gargoyle with a piece of metal wrenched from an excercise bike. It's hard for one not to lament whether five years of drug and sex crazed homicidal lunacy was worth a couple of years in jail and being bludgeoned to death.

Anyway, now he's dead and so is the end of an era.

The Greed Heads Strike Another Blow...

Australia is no stranger to lady corruption. Roger Rogerson, Sir Robert Askin, Trevor Haken, Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen: each of these men were at one time or another the pinnacle of corruption in Australia.

But these days there is a new breed of greed. A new generation of dodgy officials making deals in dark rooms, swaggering around boasting fistfulls of cash. These men have been given the power to govern and control - but it would seem that's just not enough.

Notorious criminal Neddy Smith once said of the NSW police service, "It's the best police force that money can buy," and so it seems to be with NRL refferee's. These wingnuts are out of control. Fair enough, they have to wear pink jerseys onfield - enough to strike a blow to any man's ego - but do they have to sell their integrity to the highest bidder like some wretched whore?

This season has seen some bizarre reffereeing. To any lay-person, these decisions may seem idiotic, outlandish, even downright strange. But not to me. No, I have a keen eye for brutes forming a stomp circle around honesty and fair play. This season has shown a pattern of favoritism that can only be explained by Greed Heads dressed in pink selling their whistle to NRL clubs with the highest bid. It's easy to rig an NRL game: lopsided penalty counts, turning a blind-eye and obscure interpretations of rules can help any side win a game.

Corruption is the only reasonable explanation for what we have seen so far this year. Either that or the truth is alot worse. Maybe these refferee's are simply idiots dressed in pink.

The Apocalypse dawns...

These are strange and anxious days. The Missus and I have been stock piling everything we may or may not need for the forthcoming apocalypse. That's right kids, R.E.M. hit the nail on the head, it's the end of the world as we know it.
Parenthood.

The Missus has been carrying around our little girl for thirty-two (32) weeks now, which means we're close to the business end of this thing. A scary thought considering I haven't been able to piece her cot back together. After two unsuccesful attempts to knock the cot together, I've come up short and had to call in reinforcements.

Friends and wellwishers wretched stories of premature births don't help either. Every time The Missus farts, burps or looks a little cock-eyed, a ferocious terror floods over me. The baby girl can't come yet, she won't have anywhere to sleep!

So until the cot is pieced together, The Missus has to cross her legs. Otherwise baby girl might have to spend her first night at home sleeping in a drawer, either that or a shoe box.