The Way It Is

DID YOU MAKE THE TOP TEN?

2012-01-30T02:41:00.000-08:00

A few evenings ago, I gathered a large group of guests at the GeinWorld manse for what was, under pretext, a post New Year's / Chinese New Year's / Back to School bacchanal.   Once everyone was sufficiently liquored-up like organizers of a tent city, I asked Sneepo, my Philipino gimp who doubles as a DJ when he's not otherwise engaged, to politely cut the "Best of Nik Kershaw" mashup from the 99" 3-D Active/Passive Benwa plasmas that are handily situated around the house, and grabbed the mic.

After tinkling the Baccarat crystal with a fork and 'hushing' the throngs, it was time to share the real reason for the gathering---and that was the annual unveiling of the Top Ten Best Friends and Colleagues in the FAVORITES setting of my iPHONE 4s.

For veterans of the event, it was as tense as Doctor Conrad Murray's moments waiting for sentencing in the Michael Jackson trial. For newbies, it was like that first trip to a transgender brothel after a two week meth binge, or the first two weeks of Year 6 at school in Adelaide, SA, or eleven years of high school in East St. Louis, Illinois.

I addressed each and every member of the group, thanked them for coming, and noted the 'who and why' of each person's contribution to my life----and their ranking ascending from a completely honourable and highly-desirable #10 position, all the way to the pinnacle of friendship and loyalty, the coveted #1 spot.

There were a lot of tears, some of anger, most of joy. Many, alas... of regret and anguish and utter disbelief.

My #10 BFAMLAIPTM (Best Friend and Most Loyal And Important Person To Me) had been at #18 only two years ago, and he had vaulted into tenth place through a series of incredible deeds and selfless acts.   Selfless because my welfare was more important than his, and thus he 'got' the meaning of life.

#9? I hadn't even made her acquaintance until but six months ago, yet she had burned through the list like New Zealand power lines through a hot air balloon ride to cement a place in the Top Ten and her missile-like trajectory knows no bounds---a Top 5 spot next year could even be in the cards?

Last year's # 9 and #10 fell hard. Their stay had been tenuous. Their loyalties challenged, their appearances fading like autumn leaves, their raison d'être may have no longer been to ensure my happiness and success....and woe were they when the karma compass spun right round to them and flicked them off the charts ever so firmly.   They both vomited on my white pile carpeting, put on their New England Patriots scarves, and left together into the gathering dark.

Hours later, as I got all the way to #1, there was a strange animal-like squealing and kerfuffle coming from the media room.   Before announcing the winner, I asked Sneepo to investigate the disturbance and he informed me that Wayne Swan, Kim Sattler, and Tony Hodges were in a 3-way cluster fuck in the Green Room while the PM held a dildo-shaped thermometer against Mr. Swan's anus--ostensibly to measure climate change for purposes of levying a tax on the evening's festivities.   In the middle of the gruesome naked bestiality of it all, Sattler was heard by an affiliate to have been screaming

                          "United, in threesomes, we'll never be defeated!"

This was conveyed to several other members of my soiree, who started banging on the glass of the media room, forcing the PM to flee the room, stumbling over a passed-out Craig Thompson who was lying under three dozen hookers who were auditioning for Anthony Albanese's next movie. As the PM stumbled her shoe fell off, which was quickly snatched up by Heather Mills--an uninvited guest.

But there was so much hearsay going on that I couldn't even think, and so I locked the door and went straight to announcing #1 and then quietly counseled those that didn't make Top Ten on how they could still get on with life, and 'give it a go' again next year.   That their actions would speak louder than words, and to go home and think hard about what they could do for me.   Sitting with those in positions 6-10.... I shared the volatility of the ranking, and the responsibilities that went along with it.

What about you at home? Have you been wondering, mulling, daring to consider.... if you could be worthy? If you're wondering about it, it's probably too late and you should finish yourself off tonight. At home. Alone

In the night

In the dark

Where no one can help you.

Where no one can hear you.

I live too far away.    I don't go out after dark.

No one does.

They all go back to the village.

I can't help you now.

THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT...THE LAST POST ... of 2011

2011-12-18T04:03:00.000-08:00

Whew! It's been ages.

And why, you ask?

Simply, a karma-building exercise. That's all.

Things are rolling, cameras will be rolling, a six year epic journey is coming to fruition for friends and family, so 'nice' is back.

Yeah, yeah.... it sounds boring but since Christopher Hitchins left so sadly and abruptly, we're out of words for awhile.   No more slagging rangas, (except one) Jews, the brotherz, micks, wops, slants, klippieloos, bungs, or anyone.   We are the world, we are the children.

That having been said, just in case you have it coming... 'fuck you'.

I really am grateful for GeinWorld making it all happen, and even though there is a list of 103 celebrities and politicians who 'need to die' I'm just going to let it all go. Go away, so-to-speak. I'll be publishing that list New Year's Eve 'without prejudice' just to get it out of my system. The fact that you're reading this might save you, but then again not.

Nobody gets caned, everyone is allowed a leave-pass.

Except for one thing.

Cabs. In Melbourne...and Sydney.

Or lack thereof.

Last night I 'did the right thing' and left The Vehicle in my garage in my stately 12,000 squares 8-story palatial Bayside home and took a cab into the city. After a bit of food and merriment, my consort and I attempted to find a cab home at the witching hour.

Big mistake.

This was not to be had. And why? Because in Melbourne there are no fucking cabs at night. The drivers and operators are all watching the cricket in Karachi, making curries for their 19 children working at the Narre Warren Red Rooster, or doing the night shift at the Suckhole Inn in Moe.   This left us standing in a queue with a thousand sleeved-up, methed-up UDL-drinking fuckknuckles trying to get back to Frankston and Lalor to get their Centrelink T-shirts and scrub up for their next day on the wharves or as greeters for bikie clubs.

So officially, from now, I will drink drive.

And I want you to drink drive too.

What is wrong with that? What is wrong with blowing 2.5 after running through a school bus full of kids coming back from a SummaDaze Dolphin-Eating Cove Killing extravaganza and exploding it into flame whilst their iPODS are blowing out Bran Nue Dae with Japanese subtitles?

Absofuckinglutely nothing. That's what.

It's the Butterfly Effect.

Let me explain....

945 taxis go absent.
Thus, approximately 1900 Melburnians have no transport home.
Thus, 30% or approximately 570 of us decide that we will never look for cabs or public transport again.
Thus, approximately 300 cars of drink drivers head out the following weekend.
Thus, 2% or 6 cars hit trains, cops, cripples, Croatian students, rugby fans, Irish fucking backpackers crossing Fitzroy Street, or hopefully Wayne Swan's entire family and Julia Gillard smoking ice through a used tampon at the Altona RSL while we blow through a red light camera en route to a BWS drive-through store.

So I am asking. No...I am DEMANDING that everyone drink drive until there are only 15 people left in Victoria, such that there is one taxi for each remaining bi-ped in the State.

I don't have anything else to complain about. I have an attitude of gratitude. I love all nationalities, I love everyone. I love cats more than dogs, but dogs more than Labor voters. A good book is fine, but a great screenplay is divine. And I would rather see a great film and have 100 million people starve in Africa, than see a bad film and have everyone eat. I would chuckle if I saw Mother Theresa in a 3 way on YouPorn, but I would guffaw if I saw Michelle Obama as one of the three.

There is no global warming. The carbon tax is for people who will die of mesothelioma and not be able to spell 'asbestos'.

A penny saved is a penny earned, but Whoppers are better than Malteasers.

Good night
and
Good luck.

xo

Ed

Why Hot Lesbian Hookers Will Save Australia!

2011-08-23T16:21:00.000-07:00

It's true you know? Australia has been saved. God save the Queen. Advance Australia Fair. Onya! In our darkest hour, we have seen the light, and it's dappled greatness has begun to evaporate the cloak of incompetence and insidious carcinogenic rulership that invaded and engulfed Terra Australis over a year ago.

In August of 2010, a Corgi-esque Welsh canine asexual ranga mongrel with 35% of it's brain missing since birth as a result of first term thalidomide injections in it's mother was elected Prime Minister of Australia.   This also says a lot about mandatory voting in the Country.

However, everyone makes mistakes, and the opponent against who she ran wasn't without his faults, flaws, and suspicions.... but nevertheless, we chose a plague to be visited upon us.

But Spegeldieskruggenbaum and Karpus Voidus Felix we rejoice, as in the space of one phone call and one signature on a union credit card, it seems that we might be free at last...free at last....

Some months or years back, a man named Craig Thomson was staying at the Grand Hyatt Hotel (suspicious enough that a union official should be using member's dues to stay at a posh hotel to begin with. Really representing the 'battlers' here aren't we Craig?) and made a few calls to some escort services. Sometime later from another property he did the same, and charged many thousands of dollars to the union credit card.   This is undisputed. Mr. Thomson says it wasn't him, and I'm sympathetic...   I do know thousands of times that unidentified people used my credit card to call up escort services, buy drugs, rent convertible sports cars, and these people also looked exactly like me and had my driver's license. How fucking weird was that? Of course, that was during my first marriage and a lot of it was both Scientology and alien related and the true culprits were caught and sent by Xenu back to both Klippylar, Bakersfield, and Punchbowl, respectively.

But in this case, Mr. Thomson's alibi ain't looking so hot as he can't find the spaceship or the Emerald Ring of Hadron Collision that he claims were responsible. It could be a Hyatt-related virus thing? I know the alarm clock didn't work in Gary Ablett, Sr's suite at the Park Hyatt some years back, and I believe his young guest is still sleeping.   Anyway, at least Mr. Ablett admitted it was his room and his card....

But I digress, as I do. WTF, it's my column... I can do anything as the Lizard King.

But escort services aren't illegal in Melbourne. Nothing wrong with that, Craig. But Craig's List here has brought in a conundrum, as his ostensibly wild crazed night with (I really hope) twin laser-hot blonde lesbians was paid for by the union, and a subsequent lawsuit reimbursed by the ALP in order to keep him from going bankrupt. If he's bankrupt, his seat is gone, there's a by-election, and the razor thin margin the Labor party has in governing (sic) this Country will disappear faster than a blonde Aussie backpacker on holiday in Croatia.

And although I am certainly not a Tony Abbott fanatic, it doesn't take anyone including 12 million people with Down Syndrome (the approximate Labor support figures at the last election) to realize that the current PM is one of the worst leaders in history of any democratic country. Really, try and find one worse? And give us five reasons why?

But again, I digress....

The beautiful thing in this whole melange of mutinous melancholy, is that Australia's dismal future, that lie facing rack and ruin and carbon taxes and Godknowswhatelse for the next couple years, will be unleashed and unfettered and set free, all because of Laser Hot Lesbian Hookers. We will be freed by the pussy. The Pussy will have beaten The Dog once again.

I am sitting here now on the 90" mega screen attached to my new Mac, naked but for a funny hat, socks, and a fresh cappucino made from my beautiful Nespresso machine I was given for Christmas that I thought would make me into George Clooney but as yet has not. And I am imagining Mr. Thomson in his posh hotel suite, naked but for a T-shirt that has "Workers United Will Never Be Defeated" on the front and that stupid Eureka flag logo that union bosses like Dean Mighell and Bill Shorten think make cool bumper stickers, and he's got Bambi and Thumper tag-teaming him and they're screaming "fuck us, Craig! fuck us like the Unions have fucked Australia for yearssssssss!!!!!!"

Little did Mr. Thomsom (or his doppelganger) realize as he was coming, that in not too many years--as a result--the PM would be going...

Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty we're free at last*

*NB: Martin Luther King would have appreciated this irony. Hookers and hotel rooms were a predilection he was not stranger to. Regrettably neither Mr. Thomson nor Ms. Gillard have any great achievements in their professional lives to offset those hobbies. At least Craig Thomson avoided the balcony. Hopefully Ms. Gillard will take her step out the balcony door soon.

Who Let The Dog Out?

2011-07-10T21:15:00.000-07:00

It's that time. A 'coming out' of sorts. I must explain before we proceed...in order that to be understood is to avoid misunderstanding and thus advance rather than tread water.

I have been called right wing, but am an idealist as well as a pragmatist. I have voted for one Bush but not another, demonstrated against the Vietnam War but dream of radical Muslim extermination.   I am Jewish yet my best friend is Syrian. I have been to Syria (twice) but never Israel and embrace most tenets of Judaism but find most Orthodox Jews are fucking nuts and practices like keeping Kosher clinically insane.   That being said if I'm having a quiet cup of coffee at Max Brenner and 50 Palestinian-loving mongrels tear through the place with anti-Israel placards and bullhorns and sticks I will run over every one of them with my car if I can.

I was born in Midwestern America (Wisconsin) but all the important moments in my life happened in either radical Boulder, Colorado, or Los Angeles.   I gratefully call Australia home but lament that most people here shouldn't be allowed to vote let alone forced to vote. I am also proudly American, too, and when I declare that I can't wait to see Obama hang it is not a racist taunt it is simply one of HOPE.

I am a member of a union but find unions abhorrent. I have owned motorcycles and done heaps of drugs in my time but pray most bikies and drug dealers will die in a fire.

One of my best friends is black, and I love music undefinable but age, colour, genre, or background from pop to rap but if I see three black males walking together in St. Kilda I will call the police and flee because those niggaz are most likely not on their way to church.

I have many gay friends and associates and support gay marriage and have watched three episodes of Brothers and Sisters but will chuckle if Bob Brown dies of AIDS.   How Green would that be, Kermit?

The love of my life is British and agnostic but my fantasy is to drown Dawn French who is British and plays a woman of the church in the worst English TV series ever made.

I would do anything to save whales from the Japs but yet I live for sushi -- and a red-haired whore from Wales who pretends to represent Australia is the most repugnant human being I have ever seen other than Robert Mugabe. But at least he wears tailored suits and speaks proper Engish. Some whales should be slaughtered.

The difference between Aussie Rules and Rugby is not huge but the difference between the fans is gigantic.   I believe 83% of violent crime in Australia is committed by alleged Rugby League fans so the 'game they play in heaven' is obviously an excuse to get there as soon as possible. And I don't care if it's Rugby Union or Rugby League so don't leave a fucking comment to that effect.

A great falafel roll is hard to beat but most Lebanese people deserve a good beating. Every day.

I adore Mexican food but abhor seeing anyone but Mexicans operating leaf blowers in the street or on the sidewalks.

There are few things more beautiful than fish swimming through coral reefs in clear blue water but nothing more ghastly than someone putting a price on air and thinking it will make one iota of difference.

Falling down on a crisp snowy ski run in New Zealand is pleasurable but watching Christchurch demolished by an earthquake is almost sexual. The second big quake was as close to a multiple orgasm as any male could ever have. Had the Japanese tsunami and the Pakistani earthquake all hit on the same day it would have been like a Powerball Win.   What would you change?

I love my sons but given a time machine would clearly prefer a beach house in Santa Monica and a Ferrari.

I find the mundane insane obsession with housewives as the archetype or motif for economic and social barometric measurement insidiously stupid, but hate ironing my own shirts or doing the dishes.

I love a good curry but know that 74.2% of taxi drivers from India or Pakistan account for more noxious and toxic global warming than 4 million coal plants.

Loyalty and persistence are my hallmarks but I swapped AFL teams after 3 games this season after years of frustration.

I find violence against women one of the worst things that can occur but dream about Lee Rhiannon being pack-raped by wolves on Foxtel Pay Per View.

I appreciate Steve Price's right to argue his points on radio and in the newspaper and often agree but as one of the ugliest Caucasian men on TV cannot give him any credibility when visible in any form.   Conversely Megan Gale can only have credibility when the sound is off in any medium.   It is only now I realize that her role in Captain America was cast as a mute, but would be rapt to only have the news read by supermodels... but closed captioned, of course.

I wonder why everyone who enjoys MasterChef has an 'educated' palate but those who lecture about it sound like they have a cleft palate.

And I used to wonder why Tim Matheson went to a gynecologist instead of a psychotherapist until I learned from News of the World wire taps that his visits were prompted by phone calls asking "if you could help me with my cunt..."

MORE PUSSY.... LESS BEEF

2011-06-08T20:39:00.000-07:00

It's been a week of absolute biblical bestiality proportions Down Under here in Oz.   In the space of just one amoebic lifetime, we have had Minister Penny Wong (as in wrong) completely denigrate the Master Race of Cats with her churlish self-centered behaviour in Parliament, and we have had a pint-sized pixie vegan girl rescue a zillion cows from CattleCaust in Indonesia.   Since we live in a country ruled over by a feral dog and her pig minions, it's not unusual that animals are constantly in the news and at GeinWorld we felt this week it needed a bit of 'splaining for those yet uneducated.

In Australian Parliament, it's pretty much okay to say anything you like to anyone you feel like singling out. It wasn't long ago Julia Gillard referred to Christopher Pine as a "mincing poodle".   Since the PM would know a lot about dogs, not only being one but living in a doghouse from time to time (legally referred to as Altona, VIC) and borne from a bitch in a town in Wales--- let's not forget that the main claim to fame Wales has (since Richard Burton died and Catherine Zeta-Jones got married) is a brand of dogs owned by the Queen of England.

                          TWO FAMOUS WELSH BITCHES

So here we have a bulldog (Wong) owned by a bitch (Gillard) who is owned by the Queen of England. I'm not going to say anything bad about the Queen in this post as she showed me enormous hospitality at my recent visit for the Royal Wedding (see previous posts).   So when 'Bad Penny" Wong got upset at been 'meowed' at Mr. Senator David Bushby in Parliament...she claimed that it was sexist. Being that femininity wouldn't be the first thing you think of when you think of Ms. Wong, it was an even more bizarre comment. If Bushby had 'barked' at her , she might have had cause to be upset (after she fetched and returned his slippers and newspaper of course) but instead she chose to attack a super race: CATS!

Since the dawn of time, before Xenu, and before the Wish Granter (c) made his way through the Solar Onyx of Time to his first effervescent emerald docking pod in upstate Wisconsin.... in a time before women could vote, before Indonesian children could be President of the United States, and even before toaster ovens...there were cats.   The earliest direct evidence of cat domestication is a kitten that was buried alongside a human 9,500 years ago in Cyprus. If you've ever been to Cyprus, you know that the cat was the ruler. and the 'human' next to him was the pet. Cats allegedly abandoned Yugoslavia (aka: Serbia/Croatia) in 488 B.C., citing in various Cat Scrolls that "these people cannot be domesticated, and will always be feral...teaching them to use toilets and walk upright will take at least 194 more generations, even more than the Welsh or Rumanians..."

It was shortly after gypsies perfected stealing that cats decided to take their rightful rule at the sides of important humans, and use their cunning and stealth to channel their decisions through them as most cats found speaking to large groups on TV or radio, or being in the same room with the likes of Steve Price for an interview a most appalling experience.

And speaking of Mr. Low Price who railed on about Aussies being too sensitive about cattle slaughter in Indonesia and wondering if we'd feel equally bad about tossing an abalone or lobster in a pot, I'd have to respond to that like most educated people would (sorry about excluding 98.3% of your readership and listener-base there Steve... and yes I also read the Herald Sun letters to the editor, drink drive short distances from time-to-time, download porn and even occasionally download first run movies and in some cases download movies even before they have gone into production so that I can see the future... ) and say "gee Steve, I'd say there might be a bit of pain for a nano-second when a lobster or sea dweller is thrown into boiling water or a sizzling wok. But lingering torture and beatings for a higher intelligence animal such as a cow would be quite a different scenario, wouldn't you think?".

And yes, we are more worried about someone hitting a swan in the park with a brick than a bunch of boat people washing up on the rocks in Christmas Island, because swans rarely build mosques or pack rape young women at train stations to the best of my knowledge. Are there fanatical evil swans out there? Swans driving around in burqas refusing to identify themselves and hiding in enclaves selling drugs and hanging out with the Ibrahim brothers either in a King's Cross nightclub or surreptitiously in Punchbowl, NSW?   Possible.... Are there Rhodes Scholars and supermodels arriving illegally on our shores and being held in detention centres for years on end? Possible....   But I'll take the swan 9 out of 10 times for the safe bet. (NB: Other than treasurer Wayne Swan, who is living proof that dingos fuck penguins and reproduce.)   I'm not worried about our relationship with Indonesia, mate.   If they could press a button and Australians would disappear 9 out of 10 of them would be running to press the fucking button. You want relationships with them? Go over there and have a fuckfest on your own.
   VARIOUS SWANS

PRETTY SEXY BLACK SWAN

SAD BLACK SWAN

A SWAN I WOULDN'T LET AROUND MY CHILDREN

And on a sad note, this morning there are lots of formerly jolly ranchers bemoaning the loss of cattle sales to Indonesia and worrying about their business being ruined. I'm sympathetic here. In real life. I'm sorry that a small or in some case massive amount of their business just ceased. I really am. But if it means they have to bring all that cattle down to the southern states and beef prices drop (even though the $50m a YEAR for government supports to the meat lobby has only brought about a dozen stainless steel torture boxes for all that work which someone sent over to Indonesia...) and everyone takes a bit of a hit across the board than so be it. We're paying $14 a kilo for fucking bananas, we can pay a bit more for our exorbitant beef prices than we are already. Prices aren't down, sorry Coles and Woolies.

So tonight, in the gathering darkness when Julia Gillard paces in circles padding down the grass before settling down to sleep, before Wayne Swan visits Dolly Dunn's grave for one last reach-around, before Steve Price tucks his daughters in and reads them a bedtime story about the benefits of Sharia law, the Wish Granter will benevolently pass the Wand of Glimnar across the Universe, and once again All Cats Will Rejoice that Penny the Imposter will be barking at the moon before too long, and when the Apex Feline Dawn swells near I will tell you what the Great Awakening will have in store for us all.

On that day I'll tell you....

INNOCENT? OR GUILTY?

Why 'you people' are more dangerous than ciggies

2011-05-17T06:07:00.000-07:00

Nice to be back. You're welcome, faggots. And I say that euphemistically, not figuratively. I have had a number of emails and comments that have come from 'you people' that really disturb me, and I am going on the front foot. Look out, bitches.

Today, over (yes, today as in TODAY...not an ephemeral moment but the date on your iPHONE calendar you fucking idiot) 65% of the news articles in Australia touched on the British American Tobacco Company's attack on the Federal Government over 'plain packaging'.

Let us please set the record straight.

There are approximately 9,000 to 12,000 deaths from lung cancer per year in Australia. Some of these are non smokers but let us go with the flow.   There are approximately 1800 road fatalities per year. Over one third of those involve a Holden product. Australia is 91% white, but 63% of violent crime is perpetrated by non-whites.

Therefore, the government mandate to take a LEGAL product like cigarettes which they make enough tax from to fund 3,200 High Def porn films involving a kilo of cocaine and a three-way with Nicola Roxon and Julia Gillard (are you vomiting yet?) is totally fucking insane.

I don't smoke...never have, never will. Don't like it. Yobbo habit. But it's legal. Cocaine-related deaths in Australia total less than 30 (yes, thirty) per year. So basically, it would make more sense to legalize cocaine, make Holden cars illegal, make all non-white people be plain packaged as criminals (especially Lebanese Muslims who comprise the majority of criminals in Australia per capita) and make all cars look the same and simply be called "cars" and outlaw separate dealerships for makes and brands.   Alcohol related violence is 342% higher than any other drug legal or otherwise, and it's legal also. Why not plain package alcohol and let people figure out scotch, vodka, kahlua and whatever behind closed doors?

Because while I appreciate the Federal Government is trying to look after the health and welfare of Australians....it cannot legislate or discriminate against anything that is LEGAL for the public.    Either completely ban ciggies or leave them the fuck alone. Plain and simple.

The tobacco companies make goods. They employ people. They sell products. Are the products good for us? Fuck no!   Are they addictive? Fuck yes?   Are Somalians and most third-world Muslims living in Australia bad for us? Fuck yes! And I am happy to visit predominantly Muslim countries and do business with Muslims but once you take them out of their homeland and bring them here it's like giving ferrets methamphetamines.   They totally lose their shit.   If we dropped a nuclear bomb on Christmas Island no one would notice other than Julian Burnside and a couple of vegan cunts who live in Marrickville and work at the ABC on weekends.

So what is my point?

My point is that if this article makes you angry, please kill yourself.   That's my point.   I have to have some dinner now and plank on the Pope's ass.   And I'm hunting down the Indian granny-basher and sending his body in 100gm pieces back to India so those Aussie-slagging curry munching goatshaggers can go back to selling long-distance and timeshares in Kaburatabishantian and leave us the fuck alone.

Racism is out, but justice is in.

Pass the ketchup.

THE YELLOW WIGGLE MUST DIE!

2011-04-10T19:38:00.000-07:00

Last night while I was stirring a Grey Goose martini with my Official Wayne Swan (c) rectal thermometer, and relaxing in the "meds room" at GeinWorld, I overheard a news magazine explaining how "the original Yellow Wiggle" was in financial straights after suffering setbacks from the GFC.   I was first horrified that the cadmium phenon was still alive, having scored $65m or so by dressing up as a pedophiliac school gym teacher with a Mardi Gras fetish and convincing millions of children around the world that he and his rainbow coalition of mates were the best thing going since Morgan Freeman played Vincent the Vegetable Vampire on the Electric Company.

But I'm not sad that the Loony Lemon Larrikan has burned through $65m faster than Julia Gillard can recycle used tampons and try to repackage them as Wind Chimes for the Deaf... What I'm sad about is that The Wiggles and the ABC were so gutless that four years ago they actually replaced him with someone named Sam Moran, who is said to have been crime matriarch Judy Moran's secret love child.    Back in early 2007, after TOYW (The Original Yellow Wiggle) left the band after 30 years of a four-pack a day cigarette habit and heavy drinking led to his inability to sing or stand on stage, it would have been the 'right thing to do' for then Prime Minister Kevin Rudd to get up and say "okay everybody. You cockbites just elected me Prime Minister now, and the Yellow Wiggle is fucking dead! Now get on with it!"

Most people who are educated and heterosexual would have just chuckled and thought "wow, there's two interesting facts to know" and we would have just went on our merry way. It's funny how history repeats itself.

I remember smoking a huge joint and racking up with Mick Jagger at his home in London in late 1969, and he stood up naked and screamed "Harold Wilson is PM and I drowned Brian Jones after having sex with him!" Nobody flinched. Nobody cared. I asked Mick "but are you gonna replace Mick?" He said "yeah, with another Mick...Mick Taylor..nobody'll fuckin' know the difference... all Mick's are the same don't you know?"

And of course he was right and history has proven that.   But why did the Wiggles lie to millions of children?   In 2007 whenever I saw a young child at the supermarket, my anger would get the best of me. Often I went up to the child (usually if I'd just come out of The Botanical or The Vineyard after 100 drinks) and bend down and scream "the Yellow Wiggle is dead!!! He sleeps on the same boat in Hell as Princess Diana! Your mommy and daddy will be joining him someday soon and you will end up gay, in prison, or as a member of the Labor Party or studio audience on ROVE!"

Because more often than not I was fully dressed and had an unintelligible accent and was fleet of foot, the parents would simply yank the child from my grasp and run, and there would be no police visit.

But it's not always smooth running, as once things did get out of hand with a musical replacement scheme, when the three INXS brothers confided in me that they were going to kill Michael Hutchence and regain the limelight. "How would you like to sit in back and play drums or sax and look like a fucking idiot when someone else is getting all the good drugs and supermodels?" I had to agree, but promised to maintain confidentiality when they promised me they wouldn't replace Hutchence, would retire the band, and would announce his dead at a high profile hotel.   At least they had ethics and a plan. But then the backstabbers became nothing more than a Cold Chisel tribute band when they went on TV to try and find a replacement!   Can you imagine The Beatles going on TV to find someone to replace John Lennon?

Ringo: "yeah, someone with a Kevlar vest and who hates sushi might be good"
Paul: "And we can get him to sing but NOT give him songwriting credits!"
George: "Wait a minute, I hear someone at the door..."

So how are we to get through our day-to-day lives when people who should be dead are out there promoting real estate deals and have "understudies" masquerading as them and deceiving millions of children (and retarded adults) worldwide?

It must be stopped. Both Yellow Wiggles must die.

The plans are being hatched, and will be available on this website soon.

A WEEK OF NICE.... REALLY

2011-03-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

I'd been asked by people posing as friends or readers to try and be nice for a week. "Try" as in someone who usually fails attempting something unimportant. "Nice" as in don't denigrate anyone or anything even if it's just a bit of harmless (sic) humor or satire. A friend of GeinLove (TM) actually bet me that I couldn't go a whole week. I said, "okay, let's place money on it. What's the price of a Uranium 235 rod (slightly used) or a floating church worth these days, really?" So we bet dinner. Not at a sushi restaurant ironically.

It was spawned by a conversation of why I really don't want to help the Japanese out during this glow-in-the-dark relocation program they recently embarked upon.

Why? They are the 2nd largest economy on the planet. I've bought hundreds of Walkmans and TV's and fuckwhoknowswhat from them since I had my own money to spend, and even their cars. I don't have sympathy for GM and Chrysler and all the American car companies losing half their business and laying off 30 zillion people as that is just business. The Japs got their shit together after WW2, smashed the Americans with productivity, didn't worry about why somebody smoking crack all night in Detroit with nine children should get the union to ensure he gets $100,000 a year for making a bad weld on the chassis of my piece of shit Chevrolet. The rest is history.

So while I feel bad about tsunamis (unless they hit Indonesia) and radioactivity (unless it's in Andorra or Rumania), I just can't see 'giving' to a country that sneak attacked us, is economically secure, and just doesn't need a handout. And everybody is so "fuck the Yanks" these days until they need money or help or airplanes that frankly let everybody sort their own shit out.

So now I just don't feel myself and it's only Day Three.

I know, it's disconcerting. Even somewhat egregious to those people out there who know all I ever say is the truth of the matter. But the Kindler Gentler Eddie Gein was contacted by Xenu's personal Wish-Granter, who came to me in a lucid dream--yesterday-- about 3pm (while I was drink driving through a school zone for autistic children). The Wish-Granter was a strange 2-headed demi-God who had heads resembling Charlize Theron and Matt Damon but the body of a squirrel, and who wore emerald green flippers. It had the voice of Morgan Freeman but didn't wear a funny hat or call me
'Mister Wayne'. It talked to me in a dialect that cannot be recorded nor repeated, and that only 8 people in the world know including myself, and said "Ed, if you don't go to the Dark Side, or even the Shadow World of Posts on Facebook or GeinWorld this week, I promise you that the love child of the forbidden tryst between Julia Gillard and Barack Obama will make itself known this November as a transmogrified cross-platform sickle cell anemic mutant being that consumes both it's mother and father, and frees us from the zombie-like gnome worship of the Red and the Black Devils."

I nodded appreciatively in this dream (though I think my car hit a woman and her pram during the pseudo-nocturnal episode) and the Wish-Granter then said "do you have any questions?" Balancing three buttered bagels on my forehead like some intergalactic praying mantis with seal genes, I spun around three times, clicked my heels together, and asked "why are there so many rules for tea towels and loading the dishwasher properly? And why can't women reverse-park even with that fucking beeping going through the car's sound system like a tsunami warning?".

The Wish-Granter nodded knowingly, thoughtfully, and said "because God did too many pills that night he created women..." I was satisfied, and promised the Wish-Granter and told him I would notify all Facebook and Twitter and blog friends and acquaintances. It was at that moment of clarity the sound of screeching tires and the bubbling gagging sound of a child whose lungs were filling with blood that I awoke at the McDonald's drive-through in Elsterwick...with exact change...

