Tuesday, December 02, 2008

video

Fuck it's good living in the lucky cuntry.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

I gave the ute a bit of service today.. usual shit - diffs, tranny and gearbox, grease up drive train, change filters, motor oil, coolant, points, plugs....

Instead of their normal white/grey color - since the last service, the fucken plugs have turned black and sooty.

Poxy fucken cunts.

I hope it isn't an omen.

but I know it is...

So there's no dancing in the ghetto tonight for this little black duck.

Thursday, October 09, 2008















Same trip up the Gulf...

there we are on the piss at the camp one night, stars shining, coastal mallee roots on the fire, full guts, and heaps of beautifully colored moths gently flitting about, hovering and looking closely at us.

Says I, to the resident gofer and part time deckie, ( who incidentally, happened to exist on a self imposed staple diet of baked beans out of a can and proved conclusively that you may be able to exist on this diet for at least seven months before you go guts up and all ya skin goes scabby and falls off), ... "check out the fucken moths!! how cool is that, that cunt's coming in real close"...

He proceeds to relate to me the first time that he met, and was admiring one of the friendly pretty moths, which at the time fluttered gently about two inches in front of his nose, and was quietly talking to the boys around the fire about the experience as it happened...

"how cool is that, ay. Look at the cunt. Check it out boys!!"..

and it fluttered closer, slowly following the upwards slope of his nose, to halt just in front of his right eye. Where it gently fluttered and drew closer, insect and deckie as one in the warm starry pilbara night, and slowly it unwound its snout...

















Then stabbed him in the eye with it.

Fucken cunt of a thing.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

ferals


I fucken love getting into the bush and getting rid of feral vermin.

Like the two goats that I got up north - the poxy vegetation destroying, desert creating cunts. It would have been nice to have an SLR or an M60 and really have give it to the rest of the fuckers in the mob these cunts were in- about fourty of the maggots - eating up the bush, as is, I didn't. So...

The borrowed Tojo, a station hack, rattled to a halt, which was good, as the brakes didn't work- at all, pedal to the floor with no pressure stuff - you had to rely on the gears, and turning it off at the right time when you wanted to stop. Which wasn't problem if you knew the track. Dead fucken flat for a hundred and fifty kays. Except the creek lines, that is. Roo jumps in front of you - it's fucked - Skippy the flat kangaroo -the old jappa's a tank. The boys at the farm used to keep up with maintenance as much as ya can in the back blocks, but when the nearest town is 500k's away a gearbox takes precedent over shit like brakes. Easiest way I've ever changed a gearbox was up there... what do you do? Here's the procedure...
  • get the fucking crane ( yep - no brakes either)
  • hook a chain around the front spring hangers
  • lift the fucker up so its arse is still just on the ground
  • rip the fucked cunt out
  • chop the floor and the bit around the gearstick out with the gas axe so the new fucker'll fit in sweet as
  • chuck the 'new' (read ratted from another nearly the same model) cunt in
  • drop it back on the deck
  • take it for a test blatt - (with ya mate changing cogs with a big screwdriver while you negotiate the no brakes bit - yep all the vehicles didn't have them)

Anyway...the ute rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust, flies and the sort of dust that you get on a fifty degree day in the Gulf. The engine choppily cuts out as I kill the ignition. Silence descends, except for the buzzing of the fucking dunny budgies - swarms of the cunts, and the dust slowly drifts off in the slight breeze, which should smell fresh and clean - as I'm in the middle of fucking no-where, but instead reeks of stinky goat.

And there the cunts are...

About 400 meters away, and, obviously , upwind of me. The vegetation is sparse low trees of about 15 foot high, no ground cover or vegetation below the browse line, due to the previously mentioned cunty evil eyed fuckers efforts. Cunts of fucking things - (I had a pet one once but that another yarn).

So I had to stalk up on them, quietly, and slowly - moving only when the wind blew - the sound of the wind, the buzzing of the flies if I happened to disturb the ones covering my back - and the soft bleating of the parasites in front of me is the only sound apart from my breath, which seems loud to me. Getting ever closer... and closer... a circle of rocks and pile of old shells catches my eye as I pass by. A campsite of the original indigenous occupants of this remote country. What must life had been like for them in ages past up here, where I have seen railway line telegraph poles bent flat to the ground by the cyclones that regularly pass through, for folks that live in a stone age society?

The mob is close now, fifty feet - I move slower, more mindful of the wind eddies, direction and what shadows exist or are cast, their unalarmed mindless bleating continues, dumb cunts... thirty feet, moving like a ghost, every step taking an age, whenever their collective eyes are averted - freezing if they raise a head, glance up or a stray wind eddy passes over...