A ROYALLY DIFFICULT DECISION---Do I stay or do I go?

2011-02-27T16:07:00.000-08:00


At least they spelled my name right this time...

I was a bit worried when I went to the mail box this morning. Prince Harry had TXT'd me last week from his prepaid account that he got me an invite for his brother's wedding and it had been posted already. I had already plunked down $12,000 for a Virgin Atlantic First Class ticket once he invited me for the buck's night, but at that time there was no guarantee I would get a proper invite to the wedding and I was worried he was fucking with me, like he did when he showed me a Father's Day card he'd sent to James Hewitt while his mom was still alive....before she realized "no seat belts + Egyptian boyfriends + drunk driver/bodyguard" could be a bigger recipe for disaster than she thought.

When Harry didn't meet Sally

My mom must be in this bush somewhere?

But that was then and this is now. Times have changed.   The King's Speech would most assuredly have been called something else altogether back then. Now, even though the Queen is said to have been "moved" after watching the 2D version of the film while wearing her 3D glasses she'd saved from her last cinema visit (the Queen is, of course, used to seeing films on her own, much like the other four people who saw Sanctum in cinemas), it's highly unlikely that HRH would be sitting around in her knickers dropping any pills and watching BLACK SWAN with her mates this week during "Oscar's Watch" at the Palace.   Please God do not ever put that iPHONE video on any site while I'm still alive..... please...

But Harry is a top bloke and begged me to wear my yamulke, and he promised he'd wear his old Halloween SS uniform and bring a Paki taxi driver dressed as Ben Kingsley and we'd complete the "Schindler's List" theme that the buck's night was centered around.    So I went down to Flight Centre and gave them the credit card I got from Mark Madoff's pocket shortly after he hung himself late last year during my trip to New York. (I cannot believe Citbank has not cancelled it yet!) and bought a pair of first class tickets for GeinLove and myself and booked my usual room at The Dorchester.   GeinLove will do a bit of shopping for a few days whilst Charlie Sheen and I (another late invite) dominate the buck's party. Charlie was extremely excited about the theme and was desperately trying to find a Chaim Levine costume to raise the bar even higher...

But I was excited until I found out that pork was on the menu for the wedding--so to speak---in that somebody in the family had invited Julia "Ju-Liar" Gillard to the festivities.   WTF were they thinking? They don't invite a top party princess like Fergie, but yet they invite a star of Disney's new sequel to the Lion King: "The 'Lyin Bitch"?   Go figure? Who made up the guest list? Dodi's dad?

Now as one who grew up with manners... someone who would never, ever, ever tell anyone who to, or who not to invite to a soiree that yours truly would be a guest of, I just don't know if I'll be able to stomach seeing that mongrel woman (quite fitting she is "#1 Top Dog (sic)" of the Western Bulldogs, wouldn't you say?) at the reception after having a few top champers in me and not going up to her and king hitting her in the face with the words "XAT NOBRAC" inked on my right fist.    When she is lifted to her feet and looks in the mirror in the toilet and sees "CARBON TAX" on her repugnant canine face....it's possible she might actually come to her senses and benefit from the experience.   Other than the fact that most TV stations across the world will scream "PM ATTACKED BY XAT NOBRAC!" and figure it's an acronym for some Islamic climate change activists. You can be certain someone in the White House will tell Barack Obama it stands for "Xenophobic Attack Trauma Naturally Occuring Bringing Radical Activity Climactically")

But on the other hand, I don't want to sit in my hotel suite and feel like a coward; nor do I want to pretend to be civil to her at the wedding when she invariably comes up to my bodyguards and asks for a word with me.   I just can't be fucked.

Prince Harry told me not to worry, just to come and have a good time and that his brother and future sister-in-law are really a top couple, and they were dying to meet me.   I suppose I'll just 'do the right thing' here for once.

Why Al Queda needs Google Earth

2011-02-07T00:17:00.000-08:00

GREEN BAY vs. PITTSBURGH? FUCK ME!!!!! It might as well be Hitler vs. Mussolini, Narre Warren, Vic vs. Mt. Druitt, NSW, or Stoke-on-Trent, U.K. vs. any city in Belgium.

Maybe even ALIEN vs. PREDATOR?

Being it was a Monday in Australia (read: Super Bowl Monday) and most of the cognoscenti in Canada were cleverly calling us for the results of the game to sneak in winning bets just under the wire, I sat in the living room with The Boys (TM) and a bottle of medium priced West Australian Chardonnay to watch one of the most iconic and continuously and summarily disappointing championship events in sport.   More often than not it's a team that one is fond of pitted against one that is hateful for a variety of reasons. It's a rare bird indeed when your favorite team battles it's way to the pinnacle of NFL/gridiron/American football if you will and you relive childhood fantasies of Pharaoh-like rulerships and the prospect of calling/faxing/emailing/threatening old enemies and gloating over them like a flood insurance salesman in Toowoomba, Qld.   Drunken midnight rants on the phone like "hey Jezza, we kicked your fucking ass you faggot!" are the stuff of dreams and in Australia, Collingwood supporters would understand this misguided but pleasing experience. It is one St. Kilda fans fantasize about but which has disappeared like tears in rain.

But every so often, God picks two teams from two cities that would have been better off if Al Queda had bypassed the World Trade Center in 2001, and split into two groups going to Wisconsin and Pittsburgh.   Now there are some plausible arguments that the 9/11 flight that went down in Pennsyslvania was destined for Three Rivers Stadium and Pittsburgh, but that is about as reliable as believing that there weren't cameras at the Pentagon , and that one of the 9/11 bomber's passports was found in the rubble of the North Tower.   Actually, the flight was headed to Wall Drug, South Dakota for all practical purposes.

For those of you yet uninformed, Green Bay is a toilet of a town with no purpose on earth in a state that serves no purpose called Wisconsin.   Wisconsin is the Sioux Indian word for "ugly fat bitches". The area produces fucking brutal winters, below-average dairy products and cheese for which it is nationally famous to the uneducated and uninformed, and it's only true attributes are that some roads aren't too far from either Minneapolis or Chicago.   It is both odd and important the cows that line the road have an eerie smile on their face which is neither pleasurable nor particularly disagreeable. And by cows, I mean the bovine type; not the female bipeds that litter the state.   This is a state where cows are regarded as both sacred and holy. That makes it similar to India, and those people in Australia who voted for Julia Gillard....

Pittsburgh is the flip side of the coin. It is a massive city that was huge and important during the industrial revolution, (when slavery was still legal in some areas, speed cameras did not exist, and women were not allowed to vote or drive---the halcyon days of American history) and has not provided one iota of benefit to the United States other than a crime rate twice the national average, and a crack-cocaine per capita average that is one-third of the rest of major cities. What this means is that the people are so fucked up naturally that they can't blame their problems on drugs, which makes me want to take another Xanax just thinking about it.    Their greatest moment in time was when an illegitimate mongrel named Franco Harris claimed a touchdown against the (then) Oakland Raiders in what was unarguably the worst professional call in the history of mankind back in the 1970's.    This, however, sealed Pittsburgh's doom and cemented it's demise as a city and The Curse (c) began about three days after the event.   It is interesting to note that the Patron Saint of Pittsburgh is Michael Vick, a convicted dog fighter from Philadelphia. It is also interesting to note that Pittsburgh's sister cities include, strangely enough; Demetsk, Ukraine and Melbourne, Australia.    It is also notable that 86% of Pittsburgh voters think President Obama is 'capable' and 'effective'.   94% of those (above) also believe Jesus is coming back on Thursday and thalidomide should still be prescribed. 28% are Scientologists. The rest have prostate and bowel issues.

Green Bay, Wisconsin, incidentally---has no sister cities....

Amazingly, the free-to-air broadcast on Network Ten was the 'real feed' from the USA. So the joy of seeing and hearing the game without some local retard 'explaining' the game as in years past on a variety of networks can only be compared with the thrill Charlie Sheen would have if he woke up with a virgin in bed and free cocaine.   Sorry Charlie...       In recent telecasts most broadcasters would find some local sports expert who went to America once and let him call the game. That's like letting Magda Szubanski host "Australia's Next Top Model" or having Stevie Wonder host a Fred Hollows telethon.

By the third quarter of the game The Boys (TM) and I were on our sixth bottle of chardy and reading the Koran, and Felix was certain that both Green Bay and Pittsburgh were mentioned several times as 'infidel cities' that needed to be destroyed. A conundrum ensued! What were these cities? A virtual Sodom and Gomorrah of modern times? Who could know??? So convinced were we that we got on SKYPE and called Hosni Mubarek in Cairo to see what the fuck the REAL truth was as, as Oscar had lost Julian Assange's mobile number on his iPAD which was extremely frustrating. Mubarek's SKYPE signal was breaking up a lot and the background noise made it very difficult to understand, but at the end of the day we learned that Al Queda suffered from a beta version of GOOGLE EARTH in 2001 and totally was off base when they hit the World Trade Center.   Mubarek explained while watching the game:

"We meant to kill the New England Patriots and their fans, the Steelers and Packers and their fans, and the Denver Broncos and their fans.... this would have made Islam wonderful and beautiful to all Americans and our image would be wondrous like Justin Bieber's...not completely wrecked like the infidel Lindsay Lohan... we are so sorry...so sorry".

Well, shit happens. And forgive and forget is the American and Australian way...I think.   So we all got on the phone and called bushfire victims in Kinglake, people with houses on fire in Perth who were still watching the game on TV instead of evacuating, and a couple dozen flood victims in Queensland and they all said the same thing:

"We'd rather burn or drown than barrack (root) for Green Bay or Pittsburgh. The ONLY reason we're watching the game is that it puts our misery in perspective.   At least the fires will eventually go out, the houses can be rebuilt, and the water will dry up. "

Said one reflective home owner who lost fourteen of his children when he took them water skiing during Cyclone Yasi: "I can always have more children.... but I can't tell my family that I support Green Bay or Pittsburgh..."

THESE ARE A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS....

2010-12-28T23:56:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Nuguzu Kwanza, or whateverthefuckyoucelebrate.com. Once again it is that time for the mystical metaphysical byzantine countdown conundrum of 2010. What was really important this past year? What brought us closer together? What, fortunately--separated us even further? This isn't one of those gay-as "Best Films" or "Hot or Not Hot?" columns that makes you want to shake a neighbor's baby to death (if not your own)---it's just a reflection without 3D glasses for a bit of unfiltered crystalline clarity to ensure that you don't forget 2010 until it's 2011 and then who really cares?

2010 was a year full of riddles.

"What is it that Julia Gillard both has... and is?"

"Why are live Chilean miners more interesting than dead Kiwi counterparts?"

"Name one Pakistani you cared about who drowned this year?"

"Should Obama be admired for the 12 stitches he took on the lip playing basketball, or denigrated for being the only black man in America who can't jump or dunk?"

"Why do people care that Australian Touristm spent $4m bringing Oprah here, when it'll turn into $100m in tourism, but...we didn't mind spending $45m for a losing bid for the stupid World Cup which just turns into a bunch of gifts and rorts and new cuff links for the scumbags of FIFA and their molls?

"Why can't we kill Melbourne taxi drivers because of their incompetence without being called racist?"

"Why hasn't Rob Hulls' cancer been lethal when everyone has it on their Christmas wish list?

"Why wasn't John Brumby burnt beyond recognition in the bushfires a few years ago which would have saved us all a lot of work?"

Who gives a flying fuck about The Ashes? Really.... Seeing people crying outside the MCG makes me want to waterboard them under a Sydney-to-Hobart entry and really give them something to cry about...

I'm got a lot of things to get off my chest, and on to some of yours...so don't be shy. Lie down and get ready to take it like Russian nerve gas dropped in a primary school.

So many questions? So few answers.... But on New Year's Eve (Australian PDT) all will be revealed....

Govern yourselves accordingly.

IT'S COOL TO DROOL: Why Autistic Kids Rock!

2010-10-27T18:48:00.000-07:00

Ever since political correctness to the 'nth degree invaded our world, with each passing day a tasty tidbit of tender titillation has traversed from being socially acceptable to a grammatical prisoner of the strongholds of the nattering nabobs of negativism.

You certainly won't hear Tony Abbott scream "Game on, moll!" to Julia Gillard.    Nor would the cognoscenti take it the right way should the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan declare that if the President of the USA were living in Alabama in the '30's he would be referred to as a 'well-hung black man'.

Let's face it, times have changed.   And not necessarily for the better as Mark McInnes found at recently after a few drinks at a David Jones' function.   Three glasses of champagne turned former-and-now-never-will-be publicist Kristy Fraser-Kirk from a "5" into a "10".   That Temporary Ten (c) cost DJ's and McInnest about a million smackers all up which is a little over $300k per glass, making that the most expensive tipple in the world in our books...

So we must now turn our nervous heads to the bastion of conservatism, the BBC, which brings us the most popular TV show on the planet by-and-large, TOP GEAR.    Last week host Jeremy Clarkson, as reported by my fave website, THE AUTISM NEWS, created a huge row with a skit involving Ferraris, simpletons, and 'special needs' descriptions.

And now, on every TV station, gossip site, and newspaper, the world is 'aghast' about a kind-hearted joke about everyone's pet extra-chromosome kids.    What hasn't been unveiled, or revealed in accuracy, is what percentage of Top Gear's audience is so deeply retarded such that they would take offense to a joke about a visual stereotype that makes sense because stereotypes make sense because they are based on visual observations that permeate our conscious.

Let's explore some of the most popular stereotypes and reconfirm that they are, of course, based on fact and historical accuracy.

Asians can't drive.
Wives nag.
All men think about is blowjobs.
Mexican drugs gangs kill people.
Muslims don't assimilate in Western Countries
Blacks have the highest crime rates amongst young males
Unions are corrupt
Labor is corrupt
Liberals and Republicans are corrupt
Charlie Sheen has allergies to medication
Lindsay Lohan has allergies to medication
Jews control the world media
I would do French Prime Minister Sarkozy's wife if I had the chance:

I would not do the aptly-named Barbara Boxer except with a pliers and chain saw:

Julia Gillard will never get Mother of the Year
Robert Farquharson will never get Father of the Year
Canadians cannot survive without hockey and donuts
New Zealand is like Canada but smaller hence the Hobbit population
All Nigerians are thieves
North Korea is the oldest family business in the world
Retards are funny

WTF!    There, I said it!   Retards are funny!   It's just a fact.   From PULP FICTION to THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT MARY there's always a place for a 'tardy.   You can glamorize them and make them into quasi-heroes like in RAIN MAN, or rough 'em up a bit and delete the gene-pool-clingathon and just make them sassy simpletons like Billy Bob Thornton's great turn in SLING BLADE, or have them splash around the tub with the family like the brother in THE BLACK BALLOON---a film that had 'incurable retardation' written all over it and regrettably by it.

Does that makes me mean or insensitive?   Absolutely not!   When I was young, my little brother Ainsley Gein was a combination little brother, best friend, and mode of transport.   Being a naive kid, I didn't know he was not only autistic --but severely retarded.   I just thought he was a load of fun to ride around the house while Great Grandpappy Gein shone strobe lights in his face until he bucked like a bronco! I fought like a weasel with an epileptic gerbil in his jaws to stay on Ainsley's back while waving my cowboy hat, but eventually he got so strong he would throw me against the wall like a wild horse! That's when he got so fucking big we couldn't chain him to the kitchen table and he wouldn't stay put outside the grocery store even with a fresh bowl of water and some beef jerky to keep him docile.    Hell, he drooled so much once that old lady Pickering slipped on a puddle and fell and broke her hip outside the Piggly Wiggly and damn near sued us until Great Grandpappy threatened to show some old Polaroids of her and Barf, her German Shephard, to the local newspaper.

Eventually Ainsley had to go to "a home" and when he went away in that horse-drawn cage with just a box of Junior Mints, a Coke, and a paperback version of "OF MICE AND MEN" (with the last three pages missing) I did shed a tear.    On that day I'll tell you...

So what are we to make of this?   Why can't a little bit of humor, sarcasm and satire make it's way into our televisions and lives without wild accusations of racist or even criminal behavior?   Why do people have to take everything personally?

Retards have a rightful place in society whether they are happy children with funny grins, or have overcome tremendous odds to have achieved amazing superpowers.   Here in Australia in this past century, everyone is familiar with little Stevie Conroy and Robbie Hulls, "Heckel and Jekyl' two retarded twins who were separated at birth, and amazingly survived 28 years without any oxygen to their brains, and now are our most popular retards in our Federal Government and Victorian State government.

"Heckel and Jekyl' moments after their medications...

So as we can see, while it could be a bit tough on parents of children with severe disabilities, the other end of the spectrum is the super cool things you can do with them at home such as decorate them as Christmas trees, and filming them getting stuck in the pet door for YOUTUBE and other sundry entertainments. Other than the occasional "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT???" when you forget to look behind the car before backing out of the garage, a family member with disabilities is easy to feed and care for, so long as they don't watch too many BBC programs or ROVE reruns.

ABLETT: "I'D HAVE PAID $5 million to get the fuck out of Geelong!"

2010-10-01T19:55:00.000-07:00

In happier times when they both wore the same lipstick

EXCLUSIVE TO GEIN WORLD!
4:23am 2 October (Melbourne, Australia)

Former AFL Geelong superstar Gary Ablett, Jr, told a huge crowd outside a Prahran nightclub that his move to the Gold Coast was "....never about the money, ever! I'd have given half my $10m to never have to set foot in Geelong ever again! I even asked the Suns if they would take $2m off the signing bonus if I didn't have to travel there (Geelong) or play them at the MCG, Telstra, or anywhere within a sniffing radius of the place.....you can only live and work in a toilet for so long.....just ask Kenny..."

Ablett Jr, who had been partying for 136 hours straight on the Gold Coast and Chapel Street was also quick to clarify and correct people about his attitude towards life. "Everyone said I'm a traitor. I guess David Hicks was a traitor for not wanting to spend the rest of his life in Guantanamo Bay? At least at Gitmo Hicks had a nice ocean view, and he didn't have to spend his spare time talking to fat whales in spandex hanging out at the food court at Westfield Geelong or Sizzler."

He continued to rant about the family connections to the crowd or admirers, most of whom were on massive quantities of ketamine and other animal tranquilizers, much like his constituency in Highton and Waurn Ponds and other suburbs of note--- "and for those of you who said I was moving to the Gold Coast to avoid my dad, you're fucking nuts! I am not avoiding him nor do I need the wake up call like he got ---or rather SHOULD have got---several years ago at a local hotel..."

Ablett Jr, who lost his hair after a strange malady appeared only days after he was found naked in a car park with former (sic) coach Mark Thompson, has since agreed to change his brand of lipstick to a somewhat paler shade "pastels will work better for me on the Gold Coast, like it does for the Meter Maids"--- and promised he would continue his work with indigenous children. "Learning to speak koori sentences was totally instrumental in my decision to move teams. When I found out that 'Geelong' was the Aboriginal word for "sewage", I realized that $10 million bucks isn't going to go a long way even when you shop at Rivers and Costco like I do....but walking outside and seeing sunshine and not playing for a team named after a rubbish tip could affect my attitude on life..."

Choose "A" above

or "B"'above?

When asked who he tipped for today's Grand Final Part Deux, he didn't mince words.

"It's a simple formula... you take the two 'camshafts' : Cameron Mooney and Cameron Ling...and put them together with an IVF mother and the baby will be ugly, retarded, and only see monochromatic light like Collingwood fans and players... I think Ernest Hemingway said it best when he claimed 'The world is a colourful place, and a far far better place worth fighting for in the unlikely event St. Kilda wins it all...'

The crowd of Geelong and Collingwood faithful immediately looked for a Bayside resident with an iPHONE to look up what an 'Ernest Hemingway' was, as Ablett Jr ducked into a kebab shop to recover in the pre-dawn light.

--------------
Late afternoon postscript... and R.I.P the beloved Saints, who went down harder and faster than:

Julia Gillard on Rob Oakeshott
Diggers in Gallippoli
A Collins submarine
Bob Farquharson's kids in a dam
Princess Diana on Dodi
Mick Malthouse on himself
Andrew Lovett on a comatose woman

Good night...and good luck for next year from all of us who wake up without tattoos.

What happens when God does the laundry....

2010-09-22T06:22:00.000-07:00

It's a dirty world, and somebody's got to clean it up.

When you're God, the Earth must tend to be one big top-loading machine with billions and billions of pieces of laundry to do. Stains here, stains there. Work work work....    What's a mother to do?

Sometimes, when he is not listening to prayers like some cosmic bellhop, he goes 'big picture' and just fills the machine with reckless abandon like he did recently with Pakistan. Sometimes, it's the spin cycle he enjoys when he spun Hurricane Katrina into Louisiana a few years ago.   And those stains still kept coming back....

But occasionally, God loses a sock or washes one item at a time and fucks it up just like we do (or in best case scenarios like our wives and girlfriends... ) Witness his zany antics in Australia just the other day when he decided to wash and spin dry a baby and a kitten.     The baby, which was found in the washing machine, was, sad-to-say, not alive.   Fortunately the kitten, which had gone through a serious gauntlet of hygienic hell, was still alive and is now thriving----sans 3 of his 9 lives (wash, soak, and spin).

What are we to make of this Divine Clean & Shine?   Does God prefer kittens to kids? I certainly do but I'm not God, not even in my own palatial estate.   Is a Maytag a better product than a Westinghouse or even a Smeg?    Does God think it's better to die in Perth, rather than live in Melbourne with fur?    I'm not sure about that either having experienced both of these at one time or another including the fur; although not in entirety.

At GeinWorld, man's search for meaning is well and truly stumped here with this one. And with each dawning day there seems to be a lot of physical experiments and conundrums that seem immeasurable and defy logic.

How long can a partially strangled housewife live in the trunk (boot) of a Mitsubishi Magna when parked at the Shrine of Remembrance ?

What do strange Austrian men have a predilection for locking young girls in basements for years?

Why is it that in Australia the government controls the resale of major sporting events tickets and won't allow them to be scalped in person or on eBAY or what-have-you?    Have you ever examined the common sense behind this?    It's Grand Final time.... (The Aussie equivalent to the Super Bowl for lack of a better term) Some people have tickets and want to sell them. Some people will do anything to buy them. That's what we call "supply and demand" in civilized countries that are not operated by psycopaths or socialists.    What harm happens when some ardent fan wants to pay $1000 for a ticket and has the wherewithal to do so? Is some 'battler' losing out? Why didn't Mister Complainer line up for a ticket and camp out? Why doesn't he sell his shitbox of a car or have his kids work as sex slaves in Footscray? Because somehow, somewhere, for some reason, it was decided that everyone should get to go to the football game. Well, then I guess we better add about a million seats to the MCG then so every nong and fuckwit can go. Oh wait! I forgot! Someone invented a way to get the game into every home awhile ago and called it television! Nope, not good enough for the government, AFL, Cricket Australia and a dozen other entities.

A close friend who was going to be overseas left me with two tickets to the game. Great seats. Section N44 Members Reserve. But I'm getting over a cold, GeinLove isn't available, and I already was going to a close friend's party... so I had elected to sell them at a massively inflated price so I can pay some of the massive bills incurred each week here at The Fortress.   I was forced to spend hours designed an eBAY ad that was so evasively bizarre and noncommittal and vague so the businessman who purchased them this morning will not have his tickets confiscated by the Ticket Nazi's at the game on Saturday.

In this faux world of entitlements we are further disintegrating any chance of excellence by making such a level playing field (sic) that there is no 'special' zone for people who have earned it or are willing to sacrifice in order to achieve a goal. Buying an expensive ticket to a sports finals is something you do when you are willing to sacrifice or have sacrificed something somewhere else in time. EVERYONE CAN WATCH IT ON TV! NOT EVERYONE CAN GO TO THE GAME! HOW MOTHERFUCKING HARD IS THAT! AND IF THEY ARE RETARDED, CRIPPLED, INSANE, WITHOUT FOXTEL, IN AN IRON LUNG, OR A LABOR VOTER THAN THEY CAN BE WHEELED INTO A HARVEY NORMAN SHOWROOM AND WATCH IT ON A 3-D LCD FUCKING DEMO SCREEN WHILE SOME COKED UP ISRAELI SALESMAN OPERATES THE REMOTE FOR THEM.

This 'everything for everyone equal' wish does not work. There are Rules of the Universe and they must be obeyed or God will do his laundry thing on you! :

Not every groom can afford a big diamond ring for his fiancee. Not every girl can have a hot body and heaps of plastic surgery. Lebanese people should never have guns or work the doors at nightclubs after dark. We should avoid Asian Formula One drivers. When you FORCE people to vote you get the pre-Darwin seminal spill that we now have for a government.    A hook turn is not a rule but damn good advice.    Don't have women assemble the mirror for the Hubble Telescope. For that matter don't let a female teacher with little experience press any buttons on a Space Shuttle during launch. A despondent father of three should not take his car full of children into a dam on Father's Day.   Do not let Indians put on a major sporting event and tell you it is clean, safe, or has any semblance of organization.   People who can't run a curry shop should not organize 300,000 people for anything, let alone 300. Never tell the Federal Police your son is smuggling heroin and expect them to be helpful. Cats are smarter than dogs.   Cat people are smarter than dog people....but not necessarily any better looking.    There is no set day when gays 'come out'---it can happen anyday but more often than not Monday.    Be careful of Russians, even if your great-grandpappy Gein was one.   Greeks are worse but make good grocers.    Have lots of Italian friends.   Don't trust people who claim they won't turn on a TV on Saturday afternoon but own football teams and shopping centers.   Send 100,000 Egyptian passports to Marysville in case of bushfires again this year.   Any passport that survives the 9/11 collapse has got to be one fucking good fire retardant.   Do not buy any security cameras similar to the ones used at the Pentagon on 9/11.   Qantas will crash one day.   Global warming will be something that nobody reading this column will ever experience.   Speed cameras won't save one fucking life. It is highly unlikely Oprah Winfrey will be given any COON cheese during her Australian visit.

God is watching. He IS one of us. He's getting ready to do the laundry at your house.   How do you feel about it?

Even INCEPTION couldn't go down this many levels....

2010-08-18T22:39:00.000-07:00

Two days. Forty-eight hours. That's it. Then Australians go to the polls. Yes, people who didn't finish third grade, can't speak a word of fucking English, are in prison or should be, have 19 kids and can't figure out why they have no money....they all vote.   And in actuality that's probably okay. What's wrong is that they are compelled to vote. It's the law. One of the dumbest fucking laws ever which forces people who wouldn't know their asshole from a hole in the wall (yessir...there IS a difference) to 'think' for once.   That's like asking a centipede to drive a car "just once in awhile"... See how that goes...

So it gets down to a couple of interesting choices---which dog do you want to take home and adopt?   A cunning backstabbing Welsh woman who lives in a caravan and has sex on her own?   A devout Catholic who doesn't know that a faster broadband system will benefit the Country?   Or a relatively benign gay man who lives in a forest who is intelligent and generous but attracts psycho eco-warriors who would put a carbon tax on blowjobs if they thought it would save a goat in Zimbabwe.   Speaking of goats, Princess Mary is in the forest again and I was excited to hear that in a random news poll aired on Channel Nine, that Tasmanians "can now really look up to Princess Mary" now that she's a royal...

Wasn't Thalidomide withdrawn from the market or am I dreaming a fourth level Inception program?

Here at GeinWorld we don't want to take sides, but we would like to get folks to remember a few things down here down under...   Labor brought us not only some of the worst politicians in the world....it gave us some of the worst human beings in the world, full stop.

Bob Hawke, Paul Keating, Kevin Rudd.   None of these people would have rated over a gerbil in "things to save in Marysville during the bushfires" last year but yet Labor wants us to remember a bit of history?   That's like Hitler running on his record with synagogues. In fact I wish all three had been in the bushfires but I'm saving those key wishes for other needs and wants. It's not misogynistic of me, either. I don't care that Julia Gillard is a woman. Nothing wrong there.   And I don't care that she doesn't want to share with the Australian public what happened the night she stabbed Kevin Rudd in the back, pulled his pants down, and shoved a Western Bulldogs ben-wa scarf in his ass and yanked it out while she rode him bareback yodelling "Yippe Ki Yay Motherfucker!" while wife Therese ate an entire box of Krispy Kreme donuts and watched from the four poster bed, chortling and snorfing herself damn near apoplexic.    Julia is right...it's not our business what went on behind closed doors.   Nuclear codes, maps of minefields in Afghanistan, naked photos of Julia and Kevin are none of our business.

And speaking of closed doors. Tony Abbott would no doubt have some reasonably smart folks around him.   Isn't there just one sad little man, or woman, or Penny Wong lookalike, that could give him a bit of an inside move about this 'national broadband network'? "Hey Mister Abbott...here's how it works in non-technical jargon... If we have a massively fast broadband network, we can download porn exponentially faster, so the on-screen girls don't pixelate all over the place, which will lead to quicker wanking, so that guys can get back to work and not only be more productive but spend more time with their wives and procreate more which means more Catholics and a higher GNP and in a nutshell a better Australia."   He'd get that, wouldn't he?   And so we've have to withdraw assistance to junkies and indigenous people and at-risk children but who really gives a fuck so long as The Vicar of Dibly and The Farmer Wants a Wife aren't at risk from being excised from Australian television?

And the Greens...(sigh). I think Bob Brown is probably a pretty smart guy and certainly a man of conviction. I loved when he gave his back to George Bush during the Australian visit some years ago---I loved that---even though it was disrespectful it was cool. But when I think the Greens, I think of people wearing those fucking kanga hats and Jamaican flag fucks having a soy latte at Mario's and discussing the socio-geopolitical implications of TEN CANOES and using the right kind of timber to build their fucking teepees.    They get into a kombi van that even Joanne Lees wouldn't have crawled into handcuffed and naked and put on the John Butler Trio and I want to kill them like a bikie on holiday at Sydney airport.   What is it with the Greens that attracts such fuckwits?   These are people who own nothing, pay no taxes, and couldn't care less that our taxes will triple.   The Earth? It's overrated.. I've been better places so I really can't be fussed.   You look after it.

God help us one and all Tiny Tim.

You read that one right....

The Not-So-Great Red Centre

2010-07-18T20:56:00.000-07:00

Sitting here on the pool deck of the Peninsula Hotel in Chicago, sitting a capihrina and oggling the lovely ladies sharing the post-Fourth of July holiday in America...it's time to reflect on the recently announced news back in Australia---the Southern Hemispherical home of GEIN WORLD (TM)

The good news is that former PM Kevin Rudd, and Rove McManus have left Australia. The bad news is that they are currently in the USA. The worse news is that they inevitably will return to Oz. But the penultimate bad news is that there is an impending election and faux Prime Minister Julia Gillard is leading the polls.

Here is a candidate who went into Blockbuster Video, bought ten copies of THE FORTY YEAR OLD VIRGIN, and sent them to the Attorney General complaining that "...they are selling a documentary about me and I don't like it!" The fact that she is turning 50 this September obviously escaped her. This a candidate who is so bogan in mannerisms and demeanor and (lack of) articulation that she will present the same impression that former President Jimmy Fucking Carter did for the USA if he was in drag. A backwoods, back-stabbing self-righteous duplicitous socialist who is single, (no problem there!) and doesn't want kids (no problem there!) but has the audacity to say she knows about families and what's best for them. Seeing photos of Julia Gillard holding and kissing babies and talking excitedly about 'family needs' is like seeing a photo of Hitler holding a Torah and getting excited about Hanukkah.
The fact is that both Gillard and Carter were Librans hasn't escaped our crack Astrologer at GeinWorld, either.

Love and peace, and love and peace and happiness and everyone is equal and everyone deserves a change. Fuck that! Life is tough, the strong survive, and the strong and prosperous SHOULD BE SUPPORTED SO THEY ARE ABLE TO HELP those that might need assistance in ways where the fucking government could not possible help no matter what they legislate or spend. Don't disable and tax the wealthy and successful to death! What the fuck is personal achievement and success about?

On the other hand, I'm really trying to like Tony Abbott but his position on abortion bothers me. I love living in Australia most times, but in a country where 19% of the population should have been aborted at birth (or soon after), an anti-abortion stance bothers me. This compares to only 8% of North America but it's economy of scale.

But it gets back to the world stage. Gillard is an embarrassment. A fine deputy. Not a leader. Abbott at least looks like he finished Grammar School. And perception is everything. We shouldn't have the tea lady representing us. In the case of the UK (Thatcher) and Germany (Merkel), they have a sense of style and grace and leadership.

We just relieved ourselves of a whale as first lady (Therese Rein). We don't need a goose as Prime Minister.

The Best Aussie Film of the Decade

2010-07-07T23:57:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know...   "why isn't he sledging/slagging some local film like usual?"   Nope, that's not me. While (whilst) dog rubbish like THE BLACK BALLOON, WOG BOY 2, BEAUTIFUL KATE and other films of non-note might get up GeinWorld's craw....they do obviously please certain people, such as retards, gay Greeks unemployed Italians, and other miscreants and I'm happy for them as at GeinWorld we want ALL FILMS TO SUCCEED whether they are shit or not. Really? REALLY!   Because anyone that can please an audience no matter how fucked up that audience is, is a master and deserves credit.   From the heart...

But...we saw a film today that is a masterpiece full stop.    ANIMAL KINGDOM

Not only are we going out on a limb here and saying this is one of the best films of the year, but this is one of the 20 best Australian films of all time...   Yes, this is the kind of lark that Jon Landau went on when he said "the future of rock and roll was Bruce Springsteen" which was a total wank of a statement but somewhat prescient at the time.   ANIMAL KINGDOM has what no other Australian film has had since I can remember... A killer script (developed in spite of the Aurora workshop rather than because of it), beautiful cinematography, a gripping and hypnotic score, brilliant performances and obviously it comes back to fantastic direction as well.

Kevin Rudd Admits To Sabotaging Missing Miner's Airplane in Congo!

2010-06-21T04:38:00.000-07:00

In what was hardly a surprise to anyone, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd admitted to calling ASIO and the AFP and bribing them with $10 and a chiko roll to 'keep fucking quiet' after he sucked the fuel out of the plane full of wealthy mining magnates which crashed in the Congo yesterday. "I taught those cunts a lesson about taxes they'll never forget" said the PM, who is so used to having dicks in his mouth that sucking a bit of fuel through a hose was like playing tiddlywinks.

Other news: ANIMAL KINGDOM?   Definitely best Aussie film of the decade. No comparison. Nothing even close.   And one of the best films of the year full stop.   Not that Underbelly crap.   Not comedies for Greek or Italian out-of-work grocers and pimps (not that there isn't a market for that and GeinWorld honours all films that find a market...) Producer Liz Watts has the touch of gold (other than one night on rohypnol when she got involved with PRIME MOVER which was one of the nine worst ideas for a film since 1931)     Everything she has done other than that hiccup is a stunner and she is far and away one of the top producers in Oz.   Michod's (no we're not putting that stupid weird fucking punctuation accent mark on his name we're not in Marseille or Bosnia or wherever the fuck his dad is from) film is a stunner.   Well-written (in spite of rather than because of the Aurora Workshop which is a factory for rubbish), well-directed, killer soundtrack, great acting, and you can't find any major fault with it other than The Movie Show should have given it 10 stars instead of whatever they gave it.

What else? The World Fucking Cup.... Fuck Soccer.   I wouldn't get up at 4am to watch TV unless it was to watch Victorian Premiere John Brumby set himself on fire, so why the fuck would anyone at GeinWorld traipse down the hall of the 33 bedroom manse and find the HD 3-D remote and watch Nazis and Cannibals pound the Socceroos?    Watching the LA Lakers at 11am on Friday trounce the Boston Celtics was not only civilized, but at a hour when homo sapiens can function.

And speaking of cannibals, what really is the problem with Mal Brown and Dipper?    Why can't you make a joke amongst friends, no matter how controversial or ostensibly bad-mannered, and just have a joke?     Why does everyone have to get so fucking precious about things?   I got a phone call from Nelson Mandela this morning (at 4am naturally) and he was even upset about it. I could barely hear him with all the vuvuzuelas blaring in the background. Nelson shared in confidence that "he would rather all his children and grandchildren were run over by drunks and he was back in Robben Island for another 20 years than have to deal with those horn-blowing drunk Zulu motherfuckers in South Africa ever again".   In a country that has only gang-rape, uncut diamonds, and fucking lions to brag about, Robben Island was looking pretty good. Especially if you remember what his child-stomping bitch of a wife looked like.    And no one's gonna act the same when the lion is in the room, on that day I'll tell you.

DO YOU HAVE ANY PORNOGRAPHY WITH YOU, SIR?

2010-05-31T23:44:00.000-07:00

"Well, I have a newspaper with Kevin Rudd's photo on the front page, so I guess I have a picture of a big fat ugly cunt----is that illegal?"

Try to visualize stepping off a plane from a harrowing business trip and subsequent 14 hour flight, reeling from lack of sleep and addled with sleeping pills and airplane booze.   You slide your E-PASSPORT ticket into the slot, and after the 'flash' reach down to grab your carry-on bags only to find the gates have shut before you could possibly grab your shit and make your way out. How quintessentially Australian. So you sidle on up to the cheery chap at Customs, show him your passport, smile, say "how are you tonight?" to which he mutters something sounded like "niggazbestealingtelevisionssowassupmuthafucka" and then clearly, with sudden alertness like a truck driver fresh off his last hit of meth on the pipe, looks me in the eyes and says "do you have any pornography with you, sir?"

I am as serious as cancer. Not the kind of cancer Delta Goodrem got which is like the flu, but the Jim Steynes kind of cancer where you look at any kind of hat on a rack and think "jeez, that might look good on me?"

So being the kind of guy that downloads his porn at home at GeinWorld (TM) in the privacy of his own home,   I was shocked and dismayed at the query, and thus had to have the contents of my inflight copy of THE AGE cleared---since if there was every anything that should not be in the Country, it's Kevin Rudd.    I'd rather we had plague, AIDS, Avian Bird Flu, Hantavirus, Maori biker gangs, most of Western Sydney, and Kleblahr instead of Kevin Rudd's unstatuesque viral load plodding around the highways and byways of this great nation.   But we do, and we already have, so we're stuck.

It was not an easy passage past the gatekeeper but he was either confused or amused (like the look Vince Colosimo has on every episode of TV he hosts...) and let me in without further delay.

But I'm still seething. What an invasion of privacy?   Each day is marked here with some new law, some new insanity, some new suppression or invasion of the freedoms that made and still make this Country great.   Not that we ever had a bill of rights like the USA but that has virtually disappeared so what could was it anyway? I think I should probably have answered "do photos of your mom naked with Idi Amin count as pornography?" but I was too tired to be that snappy...

I'm resting now just in case.

DOES YOUR ASS HURT THIS MORNING?

2010-05-19T01:59:00.000-07:00

Is it sore? Does it feel like you've taken a major ass-raping while you were asleep? No wonder....you've just been ass-raped in the privacy of your own home from Prime Minister Kevin Rudd and his minions of mediocrity and their miasma of misery. The new Federal Budget in Australia is to business people and educated workers what kristallnacht was to the Jews of Germany in 1934. The only difference is that Hitler had some good ideas like the Volkswagen and the autobahn and Kevin Rudd wouldn't know a good idea if it burped out of one of his wife's many stomachs.

Like Hitler, Rudd feels that nationalizing certain industries is "for the good of all". Last week, double taxing the mining industry with a big smack is basically the government attempting to take over the minerals business---mind you; the one business that has performed admirably the last several years. Saying that the minerals belong to all Australians is like saying beer and cigarettes and Coca Cola belong to everyone. Mining companies invest zillions in taking weird fucking rocks and shit out of the ground and selling it to Chinese motherfuckers who in turn turn it into something useful and sell it back to us. This is a good thing, because for the previous 5000 years the folks walking around on top of those rocks and minerals couldn't tell you who their parents were or why Peter Garrett should have been sucking asbestos dicks for the next Dreamtime for leaving Midnight Oil and pretending he knows fuckall about anything else other than killer rock and roll.

But don't jump to conclusions....

The Gein Family doesn't own shares in any mining companies. In fact, ever since Great-Great-Grandpappy Gein jumped out of a skyscraper in the big crash of 1929 and landed on a Mexican who broke his fall and saved his life, (hence the 'Jesus Saves' moniker) the Gein Family has stayed clear of big business. The Geins disliked the Bush Dynasty and their Enron lackies in the USA, but recognize that without business investment and proper capital to fund it there just isn’t going to be an economy.

Obama doesn’t realize this as he’s too busy giving away every penny to people who can’t spell job let alone hold one. Rudd is too busy taxing everyone he can think of to fund the silly stupid myth that every bogan family with four jobs and eight children should have a ‘dream home’ and drive us housing costs higher than crack prices at Lindsay Lohan’s homecoming party. Why does everyone have to own a home? Why can’t they rent and use their down payment for things like maybe feeding their brood and putting petrol in the car? Then when the wife gets sick from having sex with her boss at work who has been HIV positive since Mardi Gras in ’97 and her hubby gets beaten over the head with a fire extinguisher by Dean Mighell at an EWU ‘get together’ and neither of them can work and have medical bills that rival Michael J. Fox…they don’t have to worry about losing their home? Simple math?

Speaking of simple math, it’s quite entertaining to me that Greece, the country that gave us arithmetic, can’t figure out a way to make their economy work? Really, it’s like the Irish and their silly potato famine? Why didn’t the nongs just eat something else like take out instead? But then again, looking for Irish contributions to the 20^th and 21^st centuries is like looking for Aboriginals in the Sydney to Hobart race. Why should everyone bail out the Greeks? Why not take 50% of whatever WOG BOY 2 grosses and just send it to them? Conversely, why not rob every fruit and vegetable shop the night WB2 opens in Australia since the boss will be at the movies?

At Gein World ™ , we’re just looking for simple solutions to world problems. We’ve been away for awhile, and now we’re well-rested and ready to tackle tomorrow’s problems today, using yesterday’s tools.

THIS PHOTO IS NOT SUPPRESSED!

2010-03-26T19:12:00.000-07:00

In Australia, like the United States.... (countries that were ostensibly built on Democracy and Free Speech)... these last bastions of free speech are rapidly toppling faster than when Sneaker of the House Nancy Pelosi went down on President Barack Obama in order to lie, steal, and hoodwink their way into a "health care" package that will fuck the country harder than a cast member of "Hey Dad" during afternoon tea.

A good friend of mine (pictured) who I am legally not allowed to name, was last year spread-eagled across the pages of Melbourne newspapers by the Australian Federal Police and Department of Public Prosecution for having a gallery exhibit that featured well-known members of the Melbourne underworld (The Underbelly Archives) and allegedly featuring an image of a person that they just didn't want to have known to the world for whatever reasons they deemed important. The code word for that in Victoria is "suppressed".   A few days ago those charges were dismissed in a closed court we can't mention, by a judge we can't mention, regarding a person we can't mention, and although he was awarded costs---there was no apology or ability to speak out about how the Victorian government had fucked him over for a year and cost him far more than his attorney's fees.

Let it be known by all here that the Gein Family support the police and in fact thinks the police should have better guns and tasers and all kinds of cool shit to totally fuck up the bogan scumbuckets who create havoc in Melbourne at public events and in the CBD and just in general.   We love the police and it used to be that they were feared and respected in Victoria but now it's the reverse, regrettably. And violent criminals don't go to jail here, they just claim that they had a bad childhood, were raised by gypsies, were alleged gay pedophiles who live at 13 / 2-16 Towns Rd, Rose Bay North NSW 2029, or cry that their dad was part of the borrowed generation...if they even knew their father. But that's another column altogether...

So this isn't an 'anti-police' column, rather---it's a 'free speech' column that is pro law-and-order.   The fact that it took three months for the AFP to find my friend even though his address is on every piece of stationary, letterhead, email and company folder he's involved with in Australian film obviously wasn't a clue to the gentleman trying to track him down in his invisible Bat Cave.    One episode of CSI would have been maybe enough to make them think "hmmmm.....this address....I wonder if it's where he lives???"   And these are people who are supposed to be looking after our borders and for serious criminals and terrorists?

Probably.

But regardless of the fact, and allowing for the fact that people do make mistakes, it's good to see that the criminal justice system did prevail, and our good friend is free to walk the streets again, even if he can't discuss an iota of what went on in the dark chambers of Courtroom 20 on the 5th floor of the courthouse. One of the things that made this victory possible was the almost Yoda-esque sanctioned and constitutional (though we regrettably lack one) integrative microscope intensive
legal work of Francis "Frank the Kingpin" Cahill and his team of mercenaries that make a UN trip to Rhodesia seem like a holiday on Hayman Island.

Picking apart the Crown's case like a coroner dissecting a floater in the Yarra, Hambros and Cahill attorneys reigned supreme in the war of wits, bits, and twits.

And 'suppression' can be a good thing. If someone put a pillow on Minister Stephen Conroy's face and sat on it and suppressed his breathing for about ten minutes one can be certain that the worm of 'free speech' would climb rapidly in Australia and we'd all be a lot better off.    The problem is that whoever did that would probably be charged with murder, when in fact they should be given a Medal of Honour for Clean Up Australia Day. But it's only an opinion and a prayer and some wishes come true and some don't. That's the cool thing about praying. God hears everything. EVERYTHING! But he's so fucking busy with stupid prayers he's forced to sift through like a bazillion Junk Emails every day.

Stuff like "oh God please save my baby!" from women who already have nine children and are still popping them out like ping pong balls on Patpong Road in Bangkok.   What's the point? You've still got plenty of chilren. Give them some love, bitch!

Or "Please God please help the children still starving in the Sudan?"   Hey, there hasn't been food in the fucking desert since the beginning of recorded time and if people are still hanging out there 5,000 years later waiting for shit to grow in sand, they deserve to die out of stupidity!   Move! Move! Move! Move to where the food is!   (Thanks, Sam)

Or "dear God please let me make it through this traffic light before it goes red so I can get to KFC before they close tonight and not get done for drunk driving!". Wow, whoops! Sorry. :( That was one of my prayers the other night driving a little to close (read: over) to the limit down Nepean Highway. Thanks God! and Trapster!

But it's okay to talk about some things that could be considered 'good prayers'.   I pray that Barack Obama's plane flies into Kevin Rudd's house when he arrives here later this year. I pray that the pilot is Muslim so that we can go into a wild conspiracy theory that it was a jihad attack on Canberra and that Obama is a secret jihad mole.

I pray that the Lakers and Raiders have good seasons in the US, and St. Kilda here at home can win it all, since they now have two (2) alleged rapists on board with Milne and Lovett.   If they can get Robert Hughes over from Singapore to coach it'd be a brilliant trifecta.   Then people could honestly say "I'm going to see those fucking Saints play" and mean it...

I pray that all the Canadian mongrels that demonstrated against Ann Coulter (a columnist that I do not so much agree with as support her right to say whatever she wants to see and with great enthusiasm, entertainment, and aplomb) have amphetamine-crazed Eskimos break into their homes and rape them and rob and beat them within an inch of their lives so they can't even get into a wheelchair to protest their own innocence.

I pray that people will wake up and see that global warming enthusiasts are also the folks that were worried about Y2K and alien attacks and Bird Flu epidemics wiping out the world.   They are also the people that conversely didn't wonder what happened to the 'plane' that hit the Pentagon on 9/11?

God is listening, but he's far too fucking busy working on earthquakes in places like Haiti, Chile, and Pakistan.   He's flooding out low-lying areas of Indonesia and he's coming to a fault near you some day soon.   He hates the poor, he hates mobile homes, and he isn't too fond of mud huts or grass dwellings, have you noticed?

Govern yourselves accordingly.

Should Barbara Streisand be forced to do Bukkake films?

2010-03-08T13:37:00.000-08:00

I'm not advocating it, it's just something that occurred to me last night after 5 bottles of good wine, 2 Ambient sleeping pills and a Twix bar.    The Academy Awards presentation is always the A #1 highlight on the Gein TV calendar each year.   Having had the blessing to attend a Golden Globe night (1990) but never the Holy Grail of an Oscar prez or Oscar party....it's just the thing that galvanizes hope and prayer for people in the industry.   Anyone who says it's not important is either dead, stupid, the pedophilic secretary of the Electrical Workers Union in Australia, or a very unattractive transgender woman (or Barack Obama or Kevin Rudd, which could really be the same person since they've never been seen together like that groovy episode in Season Two of the original Star Trek series).

This year because Australia was now able to get a live feed on several stations including NINE and MOVIE EXTRA on Foxtel, it was convenient to sit at home naked and eat Coffin Bay oysters and watch the awards solo a la naturale...    Last year it was as an honoured guest at The Nova Cinema where I took a $700 door prize and haven't heard from the owner since....   That's okay.. Her son is my honoured counsel. If you are a US reader, the NOVA is a groovy cinema in a mafia downmarket part of town that is too Italian and too left-wing to live in but shows all the films you want to see and doesn't have Transformers 2 in all 18 cinemas. Not that I didn't go to Transformers 2... but if Megan Fox's ass was in 3D it might have saved the film.    Would you ever have sex with anything named Shia LaBeouf?   For fucks sake!???

So every film that I loved this year was up, and the ingredients in the supercakes were up and not everyone who deserved it (in my humble opinion) came away with a trophy but more importantly none of the most undeserving pieces of fecal matter (read: NINE) came away with anything which was good. It's always just as satisfying to see someone you hate lose their home and family as seeing someone you love win a father-son golf tournament.   Really...

THE HURT LOCKER wasn't the best film of the year in my opinion, but close. I thought UP IN THE AIR was... but I understand the voting and politics. And when I see it (HURT LOCKER) again this week maybe I'll think twice and say 'yep it was'. I loved it and Kate Bigelow is a God and I'm happy for her (and I'm gonna let her finish). Every film she's done is memorable. I liked AVATAR and it was spectacle but let's be honest, the Academy said "hey Jim, take the $2 billion fucking dollars but the statue goes to the ex, okay?"

But three things bugged me and as the person I am, sharing and caring take precedence so here we go:

Who the fuck decided to have James "How's the chemo going?" Taylor sit there and strum a 2nd rate song during the most moving and enduring part of the ceremony---the In Memorium.   That, for novices, is where we honour the passing of movie greats.   It's not the Wishfulness In Memorium, where we HOPE for people to die like Kevin Rudd, Stephen Conroy, Barbara Boxer, Austen Tayshus, all Hamas members, the rest of the Kennedy family, Nancy Pelosi, Michael Buble, etc etc et al.

The music was about as moving as my colon after 5 Vicodins and on top of it they forgot Farrah Fawcett.   How the fuck could you forget Farrah?    They gave John Hughes a 10 minute tribute (yep, he was great no problem but he should have been in the Main Event) but barely mentioned the greatest screenwriter in history, Horton Foote.   There is no question TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD is the greatest screen adaptation of all time but it's a personal issue, it's subjective, it's emotional here at GeinWorld because Sidney Poitier's mother used to sleep wtih Great Great Grandpappy Gein and video it for YouTube back in the day.

And some of our local yokels here are angry that Sam Worthington was chewing gum and wearing $29 shoes at The Oscars. Well, really...who the fuck cares? He looked cool, and looking cool is the thing. At least he shaved his fucking legs which is more than Mo'nique or Herbal Forest or whatever her name is took the time to do. I don't care how good or bad Mo'nique is as an actress. PRECIOUS (based on a fucked up title of a book about losers no one read) might be a good film but it's the only one of the major categories I haven't illegally downloaded just yet because it just got here (at THE NOVA, see above!) . She might be awesome, she might be the next Nicole Kidman (doubtful though because her face moves), but for fuck's sake shave those fucking legs, bitch!    Even women from Narre Warren and Punchbowl and Indio shave their legs. Even Christopher Reeve had someone to shave his legs (well, not lately but at one point) and it's disgusting seeing Beaver Extensions dribbling down the stalks like Avatar friendly Pandoran-growth crawling across the red carpet on my 50" mega-plasma DVD/Blu Ray, 3-D death star screen.

But the real thing, is after a 'night of nights', Barbara (I might be a great singer but I have no fucking talent for film and I am the most mongoloid Jewish bitch of all time and being Jewish it makes ME anti-Semetic) Streisand blew a tampon (circa 1967 tampon, BTW) out and gushed over "a WOMAN director" making history. FUCK THIS!   It's not about whether you're black, white, Jewish, Muslim, male, female, or from Nebraska.   It's...about...the...fucking...movie !       So why make things so divisive and fucked up?    It almost ruined the night for me.   I'm glad Kathryn Bigelow won. But who cares other than the movie was fantastic?   Babs does.   Because she's about as relevant as AIDS at Carson Kressley's Christmas party. Hamas and Al Queda watch YENTL over and over in their caves just to reassure themselves that there is still hope.

The third thing that drove me mental is when the producers cut away from Fisher Stevens when he held up a sign for THE COVE which won Best Doco.   So over the years it's okay to make impassioned speeches for people who start wars, blow up innocent civilians, cut off the arms of children and steal all the food sent to their countries for 'famine' and every other fucking cause but it's NOT okay to support dolphins. Hmmm.. When's the last time a dolphin blew himself up on a bus in Jerusalem or Baghdad?   It's been at least.....years!

I have to lay down now.   I'm calling Kate Bigelow to requisition the IED's and bombs they used in HURT LOCKER to drop them on the set of SURVIVOR---HEROES AND VILLAINS.   Please....if there is a God, and I know there is... may he give cancer, AIDS, and MS to anyone involved in making that show, or watching that show, or promoting that show including but not limited to their families, friends, and associates.   Why not do: SURVIVOR AUSCHWITZ?    See how they really go with a few challenges?   I'm game.

Please...........

IT'S TIME WE TALKED ABOUT KILLING KEVIN

2010-03-01T04:25:00.000-08:00

Well, maybe I got the title of the book a bit wrong but that's what happens when you wish really hard for things.   I was lying in bed late last night checking the new listings on YOUPORN, when I came across (not literally, no...) the site "Australian Amateurs Gang Bang" fest.   I thought by amateurs it meant they weren't real porn stars.   But it seems amateurs means "Australian broadcasting executives". I should have known better.

So I naturally and unknowingly clicked on it and fast-forwarded to the part where Kerry Stokes, Rupert Murdock, and the entire SEVEN, NINE and TEN finance crew is gang banging Stephen Conroy and giving him a 'reach around' at the same time while Kevin Rudd sits naked in his chair and laughs. I must say it was pretty watchable; unlike most of the local content they attempt to produce and call drama with the exception of maybe the first UNDERBELLY series which was surprisingly good.    Since the Labor Party and specifically Kevin Rudd and Steve "Show Me and Blow Me" Conroy have been fisting us since they got into power, it's kind enough of them to at least record the session for a free download.   Yep, it managed to get through Steve's internet filter and right into my bedroom...

And while we're on the subject of Kevin's Club of Imbeciles...why is he so upset that a few Aussie tourists had their passports stolen by Mossad (maybe...) and used in killing some fucking terrorist Hamas piece of rubbish?   Really, these people should have been elated!   "Oh gosh, someone used identity theft to kill one of the top terrorists in the world who had been responsible for the murder of at least hundreds of innocent civilians" "Oh for shame!"   I wish someone would use identity theft and assume the personality of a half-Aboriginal/half Asian lesbian retarded handicapped Transformer(c) and take out Prime Minister Rudd. .   The headlines would be biblical, to see the least....

TARDY GIMPY BUTCH INDIGINASIAN SLAUGHTERS OPTIMUS PRIME MINISTER!

But I'm not for assassination for the most part. I'm for slow torture. I would like the network moguls (who all took a load from Stephen Conroy while they were in Kerry Stokes hot tub watching Jody Gordon's Bikie Movie and looking for his son peeking through the window) to have to sit in a prison cell, or any motel in Canberra other than the Park Hyatt (what the fuck is a glorious hotel like the Park Hyatt doing in a toilet like Canberra has anyone bothered to ever ask????) and watch an endless loop of ROVE, IDOL, BIG BROTHER, THE LOGIES, THE BROWNLOWS, THE ALAN BORDER NIGHT OF MENACE, AUSTRALIAN TOP GEAR, RUSH, YOUNG LIONS and 20 TO ONE for about a week until they shit twice and die.   And I'm only asking for a week... They've been feeding us this rubbish since back when it was okay to drink drive anywhere in Australia or America, have sex with a child in Alabama, organize lynch mobs in the USA without angering a president, and kill and eat your baby in the Northern Territory and parts of Gippsland, Victoria.   How times have changed!

And you can't please anyone these days. Just because the most unqualified semi-aborted fetus to get elected in history throws a quarter billion $ towards the Flea For Air networks, why not get in bed with FOXTEL to ensure that no one misses an critical rugby match featuring Lake Disappointment vs Dunedin elusively played in Western Sydney for the Pack Rapists "Free Bilal Skaf" Benefit.    Kind of a "Big Day Out" for aspiring crims. A definite Pay Per View opportunity if ever there was one.

Anyway, really---what's the point?   Why am I so angry? I think it's because the Canadians were so angry anytime the USA won a medal at the Olympics. I can't blame them though. They have some nice mountains and lakes and animals and stuff, but the only difference between Canada and Haiti from an economic standpoint is Canada produces doughnuts and place ice hockey, which chubby drunk Americans enjoy. They (Canadians) are mostly descended from wolves and they recently killed an Aussie nuclear scientist who was there for no apparent reason..... If you were Lachlan Cranswick and had half a brain (which is probable if you're a fucking nuclear scientist!) why the fuck would you go to Canada, where electricity is still thought of as a novel idea? He had it coming whatever "it" was or is... It's really too bad that Haiti got hit by the earthquake and not Vancouver, right during the opening or closing Olympic ceremonies.   Now that would be worth buying the exclusive Foxtel Olympic package to watch, despite the ads coming with that smarmy smiling little weasel Michael Buble's ass-eating grin all over the place.   I'd like to put Buble and Harry Connick Jr in a boat and and set it on fire and film it for You Tube.

Different strokes for different folks.   I pay like $239 a month in the Gein Fortress of Solitude to have the Foxtel Platinum Package in all 8 rooms including the garage and Ms. Gein and I and Gein 2.0 often have a really hard time finding something we all like to watch.   And as far as Free to Air---without the Foxtel it's about impossible to get a good picture down this direction.    *When we had the Wog Box that Muhammed gave us instead of installing Foxtel for unlimited free TV and movies that only cost us $200 cash and an eight ball of meth, we got hundreds of stations including Al Jazeera and all kinds of cool shit, (although half the movies were only broadcast in Farsi and Arabic) but Muhammed and his mate Joe are doing 36 months at Places Unknown and we were forced to go legit till they get out in June 2012.   We got to keep the plasmas and set top boxes though...

So I'm going to have to just let it go I guess. It always gets down to politics and the mood of the countries of the free world...   It's just that after all the ferals who were worried about the fat cat Liberals in Oz and the evil Republicans in the USA are now stuck with two rabidly incompetent socialists who wouldn't know coke from meth and are going through the respective countries like wrecking balls destroying virtually everything in their way.    Don't get me wrong, if the only thing Obama accomplished was getting rid of Bush and Cheney before they eviscerated the Bill of Rights than that was a minor win. But if he reinstates the Death Tax he's gonna find out how it works first hand...

And I have to say that if I hear one more person say that Labor is the reason real estate prices are going so well, I'm going to burn their house down while their children sleep.   And I can do that with impunity because there are no more police in Victoria and the few that remained have no powers.   I would really like it if one Friday night the Victorian police swarmed through the CBD with water cannons and tasers and went up and down King St, Swanston St, and nearby laneways and electrocuted anybody wearing an Ed Hardy shirt or who looked suss, like in the good old days of 'shoot first ask questions later'.   Nobody would be upset who lived in a postcode where you don't leave school in Year Four....   Speaking of people who deserve a week of naked tasering, they could stop at Parliament House and drag Brumby out of his office and attach electrodes to his nether regions (assuming he has nether regions) and attach the other end to Nick Brack's car battery and have a real Grand Prix we'd all like to watch.

I've just checked the Foxtel programming.... only 83 minutes to go till THE MAN SHOW is on.   Time to open another bottle...

Cat people are smarter than dog people

2010-02-09T05:58:00.000-08:00

It's true. But then again everyone has known that for years, including dogs---but regrettably not their owners. Sad. You put on your tatty highly gay way too tight track pants and go out in the brisk morning chill and your fucking dog is laughing his balls off. And he can lick them, unlike you or I. Well, at least me.... Of course he's fucking happy! He got your dumb ass out of bed to take him for a walk in your crackhead suburb with your stupid neighbours including the tardy tradesman who parks his fucking ute on the nature strip (intrinsically Oceanic and, unfortunately, exhibiting zero class), the questionable Croatian security guard who brings his "TOTAL SECURITY!" vehicle home at night and parks it in the driveway facing nose out in case he needs that extra nanosecond to get to the Pump and Thump and witness the aftermath of a robbery two streets away, and of course the plumb South African woman with screaming triplets whose pram is wider than the parking lot at Federation Square. Yes, you chose this neighbourhood. Or your wife did, probably because it had "rising values'. New Orleans had rising values after Hurricane Katrina swept through and remodeled it properly. "Wow, we live below sea level...what could ever go wrong Jimmy Bob?" But on that note, (blush) who predicted the Saints winning the Super Bowl back in October?

Yes, it was right here you lucky little bitch! Right...fucking...here.

Speaking of 'rising values', has anyone looked at Hadfield or Taylor's Lakes or any of the tasty spots where Herman Rockefeller (gotta LOVE that name!) was tossing jizz into receptacles that even Dr. Mengele wouldn't have been able to look at without smelling salts. I mean, without sounding misogynistic, I went through YouPorn for months without sleep and I never saw women like that. And thank fucking God as even Steve Jobs couldn't engineer a software update to fix the damage to my laptop if I had! Christ almighty--if Delfin executives ever start taking liquid MDMA and decide to build a community "out there", you can bet that Peter Jackson will close the WETA workshop before you can shag a hobbit with multiple sclerosis, and do his next fourteen mutant movies right here in suburban Melbourne.

It's been an upsetting and diabolically unfair week in the legal systems of the free world. By 'free world' I suggest sadly, of that it is a rapidly-shrinking locale. Michael Jackson's doctor is gonna take the heat for doing the right thing and giving Michael the occasional sleep needle. Why would he kill Michael? "Hmmmm...I'll contribute to the death of my paycheck...that'll make sense, won't it?" If he had put Jermaine or Tito or especially Daddy Joe Jackson to sleep forever he would have been an international fucking legend, but nope... he's gonna be the goat. Conversely, a few blocks away some time not so long ago, O.J. murdered everyone on his block, and he got off. Michael's doctor helped MJ chill, and he's gonna burn in hell. Go figure.