Twenty feet. The two biggest cunts are standing close to each other. One is a clearer shot, but is a bit smaller (horn wise) and further away. He is getting edgy - his closer mate is still oblivious the dumb cunt, what a fucking crayfish...

I sight up, carefully... as I don't want to fuck their horns up...

And..

Shoot the furthest one in the neck, it does a wheel stand and drops like a fucken rock. The mob freezes, alert and looking. I freeze as well. I'm a tree, part of the landscape. They ignore their recently deceased mate, now laying and still occasionally twitching at their feet, and go back to their stupid bleating and eating - dumb cunts.

As soon as they get on with their, in some cases - short, lives - the other big cunt gets it in the neck as well. Some fucking group leaders they were - " don't worry it's cool - we're in the middle of nowhere. there's no cunt here" - anyways the rest of them bailed quick time.

Geez the cunts stink on a hot day when you're dressing them out. I got a sheila tourist who happened to be visiting to hold their heads while I cut the horns out of the skulls with a hacksaw.

Later on, after a few beverages we looked at the stars and had a pissing competition to see who could do the best pissrings and write their name in the dust in the most artistically and ethically pleasing way.

Fuck I love going bush. Roll on the next trip.

Monday, September 15, 2008


Well as youse have probably worked out - I've been away in far off parts - some of them really cunty sort of parts, if you're not a fan of the big smoke scene - as I'm not - western suburbs of Sydney and fucking Sydney itself - fucking cunt point scooter riders wobbling all over the shop and everyothercunt tailgating ya. Fucking knobs.

I'd much rather have been fucking around up North blowing away feral shit, catching fish and sucking piss than stuck in a series of fucken tin can planes - that are probably falling apart 'cos it's been fixed by the same cunts that put together most "made in anypickagenericasiancountry"shit that will fall apart if you look at it fucking sideways

- brief deviation here.. (I'm not talking Toyota 4wds here-- they are tops - and the shit plastic toys serve a purpose too, as, if the kiddies get annoying noisy cunty plastic toys of said manufacture at Chrissie time, you can de-activate the annoying noisy bit and when they come to ask you to fix it... you look at is wisely...go, ahhhh - I see the problem, then show them the "made in anypickagenericasiancountry" stamp, and go... "See this mate? It means it's fucked. Anytime you see this one something you know it is fucked and won't last. The cunts that made it don't give a fuck. Chuck the fucken thing in the bin and we'll get ya a fishing rod, or a gun, or a pig-dog ")

..anyways - back to the rant... as the slave labor get paid fuck all to give a shit about the quality of work- and you're stuck with a heap of (generally speaking from my experiences that is) fucking retarded, slow, obese, sick, whiny kids in tow, cattle class fellow travelers. And usually one of the biggest fattest, dumb cunts will want to sit next to you (well me anyway). Fuck off and die you cunt. It's my fucking armrest. Both of them.

I mean really, I timed these cunts as too how fucking long it took them to sit the fuck down and stop blocking the fucking aisle . Eight and a half fucking minutes!! Fuck me sideways you fucking dick heads. Ya must be from Melbourne or somewhere.! What the fuck is wrong with you! Get on plane. Have shit you need to hand (already ' cos you've thought it through). Sit the fuck down. Shut up and hang on cuntbreath. AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHH. Thank fuck that I get there early to get an emergency exit seat. I reckon most of the traveling public needs help to do up their fucking shoelaces...and can you imagine the cunts trying to get an emergency exit open...and then try to get out?? Forget it.

Anyways, I do so hope that I haven't managed to offend any cunt that may happen to be reading. Nah - not really, fuck ya's, get a mullet up ya!

Saturday, April 26, 2008















Two and a half weeks off. Starting two days ago, and since spent getting the battle truck serviced, batteries charged and loading up with with supplies (mostly beer).

On Tuesday, I head north. It'll be the first trip in about 13 years that my little black mate won't be with me to stand guard at night.















Nooft the guard dog on a cold morning. (The lazy cunt never collected any wood for the fucking fire).

