Over here a witty judge decided MEN AT WORK (or make that MEN ABOUT TO GO BACK TO WORK FOR A THOUSAND YEARS) ripped off a song no one ever heard from about 75 years ago and will now pay through the nose. And three absolute human rejects bullied a young girl so badly at a Hawthorne cafe that she killed herself by throwing herself off a parking lot roof. These guys could have just downloaded a copy of THE ROAD and made her watch it and eat in any restaurant in Hawthorne and she would have killed herself before the second reel. I swear to God 'BEYOND BLUE' should have run warning messages every 5 minutes in that film. I love dark, but dark wasn't even the word here. "Well-engineered and well-executed albeit meaningless cinema" is a new category that THE ROAD will dominate forever, plus a month. Trust me....

I will be dedicating a certain amount of time over the next few episodes to giving you constant updates of the current addresses and employers (where applicable) for the abovementioned Hawthorne 3, the MEN AT WORK judge, and the key legal people in LA so you can attack their families at leisure. This will be a new free service of the site and 'you're welcome' in advance.

However, a bright spot in the darkness--a fine fine thanks to the folks at iiNET who weathered the vicious Conroy Storm Troopers and didn't cave in to the anti-piracy fear mongers. I am currently downloading SHUTTER ISLAND 3, NEVER SAY NEVER SAY NEVER AGAIN MOTHERFUCKER 2, and CLUELESS 9: THE OBAMA CHRONICLES, while I compose this and I am one happy middle-aged man... Freedom still does occasionally ring her joyous bell in some places, and for that---we are grateful. It's why it's called "Freedom of Information"....

2009, That was the year that wasn't

2010-01-24T20:26:00.001-08:00

It’s been awhile. Happy New Year? Why not...? It's been a reflective time in GeinWorld (TM) as 2009 came to a harrowing close with some highly inaccurate and misleading press written with the crayons and ruled lined paper favored by a local Murdock writer (sic) about those near-and-dear to us. After some real digging in the backyard for acorns to keep the gerbils running the kerosene lamps and a bit of petrol in the team bus, we continue to battle through our own personal GFC here but as I told the boys at the bottom of the Beaconsfield mine shaft not so long ago (as well as a highly-confused moth cowering on my Armani couture bathrobe in my closet): "Just keep heading towards the light!"

And with that commitment I believe I can see shafts of golden light billowing from the clouds showing the promise of a new year and new fun and escapades. And with that pioneering spirit I think it’s time to look back at 2009 and review the year that was. We all know that the holiday season would have brought the usual same ‘ol same ‘ol for many people and entities, predictions made and paid earlier this year which have proved quite prescient. Amongst the prognostications and declarations scattered throughout 2009 were such gems as:

Gypsies would continue to plague major capital cities across Europe…

Kevin Rudd would travel somewhere worthless and do nothing for the Australian people…

Barack Obama would travel somewhere worthless and do nothing for the American people….and be author of the world’s thinnest book : “Things I’ve done to win the Nobel Prize for Peace”

There would be some terrorist action in the USA that would fuck up the Christmas Holidays from a (surprise!) disaffected Muslim youth.

A major 5-star role model would fall to earth like a Scientology ship in a huge scandal. (I have to admit I was personally gutted and saddened by the actions of Tiger Woods, [whom I did not expect to be the recipient of the Gein Curse) only because of his abjectly poor choices of mistresses. I would not blame anyone other than his optometrist who is the one Elin Woods should be talking to about compensation…)

There would be an earthquake, tsunami, hurricane, or cyclone or force majeure in a catastrophically poor country between Christmas and January 1st. (close!)

Bendigo Bank would still market itself as a ‘friendly neighbourhood bank’ and still treat customers like pack rapists circling a 14-year-old girl.

The temperature in the USA and Europe would drop to a zillion degrees below zero and more snow than Robert Downey, Jr’s pre-rehab birthdays would blanked the earth (again) putting a damper on this ridiculous global-warming, carbon footprint nonsense that we’re being asked to fund for the next 1000 years…

The New Orleans Saints would win the Super Bowl (note! Posted October 1^st!)

Jesus would not come back ever, and if he did we’d just kill him again… J

‘Embattled’ transport minister Lynn Kosky would quit. I didn’t realize she’d claim family health and bad mothering. The fact she’s ugly, incompetent, and a bad mother don’t bode well for her future unless she’s a passenger in a P-plated Ford Falcon travelling with a passel of drunk teens in Mill Park. Several friends called me recently and said “Oh my God there were five people killed in a crash in Middle Park!” A few hours later they all called back and said “don’t worry, it was MILL Park…”

I travelled back to Fuhrberger, Wisconsin, this past week for the 79th Annual Frozen Dairy Festival, and huddled with the tired and poor masses yearning to eat cheese in -30° weather (that's Farenheit, yep!) to have a bit of a break. As it was 112° back in Melbourne so I'm told and the public transport system was melting faster than butter at the Marysville Waffle House, I sKyped and asked Gein 2.0 to run the aircon as hard as it would go and take 60 minute showers with the cats in my absence. Rainfall in Victoria has been record breaking and Tim "I can't find a bush trail or my asshole" Holding is telling people it's okay to use a tad more water when the cement is melting around the front porch. Well Tim, here's the deal : When the Labor government can't figure out how to build dams or plan for drought and tries to blame it's customers (the citizens) it can go lick itself. I'm happy to pay for the water I use at GeinWorld Australia (tm) including-but-not-limited-to washing, showering, operating a meth lab, dog washing, plant watering, porch cleaning, car washing, sno-cone manufacturing, and 60 minute showers if I want as well as running the clothes and dish washer 9 times a day. But an inept and inane government isn’t going to tell me what, where, and when I do what I do with my plumbing and electricity until they can prove to me they can run a lemonade stand or a chook raffle without fucking it up. I rushed back home from Fuhrberger just in time to catch young Gein 2.0 brushing his teeth without the water running from the tap and bashed him so hard in the face a hundred-and-fifty-five times the little bugger doesn’t have a tooth left and is virtually unrecognizable. But that’ll teach him what daddy’s version of “target 155” is in this household…

Whilst (while? I just can’t decide any more…) recuperating from the ghastly bashing GeinWorld ™ has taken in the financial universe and reeling from yet another holiday season without a Bentley convertible or endless Thai foot massages for free, I decided to do what any temporarily destitute young bon vivant would do and just hunker down and watch movies day and night. I did of course venture out to experience “Avatar” in 3-D at IMAX which was acceptably astonishing except the seats at IMAX most inexplicably are the same ones the CIA put David Hicks in at Guantanimo Bay so I know exactly how he felt when he got out. Christopher Reeve would have complained they were so fucking cramped. Would have…

But for the most part I watched things brought to me from our friends at Bit Torrent and various ISP’s and related suppliers. But one film really stood out this year that was so overlooked (as documentaries often are) and that was ‘Dominick Dunne: After the Party’ or “Celebrity” as it was called in the USA and Australia, respectively. It’s one of not only the best films of last year, but one of the top ten documentaries/bio pix of the last decade; maybe all time. It’s a huge call---there have been so many great ones… but I’ve seen this DVD (yes, paid for…) now three times and it so got inside the man and the events that defined his career borne so late in life, that it’s just riveting. I just won’t get on the bandwagon and recommend the ones you’ve already been touted by every critic and ad on the planet. And it’s by the brilliant people who made “The Edge of the Possible” ten years earlier….also one of the top docs of all time.

I will, however, warn you off one though. “Nine”. The main ad says it all : “If you loved “Chicago” you’ll love “Nine”. Well, if you love being raped with a hot poker or thought “Beautiful Kate” was a parenting tutorial you’ll love “NINE”. I feel like taking Daniel Day-Lewis back to his cobbler shop in Venice and getting Marty Scorcese to drop by and staple DDL’s hands to the bench and stab him with a statue of the Duomo like what Silvio Bernasconi got for Christmas and punctuate each blow with :

‘didn’t—you---make---me-----a---promise---you---would---NEVER---do---.a ---FUCKING---musical???!!!!??’

But some people love musicals. GeinLove ™ is enamored with “Mama Mia” and I humour her about it---and thus I have to realize that just because something is retarded and devoid of merit, it’s okay for it to exist if it gives someone pleasure. Musicals are really like using pre-owned blow up sex dolls as far as I’m concerned. You can feel there is some merit to the experience, but you walk away feeling pretty unwell about the whole thing.

Later on this Invasion Day Week, we’ll explore the people who need to die before Labor Day, and why and how you can help.

2009---It's time to set it straight.

2010-01-20T03:53:00.000-08:00

Holiday's over. GeinWorld (tm) is back.

Top successful prognostications of 2009 year revealed this week.

Top picks for 2010, including what celebrities will die and when.

"Celebrity Wheel of Torture and Death" to return by popular demand

Free cocaine and rohypnol to first 100 callers! (handling fee required)

INVASION DAY festivities revealed

"We know what you'll be reading this weekend..."

Hiroshima and Nagasaki were just a good start...

2009-12-07T04:05:00.000-08:00

Good morning world! It's December 7th. "a day that will live in infamy". Most of you are too young to know the quote or have no fucking idea what I’m talking about. Especially if you were educated in the last twenty years. It’s the day in 1941 the gutless Japs attacked Pearl Harbour while the majority of the base (mostly civilians) slept and killed 2400 odd people and maimed another 2000, give or take. Four years later America tested a tasty invention that would ultimately end up as today’s typical kitchen microwave. It was however, somewhat bulkier and in 1945 only available in two sizes: Hiroshima© and Nagasaki© . Alas, they’re sold out and the product is no longer available. Too fucking bad…. :(

Because I think the time is ripe for a reprise. A ‘third act’ though I do not honor that as a valid story structure, per se. A final page of the trilogy. The coda of the pas de deux. Final panel of the triptych. Last goal of the hat trick, if you will.

As a history maven and veteran of upteen personal development seminars it was with great forgiveness and minimal anxiety that I suffered through Great Grandpappy Gein’s tales of the slant-eyed devils and watched ‘Bridge on the River Kwai’ 200 times and after moving to Australia heard the same folklore repeated here. By forgiveness I mean I couldn’t give a fuck about something that happened a decade before I was born since SONY and Suzuki were making great electronics and motorcycles and ‘Black Rain’ made me want to move to the Ginza district, take heaps of drugs, and hang out with hot Japanese girls wearing school uniforms. And since only retarded fucks and overweight wannabees and bad pilots would attempt Australia’s faux Pearl Harbour, the Kokoda Trail (usually with epic failure)-- I even wanted to build a theme park there ever since I was rebuked by the Indonesians when my massive efforts to rebuild the Sari Club in Bali and call it “So Sari” ended in dust and tears. Entrepreneurship is a Gein family trait, as so many of you have experienced, but racism and anti-Asian behavior is not my style. In fact, for Wife 2.0 I actually married an Asian. She was Thai, however, and it was so she could get citizenship in America over 30 years ago. Ask any American if he or she would rather have a Thai citizen versus a Mexican in 1977 and the answer was easy : “pad thai vs. a leaf blower? What’s the decision?”

But recently I saw am amazing film called ‘The Cove’, and my nascent anti-Japanese DNA that had crossed the ocean blue and virtually skipped a generation is no longer a mere caterpillar but indeed a chrysalis ready to burst. Why? Let’s explore this together…shall we?

In a picturesque little town in Japan each year the 4400 odd residents of Taiji, in the Wakayama Prefecture, collectively herd a zillion dolphins into their little cove, and then one-by-one with harpoons, sticks, machetes, Walkmans™, knives, and whatever else they can find, slaughter them mercilessly and excruciatingly until the entire cove is more blood than water. These “fishermen” basically are single handedly destroying a race of creatures so beautiful and harmless as to be destroying living art. In ancient Greece, to kill a dolphin was equal to killing a human and was a crime punishable by death. For dolphins were seen messengers for the Gods. ( Today if the Greeks could fit a dolphin on a souvlaki spit or in the back of a taxi with fries they would sell it but let’s go back to honorancient Greece for just a moment… please… ) It wasn’t just ‘The Cove’ but a slew of newscasts, interviews with sane people, and not people who are autistic environmentalists—eg: ones who buy into the total global warming bullshit and think we should pay about $100 billion dollars to put a cap on some Russian or Chinese smokestack and think it’ll make the ocean drop 2° or some shit like that in the next 10,000 years. I’m not talking junk-science theories which is all global warming carbon credit suck my carbon footprint is until Rudd and Obama are personally carbon-dated half-lives feeding worms in the next century. [Which on a completely random note makes me wonder why Tony Abbott is so anti-abortion when Kevin Rudd is living proof that abortion should be mandatory? Go figure?] Anyway, I’m talking present day slaughter year-in and year-out. Yeah, yeah, yeah--- slaughter probably happens in Sudan and Somalia and Serbia and stuff but who gives a fuck? Show me a Sudanese baby and a dolphin side-by-side and ask me which one you pick to live? Dolphins don’t grow up to steal and form gangs and I’ve never seen a dolphin steal a mobile phone from someone in Dandenong or Tallahassee. I did see a Serbian child jump through a hoop once but it was on fire in a school so that doesn’t really count…

Anyway, back to caring-and-sharing. With all due respect, it seems that the great majority of Japanese outside the Wakayama Prefecture have been so insulated from this tragedy that they are as shocked about it as Westerners. But being Japanese they will never do anything that will bring shame to their country and allow them to lose face in the world, and for their patriotism I admire them. For their xenophobia, however, I wish to teach them one more great final lesson by bringing a squadron of activists in and kidnapping every child under ten and securing them 100 miles away in a safe haven. Then casually dropping a tactical nuclear fucking bomb right in the heart of Taiji and killing each and every one of the fucks that remains after the kids are excised. Then in a final brush stroke of humanity, tattoo the children and any mongrel that survives the blast and ensuing radiation with a “dolphins rule!” tattoo on their forehead and subsequently allow nature and socioeconomics to take their natural course from then on. Maybe make the kids walk the Kokoda Trail naked and force them to watch Rolf de Heer films instead of sleeping as additional toture.

Who would I ask to perform this heroic task? What country or group could manage it? Therein lies the conundrum. In future posts I might be organizing the “Kill Everyone in Taiji” campaign (far catchier than “stop whaling!”) and sell T-shirts and hire mercenaries and find the erstwhile spare portable thermonuclear weapon in the purse of a Russian hooker in Double Bay (Sydney) or Queens, NY. I’d hire a struck-off Garuda or Air India pilot with the promise of a job at Air New Zealand if he could pull off the drop and free citizenship in Australia if he could land the fucker after curfew at Sydney airport on the way home. I’d have lots of takers. If you brought the Gein Family Museum here in Melbourne the head of a Taijian dolphin killer I'd guarantee you a part in my next film and dinner for a week.

But for tonight I’ll simply chow down on my takeaway sushi from Misuzu’s, watch ‘The Cove’ one more time on my Panasonic 50” Blu Ray, park the Lexus convertible under cover, secured by the JVC security system, and make sure the Sony phone is charging on the bench next to the AIWA cappuccino maker and Samsung blender while I slip comfortably into my Kenzo smoking jacket and watch home-made porn on my Canon video camera played at massive volume through my Clarion speakers poised comfortable near my black grand Yamaha piano. I’ll be printing this on my Brother color laser printer later on, for analog posterity. But I won’t be watching Flipper any more with the same eyes. Sayonara.

A SAD REMEMBERANCE DAY IN AUSTRALIA

2009-11-10T20:17:00.000-08:00

November 11. A day that will live in infamy.

Today it was announced that Carlton AFL football star Chris Judd would marry his sweetheart of six years, Rebecca Twigley. The entire household here at Gein World is frankly, sick.

The world has descended into an apocalyptic swill of disease and corruption and socialism, with anarchy and chaos at almost every turn. But now this...

What the fuck is going on in the world when a Caucasian footballer who has no criminal record, hasn't slept with his co-captain's wife or anyone else on the team, doesn't have a Centrelink card, no known suicidal drug tendencies, and is not only articulate but finished school...goes ahead and buys a diamond ring from someone not in the Mafia, and proposes to a quasi-supermodel who is not only articulate, a working professional, weighs less than a Holden Commodore and can do entire interviews without such catchy catechisms such as "what youze got? " or "did you speak to me mates, eh? Diddga??"

Christ Almighty what has the world come to? This is a massive cup of fail waiting to overflow into the morals and ethics of greater Australia as we now know it. Since arriving in this zany land of antipodean antics some fifteen years ago, I just took it for granted after getting sky-high and watching the Brownlow Medal awards with the sound muted, that the hot WAGS were with guys who couldn't tie their own shoes and were basically Christmas Island material with some athletic talent. And conversely the 'Superman types' usually were paired with a woman who had more King Island heavy cream and chips in her midsection than the typical family at the Royal Shows.

If there was a supermodel couple, invariably one of them was certainly a Hells Angel devotee' and the other a coke dealer or related to the head of a major TV network and usually had far too many consonants in his or her surname. I started muting the sound about four minutes into the interviews the first year because the words that came out through my TV sounded like a a symphony of Downs' Sydndrome children trying to sing Flight of the Bumblebee with Dipper from Dimmy's Forges shouting Biblical verses in Italian over the whole affair. There wasn't one understandable or cogent sentence that came out from either the guests or the hosts in many cases but the visuals every so often made for entertaining viewing. Kind of a cross between The Biggest Loser and Victoria's Secret Annual Bash melded with Mardi Gras live from Sydney.

But now for time eternal, everytime some aging veteran twisted up like a pretzel that had melted in the sun tries to scam $2 for a fake poppy for Rememberance Day I'm gonna think "Judd-Twigley" and get really fucking angry! Because that's another thing; those fake poppies the Diggers and their surviving girlfriends or whatever are trying to foist over us each year.

I was driving through the Burnley Tunnel earlier today, skolling vodka, reading emails and texting on the iPHONE (which will never have some wanky cradle no matter what the State of Victoria thinks) feeling like an icied-up trucker cruising for prostitutes, and then turned off on Kings Way for a quick scoot over to Crown to use some money that normally could have gone for rent or bills but seemed better spent on the roulette wheel playing "11" over and over and over and over.

Out front a cagey codger drooling in his wheel chair tried to score $2 from me for a "Rememberance Poppy". His friend, who would have pre-dated the Inquisition, was wearing those VR sunglasses that all old people seem attracted to and staring at me and gripping a walking stick that looked like it was going to land in my face if I said 'no'. Fearful yet respectful, I gave Java Man my $2 coin, and I took the poppy and bit into the red leaf and tasted it. It was plastic! The Gein Family knows poppies and all poppy by-products and this was some cheap tawdry polyester imitation made by some out-of-work sneaker assembler in Shanghai and I threw it back in his face and screamed at him declaring:

"you fucking cunt! This isn't a real poppy! It's fucking fake! What if the Army gave you fake guns at Gallippoli you loser!... Oh, that's right...probably wouldn't have mattered much would it?... you paleolithic pretender!"

I suggested the two of them go back to the "Armistice College of Poppy Sales Knowledge" and get the fuck out of the front of Crown where good decent Christian and Jewish* people were going inside to spend their life savings and honour a building that commemorated Rachael Griffiths' unique talent and ability to bare her breasts in public back, when they (the breasts in question) might have been worth looking at. *There were perhaps some Muslims going into Crown but they would have had explosives or weapons to carry and had their hands full; and the only relationship they would have with poppies is perhaps growing them on the side of Dad's mountain farm 22k's southwest of Kabul.

The two broken men fell to their knees crying and defecating all over, and Java Man started pleading "but Mr. Brumby won't let us sell real poppies anymore...please buy one..." His pleading and whimpering disgusted me but I felt pity on him, and so I let him keep the $2 coin and also shoved my signed Tiger Woods golf card into his pocket, thinking it might give him comfort some day when he eventually changed his pants for the greater good of all and discovered it.

I have no more to say on this subject other than Judd-Twigley will have a lot to answer for over the next several years. I suspect they will not be registering at David Jones' what with Ms. Twigley's other commercial considerations, but when I'm toasting them at their wedding, I will most certainly be speaking my mind, on that day I'll tell you...

THE GRAVY TRAIN

2009-10-30T19:11:00.000-07:00

Recently as anyone with a TV, a computer, a subscription to Woman's Day, or a Centrelink card would know--- a young mother; Shweta Verma of picturesque Ashburton, VIC, failed to have the pram brake secured whilst she hitched up her pants "for a moment" and her young son and the pram popped onto the tracks at a train station where it was run over by an approaching train. Fortunately for Ms. Verma (or is it Vermin?) and her son the baby did not become a falafel roll but was rescued relatively unscatched by a teenager. Happy Ending. Especially for the other people at the station and subsequent stops who would have been held up for hours waiting for Connex to figure out how to put a new train on the tracks while wiping baby bits off the wheels of the offending train.

Well, before you can say "thank Vishnu and significantly high undercarriage clearances" Ms. Verma did the rounds on TV en route to her $100,000 exclusive sale of the story to the popular women's magazine. By popular, I mean that the print is big enough for it's core readership (woman who left school before Year 6 and have 3 or more children and dream of a Delfin home) to enjoy without getting bogged down with small pictures or challenging words.

This poses an interesting shred in the fabric of conventional workplace apprenticeships in Australia, with now an astonishing 96% of all Indian, Pakistani, and and Sri Lankan mothers residing in Australia claiming they will push their babies in front of a speeding train in order to gain $100,000 cash. Somewhat similar to the premise of THE BOX, but without Cameron Diaz and dropping the critical "person you do not know" catch to get the money. The same survey amongst Chinese and Korean mothers produced the same figures, but were only willing to sacrifice their female children. Japanese mothers surveyed said "only if my child resembled a dolphin" and it should be noted the Sri Lankan mothers wanted to sell the pram wreckage separately on eBAY, and it was predicated on them getting off the boat first and explaining to them just what the fuck a train was. But they liked the cash payment part and understood that without fail. Most of the skippy mothers said they'd rather wait until their kid was old enough to go backpacking in Croatia and get murdered or get totally fucking lost bushwalking and rescued because they'd rather be fucked than endure public transport in Melbourne for any amount of money. And I'm not against cash payments for great stories. Trisha Broadbridge deserved any amount of money for having to endure nothing but endless footy stories from new hubby Troy over and over and over for her entire honeymoon including during sex and must have thought all her Christmases had come at once (or Boxing Days to be more accurate) when the tsunami hit. And you had to feel for Stuart Diver, listening to his wife whining "it's cold Stuart...STUART...it's cold...I'm not a good swimmer and I didn't want to come skiing either this year you selfish bum!" for about 73 hours straight whilst he was freezing his ass off and wondering if the 4 Star Accommodation would have been worth the extra $10 per night; not including breakfast. "Okay honey, soon as I get these 43 tonnes of building materials off my face I'll make plans for a warmer holiday next year! FUCK!"

Think of the future? In twenty years there would be no taxi drivers in Australia and a virtual plague of funeral homes catering to tots springing up. Woman's Day would have the "Train Baby Calendar Centrefold" each year with the best-looking baby of each month that 'went training...so-to-speak". Videos of dead babies would be on YouTube with the music track (sic) "The Tracks of My Tears". It'll be worse than Australian Idol and I suspect even Rove will have a few baby carcasses on his desk to pick up ratings a bit.

It's a tough one. I believe we've really opened up a Pandora's Box here with cash payments for mini miracles that would normally be payment enough for the 'victim' just to have survived the ordeal. Maybe if Shweta hadn't purchased her pants from Omar the Tentmaker of Narre Warren or had thought of something preventative like maybe, a fucking belt---she wouldn't have emailed her kid to the bank.

I know the experience because I was a young father once. When young Gein 2.o was a baby, I used to sometimes get dialed out of my mind for days and come Mondays accidentally put him on the roof of my car and put my phone into the baby seat and drive off in subzero Midwestern winter weather to take him to the Phillip Garrido Childcare Centre in Northwest Eastern Sioux City, Iowa. I'd be driving down icy streets screaming at him to stop making 'ringing sounds' and realize it wasn't him but a large mobile phone brick ringing away in the back seat while the young bugger rolled off the roof screaming to high hell and trying to grab onto the trunk lid before sliding off into traffic. I knew it was him because I could recognize his little red face crying a river onto the back window en route to Pavement Land reflected in the rear view mirror. I despised that because not only did I miss important calls (voicemail not being common back then) but I had to stop and freeze my ass off to tippy toe back and get him from under whatever Buick he had slid under. Did I ever try and sell my story to the Sioux City Journal or Wisconsin Cheesefag Tribune? No fucking way! No harm no foul!

Today for some inordinate reason young Gein still cries when he boards the train from Federation Square to his humpy near St. Kilda where he moonlights as a Pixel Acquisition Consultant for Bit Torrent. He is saving up enough money to open up a Vampire Coffee Shop and Internet Cafe called BITE TORRENT (c) and he is focused and mature---but still cries alot around trains. It shits me no end.

So I'm going to take this beautiful Saturday off, since I don't feel like working and only have enough cash on me for a flutter or two, and head out to Flemington where I will wait amongst the rose bushes until I see a spectacularly drunk and heinously large and ugly female racegoer hanging out of an impossibly small skirt, and push her in front of the first goddamn train I can. This will not only make room for more suitably sized people and enable 24% more passengers travelling home from the Derby, but will also provide a bit of fun for members of the Montmorency Football Club as they clean up the tracks and find a near naked female torso---since they won't be going back to Phillip Island for some time...

TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE FUN--the black plague widens

2009-10-07T17:39:00.000-07:00

I remember when I was a young boy growing up in Wisconsin, back in the 1950's. That time of year (Autumn) was special. It was a wonderful time sitting on the back porch of Great Great Grandaddy Gein's cheese plantation watching all his slaves pick the cheese from the fromage trees in the blazing sun. The sight of them lugging those massive aromatic bags slung over their shoulders silhouetted in the setting sun as they sung hymns and wrestled with those pesky leg chains always made me giggle and be proud to be an American. 'Pappy (as we used to call him) used to pound a gallon of scotch before noon, which was immediately before he started pounding Great Great Granma Gein---and he used to teeter back and forth and tell us the same old story every fucking night but when you're a kid it's like a hypnotic metronome ticking back and forth and putting you to sleep with a big smile on your face.

'Pappy, who in his school days in rural Illinois used to manufacture Rohypnol for some of the wealthier people in town, actually had gone to school with Abraham Lincoln and they had stayed fast friends for years. "Honest Abe" as he was known before he became the 16th President---was known in Washington as a massive partier and big on the Laudanum scene at the time. (Lincoln used to love DEADWOOD and would always have people over to the White House to get high, watch episodes, and yell "cocksuckers!" out the window at passersby). But one night, 'Pappy' gave him a batch of Rohypnol and as legend has it, Abbie Baby disappeared for almost two fucking years! He woke up next to his wife--who legend also has it was the meanest ugliest white woman in history until Laura Andrassy came along---bolted upright in a cold sweat, shat the bed, looked around the room and screamed to no one in particular:

"I freed WHAT!!!!???"

Well, I don’t have to tell you what happened the next day. Lincoln traveled to North Carolina to have a post-war brunch and debrief with Al Gore’s great-great-grandpa Al “Hardcore” Gore, Sr on his tobacco plantation where they both decided they’d made some big mistakes and had to move on. Sweltering in 110° heat on the porch sipping mint juleps and Laudanum, 'Hardcore" blamed Lincoln for the demise of his slaves which meant he had to start dealing with unions and criminals (the two basically inseparable) and declared "one day one of my boys is gonna be President and fix this fucking country up AND sort out this global fucking warming" as he wiped his brow with the panties of his housemaid, Jemima. Lincoln shook his hand, smiled knowingly, and said "I've sworn off politics. I need this shit like a hole in the head---I'm gonna go see a play tonight and retire..."

Those were the days. Back then if a black man came running at you carrying a big stick and threatened to take your money and steal your blonde girlfriend there'd be hell to pay! Today we call that same man Tiger Woods.

So it was almost a hundred years later that John F. Kennedy got up and gave that famous speech about civil rights and that since there wasn't slavery anymore, that everyone---including Canadian children and Gomer Pyle could and should go to the same school--even if it meant putting them on buses and driving them 83 hours each way to prove it. My mom and dad had been saving up for a Lincoln Continental convertible just like Kennedy used to ride a lot because they both admired him. They liked his sense of fairness and the fact that he took drugs and fucked Marilyn Monroe and wore nice suits. In later years they were upset that their car lost 93% of it's value one November afternoon when they took it to Dallas to return some books. Returning books has caused a lot of grief over the years, I'll tell you.

Knowing that the demise of American cars, returning books, and the country as a whole was around the corner, I left for Australia in 1995 just ahead of the PC wave and when I arrived one of the more popular TV shows here was in it's waning moments---HEY HEY IT'S SATURDAY. I was amused because the show wasn't even on a fucking Saturday but midweek. This is one of the endearing things about Australia to this day. Time and schedule doesn't matter. A TV show or sporting event may or may not start at the scheduled time and certainly won't end with any regularity or confirmation. A TV network here (sic) might show the ending or simply whisk you away to the news or more importantly a cricket match being played in some pathetic fly-infested third world outpost where they are continually perplexed about why their buses or hotels were under constant attack from local terrorists. Go figure.

But "Hey Hey" was interesting. It was like "The Ed Sullivan Show" but with guests of no particular importance other than they had been important somewhere else at some previous time, and were available. It had wonderful music, strange live ensemble performances from local children who had escaped the special bus, a man with a head on a stick, a pedophile running around in a gigantic duck costume, relatively hot women, and a host who whilst engaging, was certain to be a closet alcoholic and wife-beater as he just had that look---kind of like Don Adams in Get Smart. It was engaging to watch and I felt a certain warmth sitting on the sofa in Paddington popping large amounts of high quality ecstasy scooped up from the sidewalk aftermath of Mardi Gras,and drinking Bundaberg rum through a straw. I felt instantly Australian, and cemented this by stopping work and registering at Centerlink with a fake NZ passport I had lifted from a transexual backpacker named Clover who later went on to new lows as Lord Mayor of Sydney. Apologies to Laura Andrassy for the previous remark....

By the time I had worn out my welcome in Sydney and the little woman (GeinSpouse 2.0) had realized I wasn't going join her in stupid activities like "saving money" or "coming home on time or at all" and banished me to Melbourne, "Hey Hey" was only a memory. Australia had found cable television (or semblance thereof) and you could actually watch quality (read: AMERICAN) TV series within the same decade that they were aired in the USA. The era of fat country cops in shows named after a fucking dog and variety comedy shows hosted by dwarves who were neither funny nor particularly talented had arrived.

Last evening (sigh) I was ensconced in paperwork deciphering mounds of Excel spreadsheets, receipts, notes, bank statements, and years of garbage collecting with Glen Wheatley and Wesley Snipes assembling a tax return that would at least appear like I had a modicum of business knowledge--noting that prostitutes and cocaine were items that are tax deductible so long as they were during the opening and closing hours of a film festival or within 50 metres of a Beyond Blue office. Without warning, our book keeper, who has worked tirelessly for three years without one cent of remuneration but has probably consumed $98,450 of champagne per quarter in this loyal service---shunted us over to the TV whilst gargling her Moet and burbling "Ess Hay Hee Ooos Sooterday". Yes, Part Deux of the "Hey Hey It's Saturday" reunion was live on TV and certainly cause to drop all work in Australia---not that one ever needed a reason.

There was a wonderful skit in progress of five grown men reprising their Jackson Five skit from 20 years ago. Led by an Indian (an out of work taxi driver turned cardiologist) in whiteface as Michael Jackson, and the rest in blackface---they danced and sang and brought the time before my arrival in the Year 6 B.G. (Before Gein) to the delight of many, or most...or some.

One of the judges in the skit comp was the previously interesting and mildly talented Harry Connick, Jr. Best known as the only white man living in Louisiana during Hurricane Katrina (when George Bush called him the week before and said "I'm a gonna bring a big fukkin' storm down there and clean up the area---why don't you jus' go on tour and get your white ass outta there Harry?") and also known eons ago as the guy who married Victoria Secret goddess Jill Goodacre. I used to have her lingerie photos in my wallet when I was a travelling man, and keep them handy for the bathroom or bedroom or any other time I needed some assistance before Viagra was invented. ( Please note these were photos taken BEFORE she had three children and is now modeling for Big and Tall Girls of Des Moines) I still have a few matted glossies slipped between the mattress and bedframe that GeinLove (c) hasn't yet found and will have to take action lest she want to 'flip the mattress' sometime soon...

Well, as you would know by now, Prince Harry went mental and gave the band a "zero" and was embarrassed and upset to be part of a 'racist' performance. A white man, from the Deep South, embarrassed to be part of a 'racist' performance. (once more please, with vigor:) A white man, from the Deep South, embarrassed to be part of... okay okay you've got the picture.

I called my black friend Rick this morning in Thailand to wake him up and ask him about this. I suspect that his name is Rick, and I know he lives in Cambodia--but he calls himself David and has a Thai address. I've never met him but we've been friends for a couple years. I know he's black because he's in the film industry, is from New York City originally and is a Giants Fan. I admit I've also seen his picture on Facebook but I knew he was black when he said the Giants were the greatest team in NFL history. If he was in musical theatre and from Sydney I would know he is white and gay. If he liked Rugby League and pack raping young girls I'd know he's from Western Sydney via Beirut. But that's not the point. The point is that in all the years I've spoken to him the 'black' thing has never come up in any of our hours of conversations and SKYPEs and emails and things.

So I tried to ask David what his thoughts were about the whole thing but he was busy frying up some chicken necks and pigs' ears and with eleven children under twelve in the house he was way too busy to talk and said we'd talk later when he could rustle up some prepaid and call me back in a week or two.

So I'm in the dark here (no pun intended). If you dress up and do a skit on religious Jews, it's FIDDLER ON THE ROOF. If you make fun of Arabs, it's THE CHASER AT THE G20. If you make fun of Indians, you've never been in a fucking taxi in Melbourne or Sydney. But if you do a parody or skit about blacks and you are not blacks, you're a racist inhuman yobbo redneck motherfucker. Please explain? (NB: In Australia doing a skit about children with cancer has repercussions too but not internationally. Proof positive people fear blacks more than children with cancer for no logical reason)

What would Obama say about this? John Safran was going to tell us but I suspect that show will be lifted before it sees the light (or darkness) of day. I'm perfect content with the abolition of lynch mobs and the dissolution of manchester sales (eye holes sold separately) in Alabama and I am proud of my Four Tops and Diana Ross CD collection (which I do keep on the bottom shelf, in back, behind the Neil Young boxed sets, mind you). So when did it happen that suddenly only blacks were immune from criticism? Was it when O.J. got set free and LA celebrated by burning the entire south side to the fucking ground in pure joy? When will Las Vegas people learn he's misunderstood and let him free to go back and play golf?

The point of this, and there is a point my friends, is that when you do something out of satire, entertainment, pure joy, homage, or nostalgia as what we saw last night and most hopefully within this tome----it is something to admire and enjoy. It is not ignorance nor hatred nor racism. Rather the opposite--- it is the ignorance and fear that cause those who condemn it most, as those who fear that they might be seen as racist or ignorance for understanding or enjoying the event.

Maybe Harry Connick, Jr needs to take a step back and see things in context. Maybe we all need to lighten up a bit and understand the difference between well-meant entertainment and hatred is fear and ignorance, small-mindedness and insanity.

Mebbe the boy needs to get hisself some manners?

Kill the Premier! Cut off the judge's ears! Indian taxi drivers must die!

2009-09-30T01:13:00.000-07:00

Now that we have your attention....

Okay, here's the new order. The new world order. 92.8% of all GeinWorld readers are basically moral individuals. We occasionally drive drunk just to get our cars home (how the fuck else do we get them home?) We tell the occasional racist joke (what good are Sudanese anyway?) and other than recreational drugs and sleeping with our daughters (California and Gippsland residents only) we're all generally pretty good folks.

So now it's time for justice. Premier John (as in toilet) Brumby goes to fucking India. Why? He's worried about a few fucking cab drivers mauled or killed? They had it coming! Indian students? Studying what? Telephone sales? Oops! Sorry! Can I have my knife back? Colonel Armstrong Custer had it right when he said "an Indian's head is worth more than his soul..." Although he originally meant American Indians it was only because he wasn't well-travelled. Even the most revered (and over rated) Aussie author Robert Hughes agreed with me after a well-oiled interracial vehicular sojourn in Western Australia.

Here at GeinWorld racism is abhorrent...but I swear to fucking God you fill my taxi with rogan josh and take me to the wrong address and I'll stab you through your turban until you bleed like a stuffed pig. A halal pig if that's accurate depending on your religious belief.

Further...A drunken Puneet Puneet (eliminate anyone with a duplex moniker regardless of their origin--trust me on this one) kills an Aussie and escapes with the wrong passport back to CurryVille... ???? Please explain...:

1. How the fuck could Customs (which worries more about white 60 year old males bringing in vitamins than a STOLEN FUCKING PASSPORT) fuck this up? "Oh sir, are you bringing in honey or bark from New Zealand...?? Please let the raghead curry muching killer cunt next to you step ahead of the queue so he can go back to Bollywood, please..."

2. Why would Vic Police and Fed Police maybe let this cunt have bail? (At least he wasn't showing "suppressed pictures" at a gallery exhibition in Carlton. Priority One here! Make sure artists or people with too many parking tickets are arrested but let murders and rapists shop at Coles and Woolies so they don't miss out on bargains...)

3. Brumby (who sucked Brack's dick after it took him 4 years to find it which is fair because he doesn't have one of his own) is worried more about a half dozen future telemarketers and unwashed cab drivers than an Australian citizen who was run over like a chicken on a country road. Fuck him. "It wasn't a priority.." That's what that crackhead truckie said when he forgot to look both ways at Kerang a few years ago...

4. Sorry about the ham-handed segue here... I'm starving and have to order a pizza... A fucked up Narre Warren man (I know, an oxymoron at best) hacks off a dog's ears and tails and it takes TWO MONTHS to psychologically asses him??? He's a cross between Austen Tayshus and Hannibal Lecter. HANG HIM! I swear if a judge lets him off without significant time in jail lets ensure the judge has his ears and dick (or breasts if a female judge ---equal opportunity supporter here...) hacked off and we'll assess whomever does that for a few months and then make him/her head of Stonnington Council.

GeinWorld is offering a rare competition for readers:

Bring us the head of any Indian taxi driver or student who calls you trying to sell you long distance, discount energy, or computer support for each day it takes to get Puneet Puneet's ass back here for trial and we'll give you 10% off a Labor Party Membership. Head must be intact and in semi-working order. Delivery and competition TACs to follow.

BONUS! Bring the ears and tail of John Brumby and win a hiking trip to the Blue Mountains with Minister Tim Holding and Chemotherapy Expert Rob Hulls. Details to follow.

Operators are standing by...

2009-09-26T20:39:00.000-07:00

WHAT IS FAIR? WHO IS DESERVING?

2009-09-21T01:26:00.000-07:00

Since I was forced to leave the United States in the mid 90's under duress from my colleagues both in the entertainment industry and erstwhile penal colony that became the YooEssEh?, and move to Australia (and proudly become a citizen/denizen) there are still some innate idiosyncratic transmogrificational mutations of Western civilization (sic) that absolutely confound my limited analytical skills more than that big green fucking "E" that accompanies any Excel spreadsheet sent unsolicited from either my travelling business partner or GeinLover (c) who now has begun her relentless and systematic blitzkrieg into my Fortress of Solitude to dwell within for time eternal (or until gypsies rule the Earth, there is a female US President, or there is a Centrelink website that allows us to download petrol through a straw ). But she is hot, educated, and captured the last granules of GeinRomanticism (TM) available in this lifetime and gets a free pass so don't even go there, you naysayers of heartfelt cupidistic nanotechnology.

One of them is the 'fair go' doctrine that for no reason applies to the retail purchase of "big events" such as the impending "AFL GRAND FINAL". This is the Australian equivalent of the Super Bowl and although Aussies can't do awards ceremonies (our attempts at the Oscars and AFIs are like fingerpainting with Sierra Leone children devoid of hands) we do have the most outstanding sports championships; especially AFL which is like gridiron without pads sans massive hits but with NBA speed. The AFL is run by an archaic group of businessmen (like the NFL in the USA) who comprise seemingly Orthodox Jews who pretend they don't watch Friday night games, Greek restaurateurs who whose personal hygiene rivals that of their pariah-like outlets, a fat fuck who makes baby products, a former Muslim drug dealer who wasn't fit enough to walk the footpath in front of his own house in Brighton, a street savvy game show host who hails from the same suburb as the former Muslim fatality who is the puppet master behind Australia's biggest TV network, and various other non-telegenic but interesting machers of modern Australian business. They have somehow dictated that if you're a junkie fuck with nine children of various denominations and sucking snot out of a sewer for your daily crust that you have the same right to a ticket as someone who is working 90 hours a week and giving almost half of their income for taxes to feed and clothe your pockmarked highly-available ass (arse). To wit: There are no "scalpers" allowed. Meaning you queue for a month to get tickets and pay for them and suddenly companies like TICKETEK (who give blowjobs to corporate Australia to operate -- which is good because if you see most of corporate Australia a blowjob would be impossible for them otherwise... including the Prime Minister's wife who now has lost enough weight to get both down and up on her knees which she couldn't find before the most recent election---with or without a concentration camp, Kyle). Why can't we pay top price for top tickets? Why should people who don't pay taxes and are on the dole have the same rights to buy tickets as the people supporting them? Please explain? Why is it that Cricket Australia bans scalping when the only people who would PAY big bucks to go to a fucking cricket match are more retarded than people who think Maoris have careers after Rugby League or as strip club bouncers on King Street or the Cross in Sydney? Puzzling! The average Australian (esp Queenslander) sports fan can barely catch a train in Germany let alone find the fucking stadium so why penalize him/ her? nbbb

So there are zillions of fans who lined up like Russian wives on a breadline, paid their dues, and now their tickets might be void. SURPRISE! Why not have people who contribute to society be able to log onto Ebay or whatever an buy tickets? Who cares how much they pay? Why not give 10% of seats FOR FREE to the great unwashed and let the rest of us who went past Year 5 in school to pay whateverthefuckwewantto to get a seat?

It worked for Stephen Spielberg? He bought an Emmy for Toni Collette earlier yesterday and he wouldn't even know what the fuck the AFL is? This is one of the most successful Hollywood producers ever and yet he thought Steve Irwin knew the difference between front front door of a 7/11 and the tail of a killer sting ray. Ooops!

Anyway, if I was Tina Fey I'd go down on Sarah Palin before I paid homage to Toni Collette but then I haven't worked the stripper poles as hard as Diablo Cody so what would I know?

Anyway, speaking of fuckers, I was quite surprised that Prime Minister Kevin Rudd of Australia (Australia--kind of like being Captain of the Titanic and saying "it floated longer than anyone suspected...") called a bunch of his staff "fuckers". I love it! This week President Josef "Dark Stalin" Obama called Kanye West a "jackass" and Kevin "Buttplug" Rudd called key staff "fuckers". These guys are human! Well played! Of course the press is worried that Obama spent more time considering a 2nd rate musican who if he was white wouldn't even get a recording contract, and family groups are concerned that Rudd who has never been fucked without money changing hands knew how to conjugate "fucker" properly and in context.

But this is what the world revolves around. Pointless day2day rubbish. And we love it.

I think we can all relax now that two great Western leaders have their finger on the button. If they cross-collateralize at the current G20 I will go back to taking yoga and fellate myself on YouTube. If Kevin Rudd calls Obama "a fucking jungle bunny" and Obama tells Rudd "I'm happy for you, and I'm gonna let you finish, but Bob Hawke was the greatest Labour fuckwit in Ozzie history" then this blog will end faster than a first date in Antioch with an eleven-year-old or a family reunion in the Latrobe Valley (Party of two?)

It's what we dream about. It's what makes us great. It's what makes me about to retire.

SHOULD POOR PEOPLE BE ALLOWED TO BREED?

2009-09-08T04:58:00.000-07:00

Now that we have your attention.

I saw a film at the AFI screenings the other night and have been mulling what to share, if anything. And it deserves a post for a number of reasons. BLESSED. It's from Anna Kokkinos who brought us the very confrontational and bold HEAD ON. And then lost her way with BOOK OF REVELATIONS. But that's okay. HEAD ON was awesome and singlehandedly ensured Alex Dimitriades of no major lead roles for the rest of his life but fate deals an interesting hand sometimes. Ask Dorothy Stratton.

Anyway, as the only person in the cinema who wasn't gay or dressed completely in black I stood out like Crazy John Ilhan at this year's City to Surf Run and took my seat---an aisle, right--near the front at the beautiful ACMI Cinema at Fed Square. The ACMI cinemas are an anomaly as they are the most beautiful and technically enabled digital Godhead megascreens in the Southern Hemisphere. They lie empty 93% of the time unless there's an AFI function or something else going on and if you try and hire them for something no one will faciliate a deal ensuring they lie empty 93% of the time. There is no popcorn. Though we were given invisible brand champagne and / or sparkling water to being. But there was no popcorn. What kind of fucking cinema won't give you popcorn? I'll tell you what kind: the same that some Serbo-Croatian fuckwit Alex who ran the Chauvel in Sydney some years ago operated and now witness his Nazi Empire of No Popcorn and Fucked Seats that is now history and I hope he's working cleaning deep fryers at Red Rooster in Werribee or some suburban yeast-infection of a venue.

Anyway, I digress.

Seven minutes into BLESSED after witnessing the most fucked-up children I'd seen on screen since MAMA MIA my travelling partner left---she had experienced a most difficult week and couldn't take the depression.

I thought it would descend into a pantheon of Western Suburban battling hell of gay Greek boys, drug-addicted moms, and fucked up ethnic battlers crying and whinging about their stupid retarded children whilst fucking away and having more kids.

And of course it did.

But it did it in such an elegant and sophisticated manner that I was totally sucked in, and then it went in another direction completely that I didn't expect. I didn't give a fuck about the mothers. It was ostensibly a story about mothers and their children. Well, (and excuse me moms and dads or mums and dads depending on where the fuck you were born) any loser can have a kid and abandon him or her. A total loser can have many kids. Abandon them or misplace them...and have some more. There are so many fucking children around that they should be culled like kangaroos or gypsies or cockroaches or people who like Austen Tayshus. When I walk into the Melbourne CBD on a Saturday night and stand on the corner of Swanston and Bourke I like to close my eyes and imagine shooting thousands of rounds of ammunition into the four corners and cleaning up the intersection for the weekend. And you know what? There wouldn't be one person living who finished school and who has a job and lives in a postcode that can spell "condom" let alone know what the fuck one was that would argue with me.

But Anna K fashioned the most amazing kids' roles and dialogue and realism that you really just couldn't get away from the film. These kids were mostly mongrels. But interesting riveting mongrels because they had interesting broken little humans for parents... Which brings to mind the dilemma:

If you're uneducated, poor, battling, stupid, behind the 8 ball of life, or just this side of Fail and Aids... why the fuck would you want to have kids that are going to start off in last place? What really is the attraction with children and the obsession losers have with duplicating themselves over and over and over? I don't get it. If you're fanatical Muslim you trying and populate yourself into world domination and I can understand that flawed but optimistic plan. But if you have zero money and no job or a shitty one and can't make ends meet and your one child is a Taint Dweller why have more? There is a scene where a Greek window seamstress cuts her incorrigible daughter with a scissors. She should have put the scissors through her daughter's eyes and done us all a favour. But nope--- Miss Caterpiller Eyebrows 2009 escaped to go out shoplifting. Which if you're Winona Ryder is cool because it's research and she was hot in HEATHERS. This girl was not. Angry, unattractive, ungrateful, and smarmy, and mean.

Back to BLESSED. I really really liked this film and everyone in the Gein Universe will say "what the fuck is wrong with you?" and one of my acquaintances from Upper Blogville cornered me afterwards and we chatted about that---but it affected me alot---albeit probably in the wrong way than intended from the film maker. Fucked up kids are intriguing. They rarely succeed but amaze you along the way. There are those two girls in the film who need and so deserve to be bashed within an inch of their lives but escape unscathed. And a young brother/sister who deserve a break but burn to death in a charity box. (the irony cannot be ignored). The score is beautiful. The camera work and direction wonderful. The editing pristine and performances steller. William McGinnes and Miranda Otto particularly riveting in a wonderful chance encounter. But every one of the mothers, especially Frances McDormand (who has a big enough forehead on which you could launch an outdoor Imax cinema) is a candidate for mandatory abortion. It kind of wanted to be like CRASH (Paul Haggis' not David Cronenberg's) but never connected the various stories which actually worked well in this well-crafted multi-strand narrative. Not as well as it could or should have---but hard to fault in the setup and execution and miles ahead of most local productions.

It's like there's some God-given thing that the more fucked up you are the more kids you have to spit out to the world and as much as I loved the film I felt like strangling any woman who was pregnant coming out of CentreLink the next day or any fucking guy who wasn't keeping up his children support and was driving a car valued at over $20k. As a younger Gein I never sent child support but took the kids to 5 Star Hotels where they could order room service while I tested South American exports in the privacy of my suite. I thought that was fair.

But I'm both elated at how skillfully crafted the film was, and disappointed at how forgiving it seemed to be to a powerful closing shot of a person whose only contribution to society was pain and despair and poverty and failure.

It wasn't about losing children or failing with them---BLESSED was about misplaced values and loyalties and obsession with the unatainable. But it did it all so well one couldn't ignore it.

This post is tired and disorientated. Gein World served too many pizzas and A & W Root Beer Floats (spiders) tonight and the sugar lock is setting in . But I felt compelled before retired for the evening. The film has stayed with me for days, warts and all. It deserves an audience of women considering children. It will do us all a favour.

We'll cross that bridge when we get to it....

2009-08-26T12:50:00.000-07:00

Starting your day with news of Ted Kennedy dying isn't like winning the lottery. It's close. It's like waking up to oral sex...as the recipient... Let's not get too excited about someone who's only skill was being born with the right surname to weasel his way into the U.S. Senate and and trying to socialize the entire economy faster than Josef Stalin...or Barack Obama who is basically a taller Stalin with better communication skills, nicer suits, and a tan.

But it's often been said that Kennedy should have been forgiven for his "lapse of judgement" when he plied Mary Jo Kopechne with alcohol (since rohypnol wasn't around yet or for sure he would have had a stash of that in the car) and smashed his car into the creek at Chappaquiddick in 1969 killing his 'passenger' whom he left to drown as he escaped. He was so busy thinking up an alibi that it took him a whole day before he managed to remember to report the accident to police. And they say his sister was retarded?

The sad fact about the late 60's is that the only good Kennedy (Bobby) got shot in a kitchen when he should have been sitting in his hotel room watching My Three Sons and the worst of the three (Teddy) lived to be 77. Massachusetts would be possibly the most fucked-up state in the USA except it's not even a state... It's a Commonwealth. And except maybe for Boston Legal and some good seafood there is really no reason to ever set foot in the Commonwealth unless you're a coke dealer, socialist, or tech manufacturer who wants illegal kickbacks to place your company there.

We hope his last months were painful, and look forward to his stay in hell when he relives his speech explaining 'the inexplicable' events of that night when in the most simple terms... a below-normal intelligence black sheep of a fucked up family went to cheat on his wife and drove drunk off a bridge killing his date. And didn't have the guts to admit he'd fucked up and face the music.

He was a mongrel. His career was a golden calf paraded around losers, retards, wannabees, and neer' do-wells for his own self gratification. Anyone who admired him is a devil worshiper and
devoid of accountability.

There are and shall forever be many great men who were or are flawed. There are, of course-- many horrible men who have had flashes of genius or moments of greatness.

Ted Kennedy was neither great, nor intelligent, nor aspirational of genius. He was the bad apple in an already rotten bushel of fruit whose few bright pieces had already been eaten by the world over four decades before.

Lest we forget.

NUKES, GOOKS, SPOOKS, KOOKS, & SOOKS

2009-08-07T17:28:00.000-07:00

Ice ice baby... And like that it was gone. Finished. Tail lights. Not Vanilla Ice--he's been gone for a decade as the Great White Hope of rap once the Beastie Boys cashed in their Bar Mitzvah cheques. But the ice I was smoking with Magda Szubanski and Therese Rein that was secretly delivered in the Jenny Craig boxes with a fresh pipe each week. "Bloody hell you girls have lost some serious weight" I screamed while trying to put a bayonet 30 watt light bulb into a screw socket in my new Bonds undies for the mood lighting they demanded for these weekly shindigs. "This Jenny Craig Ice-Lite is the go!" We had just returned to Canberra after smoking and closing our eyes while going through the Burnley Tunnel and over level crossings pretending we were truckies and just killing ourselves with laughter. Therese had noted "...that if we were real truckies we'd kill a prostitute and a Pommie backpacker..." but authenticity wasn't the order of the day... just relaxation.

Magda smiled as she was going through the carpet for the last remnants to light up which tasted suspiciously like Kevin Rudd's dandruff and groused "yeah, but the downside is I haven't slept since KATH & KIM was popular with youse". Good point. They looked great and all I could think whilst the butler was staring at my shorts while he should have been holding the fucking light bulb and pipe screen was that we could get Dawn French on this diet and then the Vicar of Fucking Dibley could be refilmed and there'd be room in Dibley for more than her 16:9 silhouette. She should have changed her name to Dawn France by deed poll once she realized she could order and consume enough food in one episode to equal the total United Nations food drop to Nanking if there was such a thing.

And speaking of China. What the fuck is going on there? I was having some Dim Sims in South Melbourne near the Falun Gong shop when the owner, ChowChow, came up to this morning wild-eyed towards me screaming "you in da feelm biznizz! You gotta stop da film een da Melborn Feelm Feasteeval disa week!" As a maven of Chinese philosophy, politics, and one-time master of Kung Fu I was sympathetic. As a former Disney licensee our rampant importation of low-cost, duty free toys in the late 90's enamored me with all things Chinese. But free speech is one of the paramount mainstays of the Gein Dynasty. Even Gein 2.0 heartily agrees when I occasionally wake up from a four day ecstasy bacchanal on the floor of Revolver screaming "your mother was a slave driving murderous criminal and she haunts me like Devils!" He hauls me up to my feet while my arms flail like windmills and usually chuckles some misinformed micro morality tale like "I don't disagree with your point of view, but I certainly agree with your right to say it... and btw who was my mother and why are you wearing Pikachu underwear outside your clothing?"

As a long time customer of ChowChow's and former friend of David Carradine until the cock stole my Hermes tie and DVD collection, I was compelled to tell him "listen Gauchow...it's August 6th motherfucker what does that mean to you in history? He picked his nose as he served the girl next to me a chicken wing, but more surely resembled a cat femur as I looked closer... and shook his head like one of those pathetic Collingwood fucking football dolls that sits on the dashboard of some rubbished Ford Falcon on Smith Street near Petrol Park. "August 6th was the day we invented microwave cooking....in Hiroshima... Happy Anniversary Bitch!"

Faster than I suspected being he was almost a perfect sphere on shoes, ChowChow grabbed me by the throat and wrestled me to the ground in front of the crowd on Cecil Street and spitting and growling like a pug dog being raped by a Doberman he cried "you muthafuckas!!! Dats a Japanese! NOT CHINESE! Das' zackary why dose fucks get angry and invent karaoke and Hyundai and ruin da hole planet! Die Yankee Dog!" I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the 14 inch carving knife I had just bought from the neighbourhood moderate Somalian Muslim teenager and plunged it into his throat, saving my own life but attracting a pack of Irish backpackers who fell to their knees and lapped up the spurting arterial pool screaming "free blood sausage, oi!" I pulled the knife out of ChowChow's throat and knelt down and looked him in the eye and as he went off to Ding Dong or Purgatory or wherever Dim Sim purveyors go...I whispered "Hyundai is Korean you idiot... and karaoke is the only chance fat Jewish accountants get to stand up and sing "Feelings" in front of hookers, footballers, gypsies, and ice cream manufacturers.... Welcome to Dreamtime motherfucker!"

His last breath was "PREY" and he was gone.

Regrettably, so were my free weekday Dim Sims in South Melbourne and I would be forced to flee. Not very quickly because the Australian Federal Police, en masse, were busy putting 4000 Somalians and Lebanese into prison for various terrorism charges. This was a good thing even if they had their tipoffs a bit floppy. King Kevin had said "if the information was correct we'd be saving Australian lives". I believe that. But I'd sacrifice Rudd's life in a heartbeat to bring back Sam the Koala. Rudd also said that "at the G20 Conference Sam was inspirational and the main topic of conversation". Really? You mean the world's leaders didn't marvel at Rudd's op shop glasses, his 3rd year Mandarin, or innovative ways to drain the economy drier than Germaine Greer's vagina or the Sahara Desert. I'm not sure which is drier but I know which one is full of dark starving people wandering around looking for food. It's Germaine's vagina.

And that was it...the week. One of the Gein promoters did manage to sneak PREY into a special secret screening at MUFF later this month, along with the special edition of the "making of", where all of Australia can see the original director lose his shit totally and be banished to Channel 31 docos for the rest of his career (sic) along with Aboriginal curses, scorching lesbian chainsaw action, and other family attractions. Creator/Curator Richard Masters has some tasty bits he's pulled from the Gein vault to premiere. There will be tips on how to set a few local enemies on fire in front of their children and other topical tips that all film fans need to know. And there's no animosity to those who hated it. At least you had an opinion and good on you for hating it! Bring on the hate and bring on the love! Just don't bring on "I don't fucking know".

Watch this space....

THE BLIND LEADING THE BLONDE

2009-07-28T21:30:00.000-07:00

I never...EVER...thought I'd be in Todd McKenney's corner...especially after slipping 300ml of GBH and 4 'mitsubishi' ecstasy tabs in his pocket while clubbing in Sydney and the fucker wrote me a bad cheque before changing his address to Rushcutter's Park and switching to Bendigo Bank which is a clear sign someone's a fucking loser.

But I am in his corner.

The "vision impaired" (read: FUCKING BLIND) paralympian Gerrard Gosen was pretty much dancing like Andrew O'Keefe on Chapel Street on DANCING WITH THE STARS and Todd got stuck into him for it, and now everyone with a club foot, one eye, any kind of palsy, or who slept with Jane McGrath or Jim Steynes and reads the Herald Sun is now crucifying Todd for saying "listen, the cunt is blind and can't fucking dance". I don't know Gerrard Gosens. I know I'd like him because I'm a positive 'can do' motherfucker but I would have said "hey Gezza... why not dance in the dark at Revolver with a bunch of fucked up Lebo's and Greek pill heads and look good rather than go on NATIONAL FUCKING TELEVISION and look like Michael J. Fox trying to breakdance in the kitchen while plugging in a blender while standing in a bathtub full of water?"

But nope...we have to cane a guy who is a winner but put in a 'no win' position. Would you EVER let Mark Webber be a valet car parker in Hollywood? Would you let Stevie Wonder open the DALI exhibition in the NGV? Would you let Glenn A. Baker or Molly Fucking Meldrun open a hat shop unless it was the Chemotherapy Club Hattery in Shepperaton? Would you have Cathy Freeman or Megan Gale speak at Valedictorian ceremonies unless it was the Moe College of Oral Knowledge? Would you have Austen Tayshus or Celine Dion on Project Runway (unless it was a fucking Emirates plane running over their shocking faces on an airport runway) FUCK NO!

So leave Todd the fuck alone and get over it! Crippled, blind, vision impaired, dickless, breastless, Aboriginal, junkie, Jewish kidney salesmen, Obama supporter, Cypriot loser, Sri Lankan acid fuck, whatever.... get your own category!

And speaking of losers, 20:1 (yes I watched it so did you fuckers!) last night featuring "GREATEST SONGS OF THE DECADE?" What fucking decade? Hey, schmuck! I didn't have to like the song to recognize it was "popular". But "PRAYER" from Anthony Callea? Who did he blow at Channel 9 (answer: quite a few even if Gavan Disney was on holiday) to get that accolade? Or Bocelli and Celine Dion for pretty much the same deal? Thank fucking Christ Bocelli is blinder than Gerrad Gosens cause if he could see he'd rather be going down on Michael Jackson (today) than standing next to Celine Dion.

Where the fuck did they get the stats? Downloads? Only retarded pimply fucks from private schools who are bullied by Sudanese pirates download shit like that. Let them top themselves and make BEYOND BLUE the biggest club in Australia and charge membership. Or have them go cook a curry at Silver Top Taxis in Collingwood and set the whole fucking station on fire like Sijad Sroonoopian or whomever did last night making a tandoori taxi wrap when it got out of control.

However, I gotta give points to the Brian McFadden and Darryn Hayes for their expertise and intelligence. But most of the other commentators should have been given a free room at the Jakarta Marriott a few weeks ago to the benefit of everyone. It looks like Glenn A. Baker already had. And it sounded like Deni Hines took some shrapnel also.

Notice how all the fat ugly chicks didn't like Rhianna? "what silly lyrics...!"

Bert Newton can't be blamed. He's only reading what he's told to say (like his son during girlfriend bashing testimonials) so let's call him innocent.

For now.

NEED WE SAY MORE?

2009-07-26T16:52:00.001-07:00

I get a good serotonin rush when I meditate to this pic. Not as good a hydroxytryptamine flood such as one gets watching porn on a 50" LG plasma whilst sitting in a hot tub scorching through an eight-ball with Alice In Chains (debut of course) at 120 decibels...but acceptable. It's kind of like the Magic Eye thing in the newspaper where you stare and stare and then 'let go' and you see all the kaleidoscopic nonsense suddenly transform into something cogent and recognizable and pleasant like an 18-wheeler going through the side of a train at Kerang. Or even like imagining the twisted face of some psychotic woman with zero grasp on reality like the one who accused Labor MP Theo Theophanous of rape. Not that a guy (Theophanous) who looks like a slightly improved dwarf version of Austen Tayshus wouldn't have to pay for sex every now and then or follow Josef Fritzl on Twitter -- but I have to say in a distinctly fair and non-misogynistic way that the accuser should be named, and her photograph published everywhere with the caption "this is one fucked up bitch". That's gotta be the rule... You accuse someone of rape or being a gypsy or being the sandwich in a threesome with Bob Brown and Stephen Conroy and then hide if the accused gets acquitted? Absolutlely no way can you stay anonymous. Where's the justice there? (NB: If anybody wants the aforementioned video it will be available on Blu-Ray at the new GeinWorld Store opening at Chadstone next month. $29.95 and includes interactive endings with / without gerbils. NB2: No gerbils were harmed during the shoot; at least the ones that could be found for interviews immediately following)

Anyway, since you're probably wondering about the meditative captioned photo (a magazine that should never be paid for but is worth stealing from newstands for the occasional good photos and high quality paper for cat litter) I would be lying if I wasn't excited about the fine upbeat reviews PREY got in the USA at the Las Vegas launch and the nationwide (USA) release combo that has a chunk of cinema, PPV/VOD across 6m (yes, six million) homes and expanding, and then the subseqent DVD rollout near Halloween. And Grandpappy Gein and Gein 2.o thought some of the tastier ones should be made available for the fans...

http://independentfilmquarterly.net/movie-reviews/prey.html

http://ilovelasvegasmagazine.blogspot.com/2009/06/okay-prey-on-this.html

http://www.examiner.com/x-10191-Indie-Movie-Examiner~y2009m6d25-Review-Horror-Comedy-film-Prey-Jesse-Johnson-Firery-demons

Couple that with the local DVD pre-order for OZ/NZ that is massive by any standards and we'll see who has the last chortle next year when the profitability factor is measured vs. the local critical backlash. There has been a tsunami of negativity about our celluloid child and it's time to set the record straight for fun-lovers. Great-Great-Grandpappy Gein (who was contacted through a seance in the back room of the Daily Planet during a Full Moon recently) said he "hadn't seen more bone pointing" since he crashed an ATSIC Convention wearing a sheet with eyeholes cut out under a t-shirt with Geoff Clark's picture sporting the caption "I love every bone in your body, especially mine!"

I was advised by both my travelling partner and friends to just "let it go" and after about 50 personal development seminars ranging from Landmark to Insight to Tony Robbins and John Demartini I can share that I have done so. I have culled my "People Who Need To Die" list down to only eight (*8 being a very lucky number in China!) so my work is almost done.

Time for a cup of green tea and some meditation!

TO THE MOON, EDITH!--A MEXICAN STANDOFF

2009-07-21T02:39:00.001-07:00

Forty fucking years. FORTY...FUCKING...YEARS... Yep! This day in 1969 we (the American part of the Gein heritage (thank you)and the civilized part of 'us' ('us' being the predominantly Western world and non Mohammed-worshiping self-immolating paleolithic part of the planet Earth) set foot on the Moon and achieved the most astonishing feat in scientific history. Maybe not as great an achievement as putting sickle cell anemia in an aerosol can, or having mandatory sterilization of people who either have more than two children or don't finish Year 10 in High School (can we separate that group into two sub genres I suspect not) or who think MAMA MIA was a great film or that pack rape should be an Olympic sport (if you live in Western Sydney or play Rugby League). It's tough. I was on a student tour in Paris (France, not Texas) and the people were 'booing and jeering' the greatest moment of humankind. But that's okay---they were just jealous. And I love all things French so the fact that students were trying to stand up and be noticed did disturb me (I was only 16) but I have a thick skin. That's why general fuckwits like G20 demonstrators and people who vote The Greens or think John Butler's fucking hat is cool worry me but I can allow those indiscretions.

I remember back to the Summer of '69 when our chubby Mexican gardner Sol Trujillo was telling my dad that he could invest his hard-fought coin in a gas-powered leaf blower and keep our yard quite refuse-free in the Upper Midwest. My dad, Grandpappy Gein as he was known amongst the eccentric masters of manicured green Elysian fields and sprawling acreage; was skeptical. "That boy will either be a pimp or head of an Australian Telco when he grows up, mind my words!" And history, as we have seen, has borne Grandpappy Gein (old "GG") correctafuckingmundo. Sol held both posts when he ran Telstra like a brothel staffed by lepers until he fled back to the USA and cried 'racist' after he sucked more money out of the Southern Hemisphere than New Zealand did through Ansett. And Ansett didn't swallow (look closely at the former PM Helen Clark to confirm this please). No stain...no gain.

So in the last week I've been forced to endure a sudden fucking tsunami of political correctness from back in the USA after our triumphant tour of the West Coast, across all shores over to the Gein compound here in Bayside Melbourne. Part of it would be the blight that the Melbourne Writers Festival brings to town under the guise of literature and education. A few quick tidbits:

Barack fucking Obama slides a zillion % estate tax back in to suck dollars out of dead people to help finance his New Socialism and pay for a trillion dollars rescue package for fucking hedge fund traders and gypsies who are defaulting on their trailer homes and General Fucking Motors. First of all, GM hasn't made a good car since Michael Jackson was black, and Vanilla Ice was white. Why keep a million overpaid union workers who have rorted the system for 20 years on the payroll? Burn it! Finish it! Game over. The cars suck. The workers got 40 years pay for 10 months work. Adios amigos.

Back here in Oz the banking system has put in more fees than a schizophrenic crack dealer and banks like Bendigo Bank (owned and operated by whores and thieves since inception from my research perspective) have asked staff to take 10 days off WITHOUT LEAVE PAY and no guarantee if they have job guarantees? A community bank? Where? Auschwitz? Given a choice of banking with them, using Telstra, or living in a concentration camp you'd need an Excel spreadsheet to figure the math(s) on that one.

Now I have to ham-handedly segue to violence. Because as a pacificist I'm inherently a lover of the death penalty. Here at home this week a couple of inbred Corinthian steroid-infested methamphetamine fuckwits went into Hungry Jacks at Prahran and collectively put some young kid into the hospital possibly for life and you can bet the courts will pity these young boys because they didn't get enough hugs from Grandma back in Salonika back in Grade School. Some retarded sick mongrel cunt from St. Albans (no, it wasn't the mayor but possibly a relative) cut the ears and tail off of a little puppy dog and is "in psychiatric care" in a hospital. WHY? Cut his dick off and send him to Newcastle to play or watch Rugby League and re-runs of ROVE or have sex with the Masterchef winner and teach this fuck a lesson once and for all!

An Indian cab driver or two are beaten and stabbed (and I wasn't in the cab but based on my last four trips I wish I had a club, taser, knife, or case of deodorant) and suddenly the entire subcontinent that isn't making calls from Mumbai selling long distance or discount energy is rioting on Flinders Street calling Australians racist. Racist? What's racist about killing or bashing someone who doesn't know the different beween Port Melbourne and Port Fairy? What's wrong with 'educating' someone who doesn't know Flinders Street from the Flinders Ranges? Am I missing something? If I get into a cab at the New Delhi airport and ask to be taken to the Taj Mahal and end up at the Jakarta Hilton being blown up and being told to pay the bloody fare what option do I have there? Call 1800-Ghandi and press "1" for support?

On a recent episode of Channel 9's "A Current Affair " (yeah, I like that show...I admit it. And I masturbate in the shower sometimes, too and once actually downloaded a Stephanie Macintosh song) I saw a dozen clips of students being beaten senseless and in some cases the mothers instigating it! Send the police into those homes with tasers and strip these people naked and 'tase' them and throw water on them until they cry and see if they'll bully anyone for the rest of their lives? And speaking of, on another Channel 9 show (20:1) Bert Newton announced that Cate Blanchette was one of the sexiest people alive unless my hearing and vision were incorrect. She may be a great actress, but it would take four high quality Ecstasy tabs for her to vault into "sexy" category. Unless you're Andrew Upton (her husband) But if Bert was making the selections maybe that was the problem. I know this has no bearing on this column but Gein 2.0, my travelling partner, and Girlfriend o' Gein were all shocked and dismayed at this astonishingly bizarre infraction of attraction. Anyway, next week we'll discuss this.

Put a 100% tourist ban on fucked up countries like Indonesia, most of the Mideast, most of Africa, Ascot Vale, West Virginia, and Indianapolis. You're allowed to go there but if you do it's 1000% on your own risk. No help from Mother Country. And withdraw all troops from there so they've got no reason to be pissed off. It's their country let them be. Done. Finished. But with one caveat: If they continue to send people to the UK and USA and Australia and groovy vacation places like Ibiza or Iceland and fuck shit up, we go over to their home country and make Hiroshima and Nagasaki look like a backyard fucking BBQ when we're finished. No half-measures. Stay the fuck away out of our shit or we melt you like cheap chocolate in the sun.

So whether they're Aboriginal, Jewish, Muslim, Greek, Gypsies, (Hungarian or Rumanian but I really think the Rumanians are the dangerous ones) Russian, or God-forbid Canadian or English....if they commit a violent crime they need to pay the price. And pay it hard. Doesn't matter their background-- a criminal is a criminal and if we have to kill every judge or make them have oral sex with Judy Moran and read Jake Wilson reviews whilst listening to "AUSTRALIANA" over and over and put it on You Tube to change the system then so be it. Somebody's gotta keep these maggots off the streets.

Why the negativity? Because the innocent are presumed guilty and the guilty presumed innocent. An Asian newsagent's family is murdered in Sydney and people think "triads or gangs". No way. Probably just sold way too many losing Tatts lotto tickets or delivered the wrong paper to the wrong house one too many times and a good customer snapped and over reacted. Sad really... but selling one Second Division win could have avoided that.

Conversely, a 19 year old Pommie backpacker (read: retard) wanders off in the Blue Mountains for 12 days and everyone cries "SCAM!". No way! He was young, English, and a tourist. This cunt's parent's would have thought Dodi Fayed was a danger to the Country (probably right actually) and Princess Diana was an angel. (Definitely no angels where she's chained to hot rocks these days I can tell you). He was just a fucking idiot who got lost. Kind of like Kevin Rudd but he managed to find his way to The Lodge because 60% of the voters in Australia have an extra chromosome. It's all math(s).

So let's torture and kill and maim the evil fucked up cruel messed-up non-rehabilitable morons that should have been abortions and save us all money and time and have a bit of fun stoning them or serving them as the in-flight meal on the next Jetstar flights that actually have meals if there exists such a phenomenon.

It's not time to reclaim the streets. It's time to reclaim the world my friends.

LEAVING LAS VEGAS---Letter from 35,000 feet

2009-07-05T06:09:00.000-07:00

The PREY USA premiere in Las Vegas was beyond comprehension and the hills are alive with music. The Yanks loved it and it's kicking ass and although the Aussie launches were phenomenal 99% of the local critics didn't get the campy humour or know what the fuck it was on about since it didn't have Aboriginals, women with moustaches, or junkies. Hence it'll never be embraced at home except by the fans so we'll see who has the last laugh. But that deserves a separate post all it's own, and after a week in Vegas at THE PALMS and subsequent rewind at The Sunset Marquis (my new fave place in LA) it's time for a quick life-reflecto and so the ‘crack’ of the mini bottle opening at 35,000 feet is a delightful sound. Free top shelf booze mid-flight while everyone else is either sleeping or dead in Business Class en route back home to Oz is something that everyone in the Gein entourage appreciates. And it’s my birthday so without the benefit of a cake and candles an 18-year-old will do just fine. Scotch, that is. It’s the ninth one thus far and I’ve crossed both the International Date Line as well as the Point of No Return on decision-making regarding in-flight pranks.

Gein 2.0 is snoozing with his mouth open like a famished ramora eel so it’s a given that I’m going to open the attractive United Air Lines salt and pepper sachets and empty them into his gaping maw and watch him slurp and chew invisible food until he wakes up with his palate blistering for water---and whilst floating in his somnambulistic state I hand him the Coke ™ can I’ve filled with vodka to watch him chug and roar. It’s not what some people would call fatherly but it beats the in-flight entertainment and every magazine, periodical, flyer, and newspaper that can only give one more angle on the life and death of Michael Fucking Jackson.

Don’t get me wrong. He (Jackson) was a talented guy. An amazingly talented guy. But nobody has spun one of his records since Kurt Cobain was cleaning shotguns and suddenly he’s like swine flu at a Guadalajara taco stand and there’s nowhere to turn. Bernie Madoff bilks $80 Billion dollars or something in some fucked up Ponzi scheme and decimates 1000 families and gets 150 years and that doesn’t even make the Sports page. Farrah Fawcett dies and she gets page 11. This chick inspired more hard-ons than a World Catholic Youth Day and is relegated to sharing a page with a riveting article about real estate prices in Huntsville, Alabama and the dangers of excess acetaminophen in medicines.

I’m getting fed up with the news media in both the USA and Australia after two weeks back in the States because they don’t have a clue what’s important. They’re focusing on shit nobody cares about and trying to make it seem important. Coups in Honduras? Honduras? No one can even find Honduras on a fucking map, let alone gives a shit. Name one Honduran? Impossible! It’s more confusing than Father’s Day in Harlem. And speaking of fathers…what the fuck is Joe Jackson gonna do now for crack and hats? Back to the drawing board on that one at the next family meeting. You can just hear that phone call between Jermaine and Janet Jackson late the other night.

“No way am I gonna sleep with Dad again! It’s your turn Jermaine, and bring the Oxycontin ‘cause you know it’s gonna sting when he uses the strap-on!”

Ensconced in my West Hollywood hotel with 413 channels of cable I spent days trying to find a channel that was Jackson-Free but couldn’t do it. The worst was suffering through interviews with such mongrel subhumans like Marlon Brando’s son TiVo or whatever the fuck his name was and the World’s Most Talentless White Woman, Liza Minelli. I kept wondering why Judy Garland didn’t kill herself whilst she was pregnant with Salad Fingers and couldn’t do the math on that one.

Anyway, the thing I’m really upset about is that after spending about USD $50 on the requisite glossies for the flight (GQ, ESQUIRE, a week of VARIETY, THR, and the rest) it’s like suddenly every blow-in subscription card and offer on the planet has bred exponentially and there are literally dozens of these fuckers between every-other-page of the mags.

Yep, this is it. THIS….IS…IT. This is the one thing that really gets under my craw more than affirmative action, battlers, Kevin Rudd, people who think Obama is God, Rove, ugly fat chicks on “Idol”, or Meryl Streep in overalls. MOTHERFUCKING subscription cards in magazines. When this fucking plane lands and hopefully back in Melbourne and not Air France-style in the middle of the ocean I’m going to spend the first day back finding out who the cunt is that invented ‘blow in’ cards in magazines and if he is still alive implant more cancerous cells in his chest than a convention of breast cancer victims. If he’s dead and has living children I’m going to chain them naked to chairs and slice them with Time Magazine subscription cards so that they’ve got millions of little paper cuts all over their faces and every time they look in the mirror and see the scars they’ll remember Daddy’s legacy to inane, insane, mindless, annoying, worthless incendiary marketing fuckery that has inflicted more pain than the Holocaust ever did. And I know it was some fucking guy who did it and not a woman so I’ve narrowed the search down by 50%. If you wonder how I deduced that do some research into the Hubble telescope and you’ll come up trumps on gender-based scientific achievements. Sorry ladies.

Back to my birthday celebrations.

July 1st has a great ring to it. The height of Summer (in the heartland of America where Geins have spawned for centuries), the annexure of most Americans’ favorite holiday (The Fourth of July) and for those of us who journeyed to Australia the beginning of a new financial year. All good. Until you look at the horoscopes and “Born On This Day” footnote and see Pamela Anderson and Princess Diana. I guess I kind of always liked Pammy. Hard not to. But Princess fucking Diana?

After decompressing from Cannes Film Festival back in May my travelling partner and I wandered through Harrod’s in London and lo and behold came upon the Dodi and Di fountain tribute in the bowels of the store. My attempt to put a Harrod’s black shopping bag over Diana’s head and have a photo taken was abruptly shunted by a security guard who was certainly Mohammed Atta’s half-brother, despite the fact that I had spent a few euros in the bakery only moments before and had the receipt dangling from my shirt pocket in full view.

The crowds that were absolutely weeping over this manipulative troglodyte barnacle of humanity that didn’t even know how to wear a seat belt and was probably the inspiration to every ‘victim’ on the planet was almost indescribable. The only recompense was that there were a lot of Japanese shooting pictures and smiling. Kind of made me want to be wearing my fave T-shirt that sports a picture of a nuclear mushroom cloud and declares “Made in America…Tested in Japan” and see how fast those smiles would fade but that’s next holiday. And yes, they were Japanese not Chinese or Koreans I do know the difference, thank you. If they were Chinese they wouldn’t have had cameras and they would have been in Selfridges… not Harrods. If they were Koreans they would have been stealing things and loading up in the toilets. Cameras + smiles + Burberry = Japanese

So the point is? The point is, is that every July 1st for the next 1489 years I will have to put up with having to read about Princess Fucking Diana and I get harder than Chinese arithmetic just hoping that one day the photos of her ashen bloodless corpse braided in the twisted wreckage of that Merc in the tunnel in Paris will surface and it will be the screensaver on every Mac in the Gein household…and there are several just aching for it. I’m afraid that people who think Princess Diana brought something to the world are on the same Facebook page of “people who think Mama Mia was a great movie”.

Those are people who need to die.

Okay, that’s out of my system. The flight attendants who typically fall somewhere between Shamu and Shrek are actually starting to seem a bit more cosmetically acceptable but I suspect it’s Scotch #10 and I have to be eternally vigilant lest I start thinking dangerous things like telling diggers on Anzac Day that the Kokoda Trail is just a brisk hike.

And meanwhile back in Oz the news is all about the horrible rorting of the system that pollies are are committing taking spending a couple hundred bucks at Hooters in Las Vegas and rubbish like that. Listen, I’d rather be sniffing petrol with Rolf de Heer and David Gulpillill than vote Labor but for chrissakes let these politicians have a few drinks and entertain and have some fun. $20m in overseas ‘rorts’? That’s less than a dollar per Aussie so who fucking cares? Fuck the battlers they don’t pay taxes so they have no right to complain. Shame on the Herald Sun which normally has all the great scoops but they’ve really gone desperate on this one.

Why don’t the papers every have any good news? It’d be so great to wake up and see a headline like “Former Premier Steve Bracks found dead with with naked young boy in his bedroom” or “Austen Tayhsus found dead of cocaine overdose in North Rose Bay Synagogue” or something heartwarming like that ---or seeing Michelle Obama on RedTube in a 3-way with some Ku Klux Klansmen but the odds are pretty slim on the first and last and only hopeful on the middle one.

But we can always hope, can’t we?

WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD

2009-05-28T07:34:00.000-07:00

This will be a short post. There's not a lot I can say tonight after walking out of Crown cinemas (btw, will someone possibly do a random sampling of DNA at CROWN and solve at least 48% of all crime in Victoria please???) after experiencing OBSERVE AND REPORT. Warner Bros. marketing people must have felt like the the average trader Joe in the World Trade Center on 9/11 after he snorted a huge rail on the desk, opening the electric automated curtains in their corner office at about 10am that morning and went "WTF!" as the jumbo headed towards their windows. They would have had no fucking idea what to do with Seth Rogan as a bi-polar mall cop with an obsession over becoming a real cop and an infatuation with a beauty bar chick. "Hey Marv...it's still just a Seth Rogan film what's hard about this??? Just put his smirking mug on the poster! BTW did anybody ever look at the script before green-lighting this sucker???"

"Dark" is not the word for this film. Dark would be the mood that Mike Tyson's babysitter would be experiencing at this writing and that would be ebullient in comparison to O & R.

Thursday night in Melbourne. No more '24' to watch (yes...I did...but I didn't steal a car or a purse). Rainy boredom. Time for a family bonding event. The father-son movie.

After queueing for tickets for approximately the half-life of Plutonium behind a pack of Burmese prostitutes who came in wearing high heels at least half as tall as them and who---like all chatty foreigners wait until they're at the box office to decide what fucking film they are going to see and how to pay for it in both drachmas and euros from their last customers at the Brunswick Slide and Shine--Gein 2.o and I asked the ticket guy why he was the only one working on a Thursday night at Melbourne's busiest entertainment venue? (NB: Actually there was a second window open but alas that was the Gold Class cubicle where a couple who probably had last been at a film before Bud Tingwell starting smoking filterless Camels were enquiring if AUSTRALIA was still playing, having obviously just seen an AAT KINGS bus with Nicole Kidman's mug gracing the mudflaps out in the parking lot).

Ticket Man(c) didn't answer, shaking his head like Michael J. Fox during a quiet moment at home but when we asked him if he had seen O & R he looked us up and down and quietly volunteered "it's pretty dark...I'm not sure if it's for everyone..." By everyone he meant us, of course. But he was wrong and because he was working virtually alone at the "Extra Chromosome Fun Club" down at CROWN it was obvious his life was the result of a series of compellingly wrong choices thus far.

Wonder of Wonders there were four bees behind the counter of the candy bar and our Jumbo Combo came faster than a Bar Mitzvah boy getting head from a supermodel and we entered the cinema just in time for a tasty commercial about the perils of the drug, Ice. Not a bad spot and highly entertaining esp the girl picking her scabs for invisible spiders (which is another one of 3,459 reasons cocaine remains the drug of choice for the entertainment industry and ice is the drug of choice for those who thought Year 5 at school was 'just too bloody hard..'. Then again, it was a refreshing ad compared to the miserably fucked up ads the TAC in a moment of mutated lucidity thought would be grand to have young film makers submit flicks about the peril and loss of drunk driving. Every time I see one of those amateur paeans to some poor sad soul who slightly missed the 90° turn in his dad's V8 Commodore full of friends because he drank 1200ml of Bundy and Coke an hour before I chuckle and guffaw and and shed a tear only because it would have been a 'win' if the film maker had died in that fucking car and saved us all from his or her painful future career attempts.

A marginal trailer for a Jack Black 'comedy' (not that there ever exists anything with Jack Black since HIGH FIDELITY that was worth 10 cents but one can always hope) and then a quick look-see to check out the crowd: Four other people. Not bad...it was right up there with the PREY season for attendance and that boded well for a great quirky flick that no one would understand out there in the world of trains, timetables, corporate employment, or open-mindedness.

The ensuing 90 minutes was probably unmatched in recent memory for blackness. Not Sampson and Delilah kind of blackness but through the wormhole out the back end of the Quark kind of blackness.

Writer/director Jody Hill has made a modern masterpiece that I will gobble up when it comes out on DVD (out of reverence for the film and abject surprise that Village is showing it here in Australia I will not download this one...:) and sit naked in the Gein Theatrette and watch over and over on a variety of substances until I find the one most suitably tailored for 'the experience'. But tonight, just a popcorn and Diet Coke accompanied one of singular best efforts at an entirely original script that I have seen for a very very very long time.

Go see it while you can. If you love it, please let the folks at GeinWorld know so there's hope. If you hate it, take your family to Kerang and lie on the fucking tracks and wait for either a truck or train (or both!) to unsubscribe you from the list of life. There's a better place for you either upstairs or downstairs. Just not here.

BLOODIED, BUT UNBOWED...

2009-05-17T14:17:00.001-07:00

Well, I did hear the villagers coming and still opened the door thinking it was well wishers. But like Sharon Tate hearing the doorbell and leaping to her feet chirping "we've got company!" it proved not to be the friends I expected. PREY has brought out more knives from the critics than a reality kitchen show on crack. From land and sea the sweltering masses have declared their anger and disdain, but not quelling the zillions of Twitterers and Facebook clickies that drive it forward across the fertile plain and heaving oceans to it's fresh staging point here in Cannes. Granddaddy Gein, who originally told us that we shouldn't have given aging George T. Miller the reins back in '07 but protected us with his important Final Cut clause---seems somewhat puzzled at the attacks on post director Oscar D'Roccster, when it was really O.D. (as he's fondly known in the industry) that took Unhappy Feet's gang rape of the original story and managed to restore the groovy campy result that auds seem to love and nearly filled a 10am Cannes Market Screening on Thursday morning here on the Croisette. He warned us "you've got the wrong George Miller!" as he took his teeth out for the night and shook his head. But fortunately after Not Smiling Don left the building for good after a 'director's cut' that looked to us like it had been created by Stevie Wonder with Michael J. Fox on the Avid, O.D. went to town and snakes alive if we're not happy with the result. So if 38 people in a 40 seat theatrette at 10am can come out for it and the majority enquire about territories...we'll let the numbers speak for themselves.

So I must admit after waking up in our posh suite on the beach following the Sydney launch, where auds and critics alike gushed over the event and screening and lavished praise on us, that one of the journalistic minions of gozer took the night, film, and event apart like Anita Cobby. But that's okay, because Gein 2.0 found out where he lives, and knows where his desk is at the paper, and I can assure you that he will have a personal "Marysville Experience" and personally learn the difference between "bad special effects" and being personally engulfed in flame. Watch this space. And if you know who we're talking about and work in the cubicle next to this person... MOVE THURSDAY! :)

But at the end of the day the criticism put us up against $15m-$20m films, and we cost less than $4m so after 750ml of Scotch, some OxyContin that I keep for moments like this, and a 25 hour flat-bed QANTAS flight to Heathrow en route to Cannes... I had the Gein Spirit back in my blood and and fighting fit for battles on the Croisette once again.

I did answer the door. I did invite them in. Now it's time for Round Two.

Pedo Horse out.

THE KNIVES ARE OUT... IT'S PREY TIME!

2009-05-03T06:36:00.000-07:00

Well, the electricians are sparking. The projectionists are projecting. The crowds are queuing. The posters are up. The ads have begun. The PREY 'stalking4fun' website (www.preytime.com.au) has already sent two idiots that can't take a joke running to the police stations in their respective townships, and in 48 hours (Sydney) and 96 hours (Melbourne) the cat will truly be out of the bag and the villagers will begin their serpentine march up the hill with glowing torches en route to Dr. Frankenstein's castle one more time to burn out the monster.

Like waking up in your 38th floor corner office in the World Trade Center after crashing in your office after a wild September 10th, 2001 coke binge (having being way too baked to drive home) -- you pull open the curtains on your posh 38th floor office and destiny stares you right in the face for one brief shining moment. It's time. It's PREY time.

The last several months whilst walking down the streets I have heard it even with my battered fading aural capacities. That zzzzzzzing sharpening sound. That sound you hear in butcher shops, ninja schools, samurai academies, and occasional media reviewers' homes. The sound of knives being made razor sharp for something new to cut and devour. And on the menu starting later this week at selected cinemas around Australia is PREY. Soon after the Darkness will spread and build a new nest in Las Vegas and begin again in America. But the sounds will follow closely and stealthily like a swath of swine flu trailing a few shadowy steps behind the gardner just back from Guadalajara for a family reunion.

Whether sipping a bit of warm ginger beer over the hearth at my Winter Palace in Northeastern Wisconsin with my trusty Indian slave Klippie Snarf; or sunning myself on the Croisette in Cannes, or gazing out over the condoms and needles that form an altar of countenance on the face of the average St. Kilda dweller, I hear them. The sharpening ....the sharpening... it begins as a low grinding but rapidly becomes like an insane metal bee on crack wanting to be a Transformer when it grows up. I hear the knives being unsheathed and readied.

And like Pedo Horse... I watch...and wait.

Because now is the time to stand where others have fallen. Now is the time to hunt down and confront those who would take on The Geins and attempt their moment of glory. Gein Hunters have fallen one by one since July 26th, 1984 (regrettably a Thursday) but they keep on coming. And one more time I must rise up and qwell the sharpening sounds lest I become a human pin cushion for rubbish dwellers and fall to the minions of mediocrity.

A few weeks ago as I noted above, a recipient of a PREYTIME stalking text gift (www.preytime.com.au) failed to see the connection between the purposely startling text message that came into her mobile phone, but some minutes later was followed by an explanatory text from the sender (her former friend). Being a deeply disturbed female who apparently had been stalked at one point in her life (The Gein Group has requested a photo to ensure she was stalked for beauty and not supper...) she got in her un-air conditioned 1972 Gemini with Pokemon figurine dangling from her rear vision mirror and high-tailed it to the police station in an effort to ensure dangerous text messages like this would cease and desist. The Gein Group can confirm that this caused us no small amount of consternation as the Wizards of Digital Wonder who created this for us were concerned that hazardous moments could ensue. But fortunately the police realized that efforts were futile and an attempt to thwart the PREY juggernaut would only result in the bone being pointed at them....

But lo and fucking behold it happened again hours later to woman from Mosman (Northern Sydney) (an area where text messages are often misspelled and usually consist of timely and topical fodder such as "meat u 4 soccer mums drnx 10 mins L8" or "@ Sizzler want me 2 order 4 u?" and because she is married to a barrister (which for you North American fans is like a way more overpaid lawyer with that fucked up wig thing happening) we actually were forced to wake the gimp over at Great Grandaddy's Gein's house and consult the Leaves of Lucidity (LOL) for advice. The leaves, when boiled in the lymphatic fluid of a failed Jenny Craig (c) subscriber, will rise to the top like the torso of an Aussie backpacker outside of Dubrovnik and form a pentagonal design that under a full moon will spin and dictate through divination which path to take. If you undertake this exercise and do it correctly, you could do as Barack Obama and become US President. If you're drunk and read them wrong, you might be compelled to go outside and stand on a Memphis balcony like Dr. Martin Luther King did. Once. Conversely, you might skip the directions, and as Heath Ledger did last year misread the divination and thus become frustrated and tire easily and feel a massage and nap will fix you up. It's a fragile, rare, and well-trained LOL master who can perform this task consistently and accurately. Great Grandaddy Gein is the best in the business and his words were pretty fucking clear "Stand tall, and if anyone knocks your teeth out, spit them back in his face!" I found these words calming though somewhat desultory, as he immediately laughed and turned viciously towards my and screamed and drooled "take lots of drugs...and STAY AT HOME!" The fact that he was wearing striped pyjamas and wearing a button that declared "Lose Weight! Ask me how!" did not put me off, however.

So it's time. It's time to blot out the sun and leer in the moonlight of the approaching full moon. I can sense the attacks but I fear them not as the hordes will support me. The hordes will know the knife bearers when they see them and devour them. The hordes truly want fun and enlightenment and will know fear and exultation when it is revealed to them, and will not fall victim to the Plight of the Western Battler and join the knife-sharpeners.

I am Pedo Horse. I watch.

And wait.

Dreamtime's Over....motherfucker!

Cancer is the new black...

2009-04-11T03:05:00.000-07:00

I think I understand now that the public took the "Ban the Run For the Kids" post a bit hard. About a billion emails and Tweets later...I can see that pediatric cancer is still more popular than Perez Hilton with the average suburban family.

All I suggested was "why not take the RUN FOR THE KIDS" up to the Snowy Mountains or someplace in the country where it won't fuck up traffic and make most people want to run down the dilwads who couldn't make it to the gym last year but are compelled to waddle down St. Kilda Road for about a month to raise eighty cents for the charity? Is that too difficult?"

I mean, I had a brother who died of cancer when he was eight. This was ostensibly a good thing because I was born eighteen months later and if he'd lived this post probably wouldn't exist (nor would I you idiot!) and you'd be sitting home watching PROOF OF LIFE on Channel 9 on a Saturday night instead of entertaining and educating yourself here because that's the only Russell Crowe or Meg Ryan film that the network could buy for under $1.99 at MIPCOM last year.

I didn't say "I hope these kids die". Well, not aloud. I said "why not have the run elsewhere?" because Melbourne has too many fucking events that pack rape the city faster than building a mosque next to the Frankston line. I'd donate a couple bucks to have somebody run to Mt. Dandenong from Taylor's Lakes (and hopefully never fucking return) and thus provide expensive chemo for some young kid and feel good about it without sitting on King's Way for longer than it took Ted Kennedy to find his car after he want scuba diving with Mary Jo Kopechne. (Not drowning..waving...!)

So those of you who sent me the mean-spirited emails can sit at home alone masturbating to MAMA MIA on Blue Ray until your next mammogram or prostate exam reveals a lump the size of Austen Tayshus's nose and you wish you had private health cover when you realize you'll be sequestered in a hospital run by Pakistani orderlies and struck-off Belgian doctors until your drip feed of morphine runs out and you are begging for a visit from euthenasia supporters just to end the pain. Your only relief other than reading an interview in a women's magazine about how tampons are great for fondue because you won't burn your fingers if you hold onto the string will be betting on how many pounds Oprah puts on and loses before you get the 'all clear' sign from your doctor sometime around 2013.

And no one will be running for your ass, trust me on that one.

But I understand the sympathy for children as do most corporations---self evident when companies like World Vision certainly wouldn't stick 100 flies on a 63-year-old tradesman when a couple of swollen infants will do the trick on one take.

"Okay Haji.... move towards the camera and the Snickers bar... hands out...hands out...thaaat's it!.. CUT!"

Anyway, ham-handedly seguing to the Dark Continent----is there anyone who can help me raise money to drop a nuclear bomb on Somalia and put these criminal pirate clowns down for 10,000 years? How about "Run for the Pirates?" Everyone puts up money and we nuke Northeast Africa and count (on one hand) the people who will be missed. Of course, we will forgo the great sequels to the world's thinnest novels:

"101 Somalian Contributions to Society"

"Great Sudanese Recipes!"

"Chad---where we put the sand back in sandwich"

When I see Somalian 'war lords'--people who couldn't operate a blender because they wouldn't know a powerpoint from a Rubic's Cube--going out to sea and killing and threatening your average seafaring kind of guy---I see no problem with removing their whole Country from the map of the world and ticking the box under "improvement". North Korea would be next on the list but good old President Obama is confident "the United Nations" can handle that threat. Then again, he's from Chicago where standing up for your rights traditionally means calling a Teamster to beat the fuck out of someone so why not hand it over to the helpless?

Cruel, harsh? Nah... The Geins are tough Midwesterners and we can take it. Just do us a favor and take your fucking marathon out to the country where the air is fresh and you stay out of our way.

And on a parting note---this one is for the packs of bicycles tear-assing down Ormond Esplanade in the pre-dawn hours near the Gein Compound. If you don't observe the traffic light at Barkly Street or near the Elwood Kiosk---don't whinge when I pull out on the clear green and drive your lycra-clad Italian-knit face straight into a light post and cripple you for life such that you can't even drool into the cup the buxom young nurse will be holding for you at The Alfred. I've officially declared war on your kind and you will never know what hit you until you wake up with your legs in the air and the Gein Clan staring down at you with a smirk and a smile.

Phone Jesus if you're worried. He's as close as you're gonna get this Sunday till next year. Even Vodafone couldn't drop that call...

THE MYTH OF THE BATTLER

2009-03-28T21:07:00.000-07:00

In Australia, there is a class of people that essentially represent the core of Australia. The (ostensibly) hard working lower middle class.

In every major newspaper in Oz this past week the feature business articles (too many and too lazy to link) have been on 'how the battlers will fare' during the global financial crisis'. If we examine the 'battler', which these days for the most part can be called 'loser' because no matter what they seemingly do they can't get from A to B and "B" ain't all that hard for the rest of us---we see a common thread:

a: They vote Labor (what a surprise)
b: They left school early (oops!)
c: That fifth or sixth child is making it "impossible to make ends meet" (really??????)
d: The don't think they'll ever own their own home
e: They complain about the price of Grand Finals tickets, and other elite spectator events like the Australian Open or Grand Prix.

As a naturalized Aussie, (the first of the former North American contingent of Gein ex-pats), I can now comment with impunity about this class, or subclass as the case may be and the few 'exemptions' that should be granted.

There are a number of highly successful business people in this Country who came from, literally, nothing. Love them or loathe them (one can't control image or perception any more than the weather, regrettably) they have come from shit box families, cesspool suburbs, and every other kind of handicap and made it big in their fields: Eddie Maguire, Cathy Freeman, Crazy John Ilhan, Frank Lowy, Heath Ledger, Richard Pratt, Bryan Brown, Mr. Bubbles, and hundreds more...maybe thousands? Some have passed on (I told Crazy John he didn't need a walk and Heath Ledger he didn't need a nap...) but that's not the point.

The point is, is that if someone who is given a free education can't or won't finish it, if someone who is close to the bone financially keeps having children to fill some stupid hole of worthlessness in their ne'er-do-well vacant soul, if someone who wants to be a success votes for a socialist who wants to distribute wealth rather than rewards those who privately can make it and do more for society with charity than the government could ever do with policy, if someone who has some misguided notion that owning a fucking Delfin home or some shitbox in some yob suburb that a miscreant psychopath like Leigh "I used to coach instead of going to prison" Matthews is telling them is a good investment on free-to-air TV (the Official Airwaves for Retards of All Ages), then these people are given a ticket straight to loserville and are always gonna be there. They're not battlers, they're misguided idiots who will never learn. And that's okay...Sudan has them also. They're the ones wandering the fucking desert looking for water and food. There hasn't been water or food there for 2000 years!!!!! IT'S A FUCKING DESERT!!!!!!!!!! NOTHING GROWS IN THE DESERT! MOVE TO WHERE THE FOOD IS!!!!!!!!! FUCK!!!!

Here in Australia we have deserts BUT WE DON'T LIVE IN THEM!!! In America they have deserts BUT THEY DON'T LIVE IN THEM!!!!! The only things that live in deserts in civilized countries are bugs, serial killers, fans of Austen Tayshus, pedophiles, gypsies, Opus Dei followers, and people who think "THE BLACK BALLOON" was a good film. And that is where the fuck they belong since concentration camps have gone out of vogue. For now.

So if you're reading this blog, you have a computer (or stole one and that's okay too). You have at least finished high school and that's 90% of the trick. There is no excuse for school leavers. "ooohhhh it's too hard I needed a job at the 'Quick n Quim' to feed my infant" There is no excuse for blowing your savings on a tool shed in Moe or Taree and losing your job at the Yarn Barn and getting your house (sic) repossessed.

YOU ....SHOULD....RENT!

The Geins have been homeowners as well as renters. I proudly rent so that all my spare money can go to drugs, women, and clothing. When there's a leak in my tap or a noise airconditioner I can call the Greek handyman (yes, a battler!!!) and go "fix this fucking thing you malaka, Stavros-- so it doesn't sound like Camp XRay when I'm trying to sleep after three days on the 8-Ball Express!!!! Yassoou Yassssou!!"

So whether I'm broke or cashed up, I am responsible for myself. I can't blame the government, blame the rich, blame the poor, or blame Jesus, Mohammed, Moses, Jim Jones, Charles Manson, Yahoo Serious or any other motherfucker except myself.

And as a caring-and-sharing young man who has taken more personal development seminars than Martin Bryant before he went hunting that sunny afternoon, I can share a few things that exempt people from loser status and allow them to emerge as winners. People who have undergone catastrophes of medical misfortune, earthquake, the recent fires in Victoria, and other things beyond the pale. I'm not heartless; far from it. There was a severely handicapped man named Matt Laffin who died a few weeks ago. This guy had more medical problems than Stephen Hawking and had a fantastic inspirational life that any man or woman on the planet would be honoured to have. He was confined to a wheelchair, almost dwarflike, his spine twisted like a pretzel at the Royal Show, and one of the happiest proudest men on Earth. (NB: The fact that he was a Rugby League fan critically blemished that life and if it's 'the game they play in heaven' I'd rather spend eternity in fucking hell than sit around with no-neck yobbo rapists running around a field like rats in a circular maze on cocaine, but let's not take anything away from Matt.) And by the way, whoever is the retard wanker that coined that term 'the game they play in heaven' is certainly doomed to eternity masturbating to photos of large Samoan men and steroid-crazed red-headed U.K. gits for daring to compare an anal exploration of sport with anything blissful in life. But that's another blog. Maybe Thursday.

So it's proof that no matter what your background, medical condition, or financial status is, you don't have to be a battler or victim. You don't have to be a loser.

And of course you can vote Labor, be educated and erudite, and still be a fuckwit. Ask Julian Burnside, QC, if you can get him away from the mirror long enough to get his attention.

And for the life of me, why is it the 'battlers' can complain about the price of beer or hot dogs or more importantly TICKETS to world class sporting events? The players (Football, Tennis, Soccer, Swimming, whatever) spent years and years and millions of hours dedicating their lives to their game and now it's Finals Time or Olympics or whathaveyou. So why the fuck should somebody who couldn't even finish High School complain about the cost of the tickets????? You couldn't finish Year Twelve at Petrolsniffer High School in Western Sydney and you want concession prices and tickets to the Commonwealth Games or the Super Bowl? When did greatness suddenly become the domain of the quitter? That's why tickets are expensive---to keep losers out of the stadium!!!! Those of us who work 24/7 ( that's 24 minutes, 7 times a year) and pay a premium want to have a 'battler free' experience! That's why God invented Free to Air TV! : For losers! (and if you question me sit down and watch 72 Hours of "Bogan Pride" "Packed to the Rafters" or "Blue Heelers" reruns and try and tell me euthanasia is a bad idea... )

And in closing, the next time you spare a tear for the 'battlers' and laud former (thank fucking God former..!) Premier Steve Bracks for stopping on the West Gate Bridge to save some nutcase nignog 'battler' from jumping to his ignoble (and celebratory) death, remember that it would have only been a win if the psycho threw Bracks off the fucking bridge before killing himself, and that the Victoria Police would have sent his widow Terry a citation for 'stopping on the bridge' and blocking traffic.

That's what the people really want.

WHEN RAPE IN A BASEMENT SERVES A PURPOSE

2009-03-23T14:48:00.000-07:00

Whilst we are in the middle of the undertow of economic slowdown here in Australia that will slowly, then inescapably draw us into the deep waters of recession---Prime Minister Kevin Rudd (elected by the same mongrels who complained about Howard's work policies and now find themselves out of jobs altogether because factories under the People's Republic of Kevin are closing faster than you can say "的过去式和过去分词在…里" ) is tippy toeing off to the USA to have some KFC and grits with Barack "let's print more money!" Obama and hide some Easter eggs on the White House lawn so he knows exactly where to look when he comes back in April

Meanwhile, here at home UnderscharFuehrer und Goebbels-devotee Communications Minister Stephen Conroy is whittling away at the last few freedoms Australians have; installing his home-made Internet Filter Dome of Values so that posts like this will disappear faster than an Aussie backpacker in Dubrovnik. As predicted by Gein World International last year and verified yesterday in The Age, wunderkind ISP iiNET withdrew from the Hitler Dome Tests because of massive errors which blocked scores of legitimate sites and good old fashioned folks like dentists and day-care centers. And maybe you and I pretty soon?

When Grandpa Gein invented the internet in Al Gore's basement back in May 1933, he told all of us that freedom of speech was what the good old USA was founded upon. Nothing could be more important. And he also shared such witticism as "there's nuthin' a rope and some good ol' boys in high quality 100 count Egyptian cotton bed linens and a burning cross can't fix..."

When I was a young boy in Wisconsin, I used to sneak under my dad's tool box in the garage and pull out racy adult magazines and share them with my friends. Racy by 1950's standards but not so much by today's. But standards are standards and one night my father reached across the dinner table with a scalding hot ladle full of Grandma Gein's triple thick gravy (best served at 2000° C!) and poured it on my brother Andy's head, taking much of his hair off and and melting the left side of his face. When he fled screaming my dad chuckled, took a bite of meatloaf, and speaking through gravy, meat, and ketchup declared "thidist bhoy woernt be readh'ng maitthingz ugin!" (English (lit)(tradtional) "this boy won't be reading my things again!") Andy was blamed for stealing the magazines and the good thing is I never read them again as I knew that no matter how much I wanted to see large breasted women summarily declothed...I also knew never to fuck with my dad when he was angry. Angry existed usually after a bad golf game or during his endless bouts of attempting to quit smoking.

So if I attempted to sneak downstairs, dodging every squeaky spot on the steps as I meandered ninja-like (although ninjas didn't exist in America in the 1950's) in my Rin Tin Tin pyjamas, after 9pm on a school night to catch a glimpse of "Peter Gunn" or "The Alfred Hitchcock Show", my mother's endless and immeasurable spectrum of hearing would detect me and she'd come over to the stairs and whisper "get back in bed! Do you want daddy to burn you like Andy???"

This is how censorship was handled in good families. By the parents. Not the school teachers. Not the neighbours. Not some whinging Pom closet-psychopath control freak needle-dick deciding who sees, reads, says, or writes what we can have on the internet. It's take to nip it in the bud, before it takes off.

So because I'm busy the next few months earning a quid to keep the Gein Family in plasma TV's, ocean views, and Ferragamo loafers---I'd urge every red-blooded Australian to march down to Canberra and abduct Field Marshall Conroy, shove him on an Austria Airlines flight straight to Vienna, and take him to Josef Fritzl's house (currently on the market), lock him in the basement, and have a go like The Gimp in "Pulp Fiction" and donkey punch him until he sees the error of his ways and becomes a COMMUNICATION Minister instead of a DISINFORMATION Minister.

NB: Do not forget that Mao Tse Rudd is his greatest supporter and so if you can wait till he's back from his cluster fuck in the White House, you might get a two-for-one special if you subscribe to QANTAS's Red Email Specials and take them both down the basement for a group lesson.

The Minister has shared he wants all of this in place by Xmas.

Act now, whilst you still can.

WE NEED A NEW DISASTER--The Commonality of Catastrophe

2009-03-14T16:32:00.000-07:00

Waking up this morning and flipping on the TV was not a good experience. There on my giant HD widescreen anamorphic 16:9 gold-leaf hand-set one-off Scandinavian pixel platens was Queensland politican Pauline Hansen stark naked. It was a horrific way to wake up. Not as bad say, as waking up to Rosie O'Donnell, Sasquatch, or Austen Tayshus naked... but definitely in the same category:

Unspeakable

I flipped off the set immediately using the 492-function laser guided German remote control my son spend 3 years programming and fled to the local milk bar to recover from the experience. But like trying to hide from Skynet it was impossible. There on the news stand was the same picture of Ms. Hansen on the front page of the Herald Sun. The article said she was 19 a the time, and the pictures were taken by an ex-boyfriend who now is on a disability pension and has bone cancer. Well, Jack---I'm not surprised you have bone cancer after boning that pallid waxen piece of political devolution. God knows what else you might get or develop long term but good on' ya for sharing those erotic moments of bygone years. And spend the money wisely at the Rooty Hill RSL for the rest of your life, mate.

It made me wonder though, and ponder deep disturbing thoughts of what drug Fred might have been on when he thought shooting racy pix of his erstwhile concubine would be a real sexy-time thing to do? When yours truly was spending his younger Summers dialed out his mind on high quality ecstasy back in Los Estados Unidos I often would exercise erotic fantasies with young women but I'm happy to say that none of the young ladies looked like they would respond to either "fetch!" or "bring me my slippers Lassie!" the next afternoon after waking, rolling over and recovering with a couple of thick rails from my reliable friend Ernesto.

But news is news and that's okay but it leads me (as these baffling intros and interludes invariably do) to the salinet point of today's sermon... And that is that we really need some new newsworthy disasters to make it worth our time these days to dwell on and become totally obsessed.

It's been eight fucking years since 9/11 and I'd like to think God or civilization could come up with something better than the flimsy efforts that have been headlines since then.

Let's review, shall we?

A few minor earthquakes in places like Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Mongolia? Who fucking cares? Maybe if they didn't live in mud huts and spent December putting up Christmas trees or Menorahs we'd lose a few hours sleep over it but nah, fugedaboudit!

The Boxing Day Tsunami? A bunch of fisherman, some would-be-Jemaah Islamiya recruits, a footy player, and some lowbrow Thai hotels... Anybody still fretting over that? If the tsunami had put the entire countries of Indonesia and Pakistan under water for a decade it would have been a national fucking holiday around the world, and spawned a re-printing of the world's thinnest book: "Great Indonesian and Pakistani contributions to Society". Plus the fact that in North America nobody knows what "boxing day" means other than the 238 people who comprise the area known as "Canada" what was really the point there?

The Global Economic Crisis? Been there done that. Hey! It's called a cycle. And your parents or grandparents lived through it so grow up. Economies grow and shrink. Jobs are created and lost. Nothing is forever other than running out of toilet paper at a bad time or losing that gram you stashed for The Who concert in....that...shirt pocket...you think? Or was it in the sock drawer? Teapot? FUCK! FUCK! Want to know how to get a Hedge Fund trader off your front porch? Pay him for the pizza and shut the door.

And most recently the bushfires here in Victoria. Now, these were some ginormous fucking fires and wrecked havoc and death and misfortune for a few weeks here at home but the fires are out, it rained, and in fact at yesterday's SOUND RELIEF concerts in Sydney and Melbourne everyone was so fucking happy to see SPLIT ENZ, HUNTERS AND COLLECTORS, and MIDNIGHT OIL back together you could tell they were thanking God for the bushfires just for this opportunity. But for the Gein Family...well, it just wasn't enough... If God or humanity had made a concerted effort to burn down the entire North Shore of Sydney and it's Western Suburbs; and here in Victoria torched most of the outlying suburbs that run from Werribee to Sunshine and over to Narre Warren and St. Albans then we probably could have got MICHAEL HUTCHENCE, JOHN LENNON and JIMI HENDRIX back to perform and man would that have been a show! As a bonus, the Bogan Empires and 83% of the dangerous criminals in Australia would have been incinerated in one go and Sudanese textbooks would disappear. Australia would have immediately vaulted back into the best safest country to live in and Connex's problems would be solved overnight with the entire Pakenham line's travellers turned into ash. All the promotors could have charged $10,000 a ticket and had the brainpower to think "maybe we should put these concerts inside a domed stadium IN CASE IT FUCKING RAINS?????? Who knows??

I mean, there were 74-year-old spinsters out there going bra-less yesterday masturbating when Johnny Farnham took the stage screaming "thank Christ for the bushfires Johnnnnyyyysss back!!!" and jizzing all over the stadium such that the cleanup crews today would be wondering if GHOSTBUSTERS IV had been filed in the stands there is so much slime. Shock horror!

And by next weekend when the Grand Prix hits town the words "bushfire relief" will disappear and join the ranks of dinosaurs, a growing economy, and good leadership in Australia. As far as I'm concerned the KINGS OF LEON failing to play their biggest hit on the planet because it had the word "fire" in it is reason enough to sabotage their airplane on the tour so they understand the significance and meaning of 'fire' when the fuselage is engulfed in flame. MIDNIGHT OIL had the guts, chutzpah, and conviction to play BEDS ARE BURNING and I didn't see a raft of complains about that this morning?

So in this world that is becoming so medoicre, so mundane, so ordinary that a naked photo taken eight decades earlier of a relatively unattractive albeit interesting and self-reliant politician makes the front page of the biggest newspaper in Australia....where do we go from here? This isn't news or even gossip worthy. We want 'big picture'.

We want the entire US and Australian Olympic swim team photographed in a colossal naked gangbang inside the Vatican whilst Michael Phelps and Mark Spitz share a crack pipe and the photo is posted on the Pope's Facebook home page. This, my friends, is news.

We want tens of thousands of apes and chimpanzees around the world to rise up and break free of their zoos and labs and cages and run wild through the streets wrecking havoc whilst mourning the death of Travis at the hands of Connecticut police last month.

And we want a massive volcano, maybe the one at Mount St. Helens we've long since forgotten, to erupt AGAIN and this time create a voluminous suction vacuum once the lava and ashes hit the atmosphere that seeks out and grabs Scientologists and draws them back into the bowels of the Earth so that it looks like the cover of the old L. Ron Hubbard book for real and proves a point once and for all.

It's not a lot to ask. 9/11 gave us weeks---months of fantastic news, threats, topics of discussion, jokes, (though still a bit dicey to specific groups of people who probably won't ever get over it which is their loss) and internet garble that was pure gold.

I know we can find something new and groovy. We're human. We can screw up anything and benefit from it. Let's raise the bar.

HE DIED WITH SEVERAL FALAFELS IN HIS PANTS: the safe 'COMBINATION'

2009-03-04T05:38:00.000-08:00

I had been slaving away at the Mac far too long today, and even the sparkling 30" screen that I bought with money I should have sent to child support wasn't interesting me anymore,when the always catchy IF Newsletter 'binged' into my mailbox with an article on gang violence at a Western Sydney cinema showing the new Aussie film THE COMBINATION. Since Lebanese gang violence in Western Sydney is like rain; totally unpredictable but quite regular in appearance---I didn't see anything newsworthy. But I liked the film's trailer and as someone who goes to every local film with hopes held high like Mel Gibson waiting for Jesus to come back...I traipsed down to The Palace George Cinema for the 9:30 show. It was only playing at 4pm and 9:30.

At this time, I would like to say "FUCKWIT ALERT!" but instead I'll say "spoiler alert" just to be polite. By now, unless you're a gypsy, an undercover policeman from Dubrovnik with an Aussie backpacker in your car, an Albino postal worker from Lancelin, or born in West Virginia, you have probably felt that tingling feeling that is often a percursor to the realization that a 'movie review' could be hurtling towards you at any moment! Maybe even in this humble column?

"Fuck, I hope Mr. Gein doesn't spoil the ending for me, Ellie Mae!??"

Why in Allah's spa would someone casually review a film and talk about the ending? Go figure?

Well, if you're still reading either you can't, or don't mind knowing the ending because most homo sapiens will go into the cinema and immerse themselves in the film and not worry THAT I'M GIVING AWAY THE ENDING!

"Oh Jesus Christ Fuck! Why did you tell me the Titanic would sink???? You totally
ruined the experience for me!!!! Just like you did when you told me Hitler would
live at the end of Valkyrie! OH OH OH OH ARRGHHHHHHHHH!!!"

THE COMBINATION was directed by David Field. David Field has played a criminal in almost every one of the 488 projects he's been in. He's been playing a criminal so often even his own parents think he's one. I understand last Christmas he came home to his family and they all looked at him bug-eyed like ice-infested long haul truckies and yelled "shit, we thought youze were in jail, mate?" Field is a fantastic actor and deserving of massive respect, despite a life-threatening bad decision appearing in "DAD AND DAVE ON OUR SELECTION", which is unquestionably one of the nine worst films ever made and about as funny as being the bus driver on the Sri Lankan Cricket team in Karachi last night. You've noticed I haven't bothered to put the link in for the film because I don't want to waste 30 seconds of my life (or yours) steering anyone to the film as I hope everyone involved in it was on the beach in Thailand when the Boxing Day Tsunami rolled in a few years ago. Also on that note, anyone who actually liked the film should get in the bathtub with a toaster oven right now and make sure the power is ON. It's rumoured that the film was being broadcast on the in-room cable in Heath Ledger's apartment on that fateful day....which the coroner is still investigating as a probable cause of death.

Field does a pretty damn good job in his first outing behind the camera, and the opening sequence sucks you right in, as the film rollicks along well other than some slightly clumsy love scenes between lead actor / scribe George Bashra, who is 83 years old, and sexy newcomer Clare Bowen, who might still be in middle school somewhere. But maybe they're designed to be clumsy because when you sleep with your granddaughter no matter how much you're in love it's gonna be hard to sex up for the audiences outside of Punchbowl, NSW or Bacon Springs, Georgia. I understand when Field approached Bashra his pitch was similar to that of the AFC in days predating my Australian residency: "I can get you $2 million bucks and a hot young girl! Let's make a movie!"

But like I said, the film rocks along and the Middle Eastern soundtrack rapped up has a lot of punch, cinematography is first rate, and best of all you can tell none of the crew worked on either THE TENDER HOOK or SOMERSAULT as there is a plot, direction, and you don't feel the overpowering urge to go to the toilet eight times during a 96 minute film. I was so absorbed in this film and so impressed with the young actors, especially Firass Dirani-- that I couldn't leave for the toilet. (which as St. Kilda cognoscente know is about a walk down a hallway so far from the cinema that it makes the fucking Kokoda Trail seem like a cakewalk) I simply did what Grandpa Gein used to do at the Orpheum Theatre back in Sioux City, Iowa and clandestinely unplugged my colostomy bag and let it drain into my now-empty jumbo Diet Coke cup. As all Geins are a well-mannered lot I did of course take the cup up to the trash at the end of the screening---never you mind.

The violence and death was realistic and emotional. I don't know what I liked better: the Lebos beating the daylights out of the Aryan fucktard or the revenge attack where the Skippys railed all over the Lebo gang leader like Chris Brown on Rhianna. I kept switching sides and making judgments and I loved this stimulating if occasionally stumpy script. It worked all the way until the last 10 minutes when it didn't know what it wanted to be. Was it a cautionary tale of racism? A fable of families divided? Romeo and Juliet? (except Romeo was 93 and spent a lot of time in a solarium and Juliet's parents were white trash) A prodigal son returns epic? A lesson learned? (that lesson being to wear a fucking condom and don't flush $15k of your brother's drugs down the toilet without thinking shit's gonna come back up)

So regrettably, in a stunning miscue a drug dealer who got his money back still kills the young recruit. His previously inseparable behemoth Pacific Islander Jabba the Hut bodyguard is nowhere around. And hero/writer/actor Rocky Balboa Bashra brings the little white trollop home to live with Mommy and Grandma and live hummously ever after.

But...and like Therese Rein or Magda Szubanski it's a big butt... 90% of the film is exceptionally well done, and the overall experience one of the best for Australian film in a long time. With an exceedingly modest budget and a lot of inexperienced actors to consider---it's a fantastic engrossing effort, and one that won't quickly be forgotten. It's just disappointing they couldn't sort out the ending and keep the edge and truth, the dynamics and total committment the film could have had in order to end up having the impact of films like COLORS or BOYS N THE HOOD.

In a postscript to the open blogosalvo of violence, the press noted the producers had worked with the cinema chain in Sydney to 'resume' screenings again in areas after it was pulled. The fact that the producers had paid several swarthy young men to start riots in the cinema for publicity osensibly had nothing to do with the future box office and DVD rollout. It is rumoured that "the director's cut" will include an illegal 9" knife inside the DVD box in selected suburbs.

As I surreptitiously dropped the lethal drink cup in the bin with a large splash which raised the eyebrow of the usher nearby, I strolled out into the chilly darkness wondering just what to make of the film. I walked down Fitzroy Street, and to round out the evening with pure satisfaction and multicultural celebration, entered Sunshine Kebabs. The guy behind the counter made one of the best falafel rolls I have ever had. He was tall and blonde and had wild glassy-but-intense eyes kind of like Christopher Walken just before he kills someone. His name was Matt, and he was a total Skippy.

Go figure.

POST OSCARS MELTDOWN--the worrisome awards future

2009-02-28T18:03:00.001-08:00

It's good to be back. The last few weeks have been challenging for the Gein Family and fraught with tremendous difficulties and deadlines and now on a sanguine Saturday morning in St. Kilda with a bottle of tequila within arm's grasp, and the Watch Cats sunning their furry little torsos on the desk, I feel tanned, rested, and ready.

Not as ready as Rhianna when she asked Chris Brown "baby...do you know the difference between my face and a punching bag??" and found out that he didn't... but really ready

The Academy Awards are almost a week behind us, and having bitterly lost again I have come to an almost Zen acceptance of this scenario. The fact that I had nothing in competition this year is a bit of a compensatory relief but I still worked on my acceptance speech for days prior to the event; even going so far as to crumpling it up and washing it in my jeans a few times so I could go to the podium and cry "I've had this in my pocket since 1959 waiting for this moment..." Kate Winslet beat me to it with her 'practicing since childhood holding a shampoo bottle' routine but I'll bet she's never changed her 'thank you' list as much as I have; feverishly scratching out the names of several different wives over the years--replacing them with the new girlfriend of the moment if applicable-- and culling 'former' friends faster than a roll call at Auschwitz in 1944.

But that's not the point. The point is that the gowns and frocks were bland, and the jewellery and bling virtually nowhere to be seen. Here at the Gein homestead the Global Economic Crisis has hit hard. Cocaine prices have skyrocketed, and quality has gone down faster than a Continental Airlines flight over New York. Petrol prices are out of control, I lost the bid on my home of 6 years and am now looking to relocate, and the State of Victoria is burning to the ground from the bushfires. Many of these fires were arson-related. I thought I'd stubbed out that joint before I threw it out the window on the way back from the Yarra Valley after I thought I saw a police car following me but who fucking knows, really?

But the Oscars is supposed to be the Grand Guignol of events. It's supposed to reek of success and excess, and this "downsizing" exercise has me very very worried. Whilst host Hugh Jackman's opening number satirizing the situation was very clever, and he is a consummate entertainer, I don't want to see dresses that look like they came out of Gloria Steinam's closet. For fucks' sake there are kids in Sierra Leone without arms that have more diamonds stashed away than most of the actresses were showing so let's get with the program and have a 'minimum bling standard' for future ceremonies. People sitting at home in Ogallalla, Nebraska or Wagga, NSW were watching the awards on their new 200" Hadron Collider Plasma-Jet Televisions that they bought with either the tax cut Obama is promising (that they'll never see)...or the $950 'stimulus cheque' Kevin Rudd sent so single moms with eight children of various ethnicities could play an extra 42 minutes at the poker machines in the Rooty Hill RSL.

You could hear the women bringing party pies out to the coffee table during the red carpet arrivals muttering "gawd, I could sew that dress with me new Simplicity pattern and buy meself some foh (sic) gold and be as hot as they is ,ya think? If bloody Shar-Leeze-Theer-On can't afford jewels these days how the fuck are we gonna feed the kids and the ferrets, Lou?"

You see, the Academy Awards give us hope. They are a celebration of hopes and dreams made possible in the darkened cinemas and lounge rooms across the globe. And hope doesn’t come in the form of a fucking hybrid Prius and sensible shoes. Hope is a Bentley convertible, a Versace gown, and $2m in Harry Winston jewels. I mean---people were dressing up more for the bloody Alan Border Medal at Crown. What the fuck is the Alan Border Medal you ask? Good question. It’s a recognition of the best cricket player in Australia for the year. It’s where world class players drag their wives and girlfriends out for a big night and they spend 83% of their family earnings on a dress. I respect that immensely and it adds fun and colour to a sport that doesn’t have a lot of fun or colour…though it’s growing on me but not on Gein 2.0. The problem is that only maybe 6% of the players wives and girlfriends look like they belong on a red carpet. The other 94% look like they should be laying carpet at a Delfin home or wiping down mag wheels at a car wash in Bakersfield or Punchbowl---choose your hemisphere. But at least they’re making an effort to flash up.

Which leaves us with the rest of the awards ceremonies, at least here in Oz: The Logies (Australian Television) which is basically a celebration of 4th rate programming (with a few minor exceptions) and a massive party where a lot of women who should have worn bras in the 70’s are showing their galoshes now thirty years later in really shocking dresses. But it’s a Saturnelia of non-substance and good fun. Then the AFI’s which are the Academy Awards Down Under where pint-sized talentless writers can stand up on stage and scream obscenities at critics. It’s a free country and you have to love that. No one at the Oscars would have the guts to stand up and say “I want to fuck George Bush in the ass with a strap-on while watching STOP-LOSS” and feel they’ll ever have a career. Conversely it’s doubtful Barack Obama has MISSISSIPPI BURNING in his home Blue-Ray collection.

So what’s a mother to do? The world is melting down financially, but who fucking cares? If you are working at the GM plant in Pontiac, Michigan? You’ve been ripping off the public for 20 years with UAW rates so the karma compass has come knocking…sorry mate.! The wharfies here got their touch a few years ago when they were told people with a 3rd grade education shouldn’t get $130k a year for “working” 30 hours a week. Jeez, how amazing is that?

So if you’re prospering…great! If you’re suffering? Go see a fucking movie or buy a DVD and help out the people who deserve it and give yourself a bit of joy.

And let's celebrate awards shows and awards. They give us something to look forward to and up to .... without personal cost.

Govern yourself accordingly.

LET THEM EAT CAKE

2009-01-31T23:57:00.000-08:00

Whether Marie Antoinette actually uttered those magical words or not, (and I hope she did), the truth was definitely out there long before Fox Mulder mentioned it. She knew the slumdogs of France (and the world) were going to be a problem and she was right.

I've really had it with the abject poor and sick and fanatical cockbites of the world. When most of Bombay's slums are protesting because "Slumdog Millionaire" exploits slum dwellers, (and no I don't recognize it as Mumbai it's Bombay for chrissakes. Ever hear their film industry called "Mollywood"? No...it's Bollyfuckingwood. And it's not a film industry in the real sense anyway as everything they make is like Hey Hey It's Esther Blueberger with taxi drivers. ) and they think we care? Wait a month...they'll all be dead.

When 70% of the home defaults in the USA are from people that should be renting doublewide caravans in Sodomy Plains, Alabama, while they pay off their Sears Credit Card they opened using the old original catalog back in 1975 and are still making minimum payments on their George Foreman Fat Free grille even though they weigh nine times as much as they did when they bought the thing, let them all live on the White House lawn. When UAW workers wake up and realize they've been making 200 times what they should be earning building rubbish cars and filling the bank accounts of union officers for five decades, move the whole family into a shed in Detroit and start dealing crack. There will never be a supply and demand problem and they will never worry about what tariffs and safety and layoffs. The wharfies here had the same work ethic (read: none) but eventually started moving more containers after a couple dogs barked at them and forced them to get productive. This was because there was no crack market for them to exploit which is somewhat of an anomaly here Down Under. (*Some of them did become bikies and ice purveyors/manufacturers which has indirectly affected the ability for long-haul truckers to drive from Auckland, NZ to Mauritius nonstop other than to occasionally murder a prostitute en route.)

When absolutely depressed nutcases throw their four year old daughter off a bridge in Melbourne----it's time to take a stand. Fuck the poor, kill the sick, and euthanize the clinically depressed.

Who gives a fuck about Bombay slums? Those snoopylahrs call us up at 7:30pm during CSI reruns and lie and claim they're calling from Sydney and want to give us cheap electrical and gas service? They don't even have electricity or gas in their mudhuts when they go home at night and they certainly aren't going to the Raj Hajabi Mabutu Fatwa Multiplex 16 on Mahatma Ghandi Boulevard to pay eight bazillion rupees to catch the tight-ass Tuesday matiness, are they? Forget the fact that the producers of 'Slumdog' organized educations and trusts for the young actors who would be sucking Slimey Slurpees out of Sewers had not 'evil Hollywood' meandered into their country to do more for them than that lazy Albanian Mother Theresa. It is common knowledge amongst 93.5% of all educated people that the only thing Albanians can do is engage in the sex slavery and drug trafficking trade and I suspect Mother Theresa was a whitewash front for their entire multi-millenia of nothingness. "Hey Mother Theresa, nice work with the cot and the prayers...but how about a fucking Snickers Bar and a Coke instead???" If you don't believe me, go see "TAKEN". It's essentially a doco about Albanians, and quite a good watch.

When Emma Lazarus' New Colossus sonnet was engraved on the Statue of Liberty, times were a bit different. She'd been dead, buried and dust for 25 years before the Statue went up in 1912, so she probably wouldn't have ever had Foxtel or iTunes or TiVo cause if she did she would have written something a bit more fitting---something like:

"Keep your tired, poor, wretched, disease-addled crazy leprosy-infected diabolical devil worshiping motherfucking people away! Keep those failed petri dish experiments in the middle of the deserts and swamps of the world and away the fuck from people who can conjugate a sentence, program a DVD player, and who value human life, toaster ovens, and the Home Shopping Network above some bearded cunt in a cave reading some upside down book telling them to cut children's arms off or blow themselves up for some fucked up religion, warlord, statue, or fuckwit wearing sunglasses and lots of medals he bought on eBay"

That's the kind of Statue of Liberty I want at every port in every civilized part of the world. It's 2009 and I'm officially looking and working outside the box to fix the planet.

World Vision? Why not send $10 a month to poison an entire village? Those kids wiping the flies off their face will either be dead in a year or grow up to be Robert Mugabe so what's the point? Send food? To the desert? Food hasn't grown there for 2000 years so maybe God is been trying to send a fucking message to people in this region??????????

Africa? No more aid. Nada. Zip. Forget it.

The Middle East? Impossible. I just got back from Damascus (Syria, not Florida) in December and had the best time. And the people were fantastic. And the Gein Family is of Jewish heritage so I went there somewhat apprehensively as a fan of Israel's right to exist. So I understand both sides of the coin and have strong feelings both ways and have come up with the answer. The solution for Palestine? Cobalt-jacketed, multi-stage, thermonuclear device. Make it uninhabitable for 10 million years. Glow-in-the-fucking dark. Then no one can argue over it any more and everyone can live in harmony.

Inharmonious former country allegiances? When quasi-criminals attend the Australian Open Tennis with their Croatian and Serbian colours, shoot them on sight outside the park. There families would be used to it, anyway. We're in Australia, not fucking Kosovo. This goes for the Cypriots too on this one although they took this season off since none of them could ride the public transport from St. Albans and Werribee since the trains were broken from the heat. It's obvious the Croatian and Serbian fans either walked in the heat (they've had practice marching over the years) or camped all year since the last Open.

And speaking of the trains, or 'no trains and no power' in Melbourne of late. We've been in a Labor government that has been going on longer than the Neverending Story. Battlers vote Labor. Labor fucks everything up. They spend all the money. Nothing is left to fix anything that doesn't have a toll. Solution: Kill the battlers

And in a ham-handed segue regarding the heat (which we can't blame Labor or Al Gore or Xenu or anybody for. It's just the weather) in January. When professional tennis players bitch and moan about the heat at the Australian Open I want to go down there with my flame thrower I've kept in my garage in case of attack from gypsies, Albanians, or people who thought AUSTRALIA was a good film; and torch them until their charred bodies run shrieking up Punt Road towards the river. It's Australia...it's January...it's fucking HOT! Harden the fuck up and learn to play in the heat for your $10 million dollars or stay home in Ohio or Zurich or wherever it is you pussies find temperate enough or take up squash or synchronized fucking swimming. 'nuff said?

And now we're going Beyond Blue...and into the Black. If you are so depressed that life is just too hard. That your wife or husband is just too much. That the constant crying of your children is like a hive of bees in your head that won't stop buzzing like an eternal Universe of shavers circulating around your prefrontal cortex over and over and over. KILL YOURSELF! DO IT! DO IT NOW! Don't read the rest of this blog! Go out on the 405 or 10 Freeway in LA and run in front of a car screaming "Viva Zapata!" or whatever you want to yell and enter the Stargate. If you're in Melbourne jump off the West Gate before they put up railings. In Sydney simply drive west out to Punchbowl wearing an Australian flag and scream "fuck Lebos!" (this would be known as 'assisted suicide' in some jurisdictions.)

Or go to Canberra wearing a suicide vest and knock on Stephen Conroy's door and blow yourself to Kingdom Fucking Come (*not applicable to some religions or atheists. Some restrictions apply) and take him out with you. The only caveat here is that if you're looking for international fame you won't get it if his internet filter is already in place here in Australia as the news won't ever make it out.

Got a neighbour or friend with severe personal problems? Buy them a gun, or bake them a cake with a knife inside it and decorate it with "The Solution to Your Problems is Inside"

And one last thing before I get back to finalizing the long-awaited "2009 List" you're crying for: Look at Wikipedia and type in 'Australia Day'. Yep, January 26th. Now type in "Invasion Day"? See anything? Of course you don't unless you're Ron Bare Assie. It was a day of landing and discovery when the First Fleet landed in 1788, looked around, only found one Centrelink office and one pub but felt that "things could be worse" when Captain Cook stepped off the boat and installed the first eptPOS machine in what is now the Botany RSL. (NB: the clientele has not changed although pokie minimums have regrettably climbed with the times). So don't fuck with our holidays and traditions with some idiotic political correctness-gone-mad psycobabble or we'll take you down to Fitzroy Street and bash some sense into you again...for the very first time.

Newly elected US President Barack Obama just promised (and only time will tell if he can keep these promises) "yes we can", and I'm saying the same thing about all the promises I've just made in this weekend tome.

Yes we can!

Your comments and criticisms are not invited nor solicited, unless you have a better plan.

I'm going back to join the Gein Family in front of the wide screen plasma with Sony 5.1 surround sound and argue over whether we watch SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE or the Australian Open...decisions that are far more important and far-reaching than world peace or solving poverty and depression.

See you at the top!

THIS IS THE LIST YOU'VE REALLY BEEN WAITING FOR...

2009-01-18T02:19:00.000-08:00

It's 2009. Almost February...well, more February than January anyway. Now that everyone got their stupid Christmas list and "best of" lists and "what to watch for in 2009" list out of the way I can dive in with THE LIST of what's really important and cool and what will suck in early 2009. It'll be updated quarterly, by and large. More or less..basically. Feel free to keep score on that snot-stained little Anne Geddes calendar you got for Christmas from your boring insurance agent or boss...the one with those insipidly stupid images of children who should have been stillborn or aborted in week 30; or your worthless Palm PDA that doesn't synch with your Mac or your Blackberry that won't work when you're roaming anywhere outside of Australia if you've noticed... Then anytime you want during the year, check back to see how The Gein Family Crystal Ball has fared. I can take the heat. No need for the vast majority of you to let me know how you spent 93% of your pathetic life making sure my predictions weren't spot on before going back to your job as the casual night assistant security guard at the Rooty Hill RSL to jerk off to the copy of CLUBLAND you gleefully downloaded a few years ago because most video stores in Oz were smart enough to realize there's no point in carrying any copies if you live outside the radius that starts at your local 24 hour bottle shop and ends at your local Centerlink. That won't be necessary but I'm sure it'll happen.

I'll be telling you the movies you have to see. Yeah, TRANSFORMERS 2 is one of them so don't think I'm elitist. And this might be hard to believe but there are actually two Aussie movies in the must see this year also. Neither of them have junkies, ugly chicks, Jack Thompson, autistics, or indigenous trackers. Yeah I know...how could they be Australian films? Just wait... it's true..

I'll be warning you off films that will be taking on HEY HEY IT'S ESTHER BLUEBERGER in the category of "most likely to give you painful sores in your private parts or condition you to vote Labor" from viewing.

The music you must have, the music you must burn, the politicians you hope will die painfully, and the few amazing heroes amongst our pathetic world leaders. Fads, fails, lulz, and pain. The whole nine yards.

And watch for the return of CELEBRITY WHEEL OF TORTURE AND DEATH, with all new contestant and prizes. This season it's 'internet friendly' so that players from around the globe can win!

Prizes this year will include:

AUSTRALIA "The Gary Ablett Sr. Alarm Clock" Features no wake up call and a free one-night stay at the Park Hyatt in Melbourne with underage girl of your choice and Geelong scarf.

U.K. "THE BOY GEORGE ICE PIPE AND CHAIN NECKLACE" Handy metal chain keeps the ice pipe close to your mouth and leaves your hands uncluttered. Now you can use one for wanking whilst the other is totally free to whip your naked rent boy you chained to the wall.

USA: "BERNIE MADOFF MAGIC TALKING SAVINGS BANK" For every $500k you place in the bank magician David Copperfield will appear in your house naked, and make all your money disappear faster than the vaporized his relationship with Claudia Schiffer

PAKISTAN: A case of deodorant, a street map for any city you plan to pursue your dream of driving a taxi in, and a GPS system because you can't read the fucking map.

CANADA: A cardiology degree for every Canadian, so that any of them can save Neil Young when he drops on a street corner and prevent Canada from losing it's last living person with talent.

THE LIST COMES OUT THIS WEEK, SO GRAB YOUR PENS AND PENCILS AND GET READY!

WHERE ARE YOUR FUCKING MANNERS???????

2009-01-08T03:51:00.000-08:00

Welcome to 2009. It hadn't started well. It had been one of those days, I admit. Whilst the sun was shining and it was a beautiful sparkling morning...from a variety of business standpoints and void-of-course Moon coupled with Mercury retrograde it all went to shit by noon and in the true Australian spirit I said "fuck it!", and went out for an extended walk with the ipod and no agenda other than do anything except work or be productive. This ability to just abandon the post is one that I am starting to master since taking out Australian citizenship and hope to hone such that I will be nominated for Australian of the Year in the foreseeable future. As I walked from my home towards the beach I crossed St. Kilda Road at the junction (one of the most incredible infrastructural blights in Port Phillip) and headed down Fitzroy Street looking for anything to inspire me. Perhaps giant bees falling from the sky, an appearance from Xenu, a Patrick Swayze Weight-Loss Center, gypsies begging or Welsh backpackers pretending to be nectarines...whatever would materialize. As I meandered past The George Hotel (a favourite watering hole where elegant women with substandard morals and ethics often gather in large amiable flocks) my spirits were lifting from the sure-fire combination of a brisk walk, sunshine, fresh air, and Ladytron on the ipod. This was immediately shattered when a spectacularly bulky man with the whitest skin ever and shaved head appeared from my blind spot with a giant dog of indeterminate origin and suddenly blocked my path. The blockage occured because the dog stopped to squat and produce a giant turd of such immeasurable enormity that it almost blocked out the sun. The turd-factory pooch's owner, who was sporting those sawed-off psycho sunglasses favoured by Test Cricketers, amphetamine lab operators, Aboriginal activists, and fat chicks at Westfield Malls--stood there and watched Satan shit 200 kilos of canine crap and was motionless other than the almost inperceptible smattering of drool rivulating on his quivering lips as he waited. He didn't try and drag the dog to the kerb, so I thought he would at least have a plastic bag for the occasion and remove the large bubbling cobra snake from the concrete. Not so likely... As he turned clumsily towards me, I saw the gargoyle was wearing an obviously much-loved and heavily faded GOLDFRAPP T-shirt...a talentless band I fucking hate. I suddenly knew he would be incapable of performing such a courtesy. An lo and behold...he just tugged the leash and continued towards the intersection, with Satan's anus now free of the WMD that had been lodged in his colon. I looked incredulously around as people were falling to the ground and gagging for breath from the Turd Bomb like Gaza residents fleeing an Israeli helicopter attack. I yanked my earplugs out and approached Igor and yelled "hey" and pointed to the offending Black Hole now forming in the asphalt. Ivan (as every blanched white shaved head Uncle Fester-esque sqwank should be known) muttered something that sounded a cleft-palated Slovenian yodeller and then just proceeded across the intersection. I caught up with him and enquired "where are you from, mate??" and he stared straight ahead--refusing to make eye contact until he reached the other side of the intersection--and muttered 'Serbia'. Immediately disliking him and and his Slobodan Milosevic-like attitude I proffered up the cheerful welcome :

"for someone so used to ethnic cleansing how about cleaning up after your fucking dog, Ivan?"

Ivan kept walking. Fortunately… It was probably very good that he kept walking as he was much bigger than me, obviously a criminal by his looks, behaviour, and origin. Further evidence that he was involved in uncivilized behaviour was that fucking GOLDFRAPP t-shirt and the fact that his dog had just shat out a young baby. Had he confronted me I would have been in that hideous position of having to either run (best first choice!), fight (not likely), or get some other tougher person to back me up. By 'back me up' I mean have them fight for me as I did not want to ruin my manicure on Ivan's spotty serrated teeth and then suffer severe injuries from the ensuing beating. I come from a long line of cowards that personify the history of the Gein Family. Great grandpa Gein was probably the guy that opened the door and let the Cossacks in to kill Czar Nickolas. I’m sure of it. But at that moment I wanted to pull out a gun and hold it up to his face and scream "you lousy Eastern European child-porn purveying ice-smoking Belgian child-fucking scumbag! It's people like you that make fuckwits like Stephen Conroy and the Family Fucking First Party want to install an internet filter so tight around Australia that I can't even stalk women on RSVP!! DIE MOTHERFUCKER !!!" and then I blow his head off and shoot the dog, as the throngs on Fitzroy Street cheer as tears stream down their faces.

This micro-fantasy disappeared instantly as I tripped on the kerb, stubbing my toe badly as I finished crossing the intersection and stumbling, almost dropped my ipod; eliciting small smiles and snickers from the merciless passersby.

I plunged back into my dark cloud, reinstalled my headphones, and moved on towards the beach---letting Ivan and Satan carry on their death march... I cut back through Acland Street after rounding The Prince on the corner. Being a sunny day, and January in Australia, the entire corner of Fitzroy and Acland girdling The Prince was comprised of incredibly drunk and drug-fucked Irish and English tourists, sporting Manchester United shirts and with their cancer-ridden fleckles and mutant red hair brighter than a burst from an arc welder but not quite as bright red as the intense sunburn they all had from lying on the beach without sunscreen for 100 hours straight. Comforting myself with the hope and dream they would all be dead by next Christmas from melanomas I moved up Acland and down through the leafy hill and dale of St. Kilda to the Acland Street shops. After trying to quench my thirst at my (formerly) fave gelato shop (no one there--a small crimped Post-it note scrawled in heiroglyphics declaring the minion would return in 10 minutes) I went to the other gelato shop only three doors away on the same side. Doors open, people standing around, nobody behind the counter. Since the other three customers collectively had far too many chromosomes to divide equally I chose not to ask them for info and started to walk out when I saw a lithe but vacant-looking girl in an apron smoking at the entrance. With my CSI-St. Kilda detective powers I assumed the apron was an employee giveaway. So I asked her if she worked there and in thick Scandihoovian declared “yeesss…..I am on meee breeak..” Before I could ask when that break would end she sputtered “as soon when I fineesh cigarette I back…” and took a big drag off the ciggie whilst looking at her phone and texting some SAAB employee, IKEA salesman or VOLVO repairman. Whatever backpacking Scandinavians do when they’re texting and smoking.

I swear to Jett Travolta I am not making this up! I don’t smoke and I don’t care if people do. Do whatever you like wherever you like so long as it doesn’t fuck with the general population’s rights. (read: me!) Go ahead… Lie at home on 1000 sheets of the Koran naked and smoke crack and have a transsexual veterinarian drop gerbils soaked in grape jelly on your crotch whilst you watch “Hey Hey It’s Esther Blueberger” on your iphone with strobe lights in the bedroom and an electric curling iron on a timer under your buttocks. No worries. But dare to get off that bed and go driving whilst dialed out of your mind and accidentally run over some supermodels or echidnas or anything important and you’re on my hit list. You don’t want to be on the Gein hit list. We may be cowards…but we know people who aren’t.

So this uppity lazy backpacking lutefish-eating little cretin has the nerve to go outside, smoke for ten minutes, and then act like we’re imposing on her time? So here's my point after 14 years in Oz: I hate backpackers. They are of no value to society other than taking part time jobs for cash for three weeks, not paying taxes, vomiting all over the CBD, leaving a trail of venereal disease, cigarette rolling papers, and Jagermeister bottles from Perth to Bondi. I wish Ivan Milat was out of jail. And frankly, the more people who burn backpacker hostels to the ground the better. The guy who torched Childers a few years ago should be made Premier of Queensland for my money. Okay, I let it out...I feel better now.

I walked back to the original gelato shop now seeing that Shamu had returned and opened the door. Letting go of my general anger I went to the counter and ordered a frozen blueberry ice drink (a kind of fruity slurpee without 400 grams of sugar and quite tasty). Shamu noted that of the three flavour chambers, that one was broken and so was strawberry, my second fave choice. Only orange passionfruit was available…and it wasn’t completely frozenated as that machine has had ‘problems’ also. I asked for how long this situation has been a problem. Shamu bubbled “about a week”. A week. Who runs these fucking stores? I am so happy to see local retailers go bankrupt and lose their fucking Delfin community houses and have to move to country NSW where they leave their three-year-old children in the care of homes with five wild cross-breed Rottweilers that eat the child whilst the parents are at the mall getting donuts that I say to the global economic crisis: “BRING IT ON! MORE FAILURES! PLEEEEEEEEZE!” It’s a natural culling of people who are too lazy, too stupid, and no ignorant to be allowed to live. It’s God’s way of putting them out of business and out to pasture and straight to hell, or New Zealand, whichever is closer. If you can’t run a sweet shop, and hire someone who can’t speak English or work for 120 minutes without a break, go watch SEVEN POUNDS and then go home and kill yourself in the tub whilst you listen to 3AW. Please!

I had given up my search for happiness in St. Kilda. So I cut through the lane towards the parking lot to cross back to Barclay Street until I encountered a fracas at the entry to another one of my (formerly) fave restaurants. A young man was obviously asking for change for a $5 note for the parking meter machines adjacent to a Japanese restaurant Miss Tweeko Hello Kitty was arguing with the man---pointing to the sign on the door (see pic) and telling him in bloken Engrish dat dere wuz no changing…NO CHANGING! The poor guy wasn’t some derro stalking passersby in front of the Gatwick Hotel (a strip I studiously avoid at all costs as the 10 meter jaunt never ends well…) but just a guy who wanted some coins for the meter. Who fucking cares if he was going to eat at that restaurant or just park for an hour and hunt prostitutes in the area like a Werribee trucker recently made redundant? It’s good fucking hospitality and manners to give change and I learned that when I was five years old. Tweeko Hello Kitty kept pointing to the sign which isn’t for non-patrons of the restaurant…but for non-partons (sic). How hard is it for these people to use spellcheck ™? These people build the fucking computers for Chrissakes? Didn’t they learn anything from Hiroshima or Nagasaki? You sneak up on Pearl Harbor and fuck with us whilst we’re sleeping? We’re nuke you into the Stone Age. And based on the name of the restaurant there’s one city over there we need to take down for the hat-trick.

But strangely enough, suddenly my anger and dismay quickly swept away as I realized that multiculturalism is really God’s idea of a sitcom. He (God) is obviously the best gag-writer in the world as truly---nobody could have thought any of this up!!! No way! I’m just the observer…the reporter, if you will. And after so much in so little time out in the streets, I felt invigorated, sexually aroused, and traipsed up Barclay Street back towards The Bunker. My day had turned around! Doing fuckall worked!

There won't be too many more of these angry rants for awhile but this one had been building up since Xmas.

As I hit Alma Road, nearly out of breath from my brisk pace, the ipod shuffle found the Miami Vice soundtrack. And the one godforsaken fucking song on the whole of the soundtrack that I hate. The one song Michael Mann (master of all soundtrack assemblages from HEAT to MANHUNTER to LAST OF THE MOHICANS) had, in a moment of absolute insanity decided to include: Strict Machine…by GOLDFRAPP. Well-played Master of the Universe...well-played.

LETTER FROM SYRIA AND DUBAI--putting the sand back in sandwich

2008-12-22T07:56:00.001-08:00

My mate Syrian President Assad and I contemplate how I'm gonna post this with the impenetrable internet filters in Syria and Dubai (UAE). We'll have to upload it upon arrival in Australia. The Gein Family has had an epiphany following Dubai International Film Festival whilst exploring the dark regions of one of the world's oldest cities...Damascus. Keep your hats (and heads) on...

Ed

FUCK YOU!!!!! "Live from the AFI's!"

2008-12-08T04:52:00.000-08:00

For those of you at the AFI's the other night, or those of you who weren't... (have I covered all the bases?) the hot topic definitely had to be the acceptance speech attack on Age film critic Jim Schembri. After THE BLACK BALLOON, a good-looking and reasonably well-produced film constructed around an essentially empty and highly ineffective and unsatisfying script won about two thousand AFI awards including Best Screenplay, Best Actor in a Drooling and Defecating Scene, Ugliest Pregnant Mother in Cinema History---one of the writers (sic) who had been stewing for about six months since Mr. Schembri panned the film (and revisited it on the eve of the AFI's in a sum-up of the awards-to-be) proudly celebrated his Best Original Screenplay by reading aloud Mr. Schembri's original review (which had accurately dissected the screenplay) and then announced "Fuck You Jim Schembri".

When the writer started reading the review, I could tell that for the last several months since the AFI nominations had been announced; he had been sitting naked in his apartment gluing thousands of copies of Schembri's review on each and every wall of the unit whilst sniffing glue, smoking ice, and muttering to himself as he walked by the single tiny little window that faced a brick wall directly opposite. The quivering shadows that played off the bricks as his silhouetted figure traced the floor under the single 40 watt light bulb would have played tricks on the imagination of any passerby who wandered near the building. Those tricks of imagination and flights of fancy would far have exceeded anything in the Black Balloon script.

But here's the point: It's relatively hard to write a script, and get it produced, and get it on the screen. It's much harder than practicing medicine, or there would be a lot more Indian film makers over here. But they pretty much stick to cardiology and calling centers for the most part. Or bad hotel security in Mumbai. Anyway, this writer and his writer/director lady friend should be given kudos just for getting the film made! Well done! But that's where it ends. It's what I like to call The Somersault Syndrome. The script was developed through THE AURORA WORKSHOP at FTO in Sydney. They were the culprits responsible for SOMERSAULT, as well as LITTLE FISH. They are experts in creating bad scripts that make for cosmetically attractive films. SOMERSAULT won like 11 AFI's; one for each person who paid to see it. Good visuals, good direction, great music, no third act and I'm still looking for the second which I'm told is there someplace. LITTLE FISH (whose director Rowan Woods is a personal fave after making THE BOYS--one of best films out of Oz ever and one of scariest films of all time full stop anywhere) was just a weak script and totally miscast, and THE BLACK BALLOON was loved by autistics and their carers everywhere, which accounted for 783.5549% of the box office as any Fair Dinkum Rain Man can tell you. (NB: I can't wait for a QANTAS flight to crash someday so Barry Levinson can remake RAIN MAN with a director's cut where Dustin Hoffman declares "QANTAS never crashed..." and Tom Cruise can correct him... Shouldn't be too long based on their safety record of late...stay tuned.)

So in a field of highly mediocre films other than the so-overlooked THE JAMMED and maybe THE SQUARE on some levels, it appealed to everyone with an extra chromosome or two and the acting was solid and it looked good and presto! : 200 AFI's or whatever.

That, in itself, should have been good enough for the writers (sic). He should have held it up high and thanked God, Mohammed, Jesus, Moses, and Esther Blueberger, and rode up and down Collins Street in a special bus all the way back to his house or hotel. He could have even read Schembri's review and left it at that---leaving the subtext out there at the Princess Theatre to waft in the auditorium for the throngs to ponder. But that would have been the mark of a good writer... Schembri never said THE BLACK BALLOON didn't deserve an AFI. Far from it... He shared that it was not a great film, nor really even a good one from a structural standpoint or competence of story. But would probably win the AFI's based on the historical record of films with or about people with handicaps of some sort and based on the competition. (When the other writer (sic) director thanked the audience she mentioned she had a family member with autism. And that was a kind and heartfelt thanks to him. But she didn't mention the handicap that the writers (sic) suffered from.)

Instead he jumps up and says "FUCK YOU". And everyone (well, most...much to my chagrin) yelled and cheered. If he had said "take this Jim Schembri" and torn up the review it would still have been questionable.

Because it's not the swearing and public announcement that is the problem. The problem is the celebration of mediocrity and the feeling that the film and TV industry are immune from criticism.

Take a look at journalists in SPORT: If someone criticizes the shit out of a coach or player...no worries! Doesn't matter whether it's a personal attack and they say Ben Cousins is drug-fucked, or Leigh Matthews is a retarded bully, or Peter Brock has a problem seeing trees (not any more). All these are true of course. No one goes after the journo and attacks him.

Take a look at journos in INDUSTRY: If a respected writer such as motoring journalist Paul Gover says Holden or Ford have made a piece of rubbish, does the industry attack him? If he says KIAs are shit, is Korea going to attack Australia? (NB: He has never reviewed LADAs for this reason...)

MUSIC? Say COLDPLAY is overrated, JET is a glorified garage band, and Kate Ceberano didn't read the instructions on her Jenny Craig package correctly and who is gonna bother you?

POLITICS: Writers everywhere have torn apart politicians for years. I've personally wished torture and death on everyone promoting the Australian Government's Internet Filter, including-but-not-limited-to Kevin Rudd, Stephen Conroy, and Steve Fielding...and no one's come back at me. Not a one.

Get the picture? So why is our industry so resistant to criticism? Why can't someone who is tops in their field and respected give his or her educated opinion without the villagers storming up to his castle armed with torches?

At the AFI after party, (which was organized like a Sierra Leone food drop where the militia marches in first and takes everything and the general population stands around chewing flies for about two years) an extremely intoxicated actress with fantastic cleavage and only about 2 square inches of material on her dress oozed into my conversation and declared that the "schembri moment" for the writers (sic) was like the Steven Bradbury scenario. Eg: Everyone falls down and the little battler wins the Gold. I lauded her for her urbane interjection, partially with intent to get her phone number and or sleep with her. She was, alas, too drunk to even know what her phone number was (a good start!) and her boyfriend/date appeared out of nowhere like fucking Candyman in a bathroom mirror before I could advance. But I then corrected her. Steven Bradbury won the Olympic Gold Fucking Medal because he was an absolute world class athlete who made it all the way to the finals. The finals of the most prestigious athletic meeting on the planet. And he was in the right place at the right time and had done the hard yards and deserved that fucking medal.

THE BLACK BALLOON did not win an Oscar. Or Golden Globe. It won many honours voted on by anyone who was an AFI member. And lots of autistics. It doesn't tarnish the award. It's a wonderful honour. Who wouldn't like an AFI? But it doesn't insulate the winner, or anyone, from criticism. The same reason it's okay to say that Nicole Kidman's OSCAR for THE HOURS was the most insane choice since The Academy (which obviously also has a number of autistics, dementia-ravished psychopaths, gypsies, and Catholics) gave Sookie Stackhouse an Oscar when she was ten years old. And the world is okay with that. I don't think Ms. Kidman or Baz Luhrmann will stand up at the Oscars this coming February if either of them wins anything for AUSTRALIA and say "FUCK YOU REX REED!!!"

But Down Under we will not take criticism. Can you imagine that writer (sic) standing up and saying "FUCK YOU MARGARET POMERANZ!" You know why that will never happen? Because Margaret is too kind and would never take apart a local film. She won't. She doesn't. And that's okay--that's her thing. Doesn't make her good or bad. If someone did say that it would be great satire, however... So don't expect it from those writers (sic).

So there will be the many who say I'm defending a critic. That (gasp!) I'm currying favour for the future. Nope, not my thing. I agree with many of Jim Schembri's articles and like his writing. When I read Leigh Paatsch in the HS and agree with his reviews I think "this guy is on the case". When I read his or anyone else's, or David and Margaret's opinion varies widely from mine I might write the occasional letter and disagree and state why they have totally fucked up and lost the plot for those two hours (or four if reviewing AUSTRALIA).

The writer (sic) should have reveled in his moment, and been excited for his win and the recognition and left the dais untarnished. But as for standing up at Australia's highest awards ceremony and publicly insulting someone who has simply reported the news....?

For years to come the thing THE BLACK BALLOON will be remembered for was this wrongful outburst. Not for the trolly of AFI's or good performances from the young stars playing the brothers.

Don't kill the messenger.