The old boy died peacefully last week after a fucking good innings and an illustrious career around town including;
  • dodging the shire rangers for over thirteen years, who despite their best efforts, were unable to ever place him in custody or corner him. He used his bush skills to good reward and always managed to get back behind the gate then proceed to bail them up and not let them in. They also never knew his real name, as when he had to be registered, he gave his name as "Just Fucking Dog", which the receptionist recorded as "Dog" 'cause she was a typical sort of shire office anal cunt that couldn't bring herself to accept the name he gave.
  • Free range dog. He set the rules early on in the piece when he once fucked off on his own holiday for about six weeks, when he did not come home. After that it was - ok you made the rules - I'm fucking off for a bit see ya later. And he'd look after himself till I got home.
  • Rooting most of the bitches in town. Sometimes taking over the owners yard for a while resulting in an impressive line up of new contenders to continue the role of town dog.
  • Having two crossed sticking plasters put over a 1cm deep 4cm long wound in his foreleg (from fighting his doggy mates) and being told to fucken leave it alone, and he did. For the six days I was away. I took them off when I got home and the wound was knitted nicely
  • Biting any cunt that deserved it. (Looking at him, speaking too loud, flinching when nipped, walking on our side of the road, trying to pat him)
  • Never biting me despite me giving him shit all the time (sneaking up and grabbing his ear when sleeping, giving him a leg bone - then taking it back a few times)
  • Never shitting in the yard or chewing up my stuff
All in all, a fucken top dog.

He's resting now, next to his grandmother in a mates paddock near a dam, where they share a fig tree.

RIP Nooft.

Saturday, March 15, 2008













I'm a bit of a martial arts fan, and have fucked around with various styles over the years, so when the opportunity to go and see the Shaolin monks doing their shit in the big smoke came up a couple of years ago, I had to go and have a squiz at 'em.

Should be an interesting night.

So...

A mate of mine is interested as well, so his missus scores us fucken beaut seats. Dead center and about ten rows back, just above a walkway, so we're elevated above the rows in front. Fucken ripper.

Now me an' me mate, we get dressed up in the going to town black jeans, flanno's and ripple sole black DB's. (Sort of like usual, but newer, and with out the ripped bits). Funnily enough, we don't seem to fit comfortably with city folks in town for some reason, none of the cunts say gooday or even look at ya. Fucken rude cunts. I think that they just don't feel comfortable around 6ft+ blokes with beards and tatts. Fuck knows.

My mate monster has a different personalty to mine. Whereas I tend to be a thinker and mostly speak little to cunts I don't know, apart from gooday, or telling them to go fuck themselves that is. Monster is, as well as being a top bloke, there to speak his mind or laugh loudly if he sees something funny and sometimes can come out with the most wonderful and very public comments when in town...

(those are a story unto their own)...

So there we are...

At the big event. The stage is set, huge gongs and draped red ribbons, vats of incense waft copious amounts of smoke, and, to make sure no cunt has tried to gaff our seats, we are there watching the stadium fill up.

the lights dim.... every one goes quiet...the moment is at hand...

and slowly... one, then two, then.... after a pause, a third....

orange clad monk files out into the mist of the incense clouds amongst the forest of red silk banners, to the sound of the slowly booming gongs, bringing back memories whose reality was only missing the little 'cling/cling' bells, tambourines, and conga line moves of the Hari Krishna's from a few years back ...

Only two of the fuckers at first, then a third, older than the others, who treat him with deference.

And one of them hands him, as he slowly meditates through the mist, past his subordinate colleague. A tyre lever. At least that's what it looks like from our good vantage point.

The old boy grasps it firmly at the lower end in both hands...

The gongs boom as one....

He slowly moves forward, lifting the tyre lever slowly towards the middle of his forehead, incense swirls around him, the pungent smell fills the auditorium...

The gongs boom as one....

He stops, and faces the audience squarely....

The gongs boom as one.... the incense wafts in plumes...

He takes a braced stance, complete harmony and peace with his internal energy written all over him, and slowly raises the tyre lever to his forehead again...

The gongs boom as one....

And he smacks himself really fucken hard in the middle of his head with the tyre lever, looks a bit shocked and gives a little stagger, as you would I'd imagine, and dead silence...

Except for Monster...


Laughing his fucken ring out...

"HAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHA DID YASEE THAT FUCKEN SILLY CUNT HAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

Which got me snorting a bit as well, as the monk and the audience seemed, well, a bit out of their comfort zones...

anyway...

The gongs boom as one, again....

And, again, he smacks himself in the middle of his head with the tyre lever, looks a bit shocked and gives a little stagger, as you would I'd imagine, and dead silence...

Except for Monster...


Laughing his fucken ring out, but louder...

"HAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHA DID YASEE THAT FUCKEN SILLY CUNT HAHAHAHAHAHAHA" "FUCKEN SMACKED HIMSELF IN THE HEAD AGAIN HAHAHAHAHAHA _ WOT A FUCKEN DICKHEAD!! HAHAHAHAHAHA >> HAHAHAHAHAAAHAHA"

and dead fucken silence...

from everyone else, monks ... audience...

'cept for me cackling along. It was funny as fuck!! The fucken look on the faces of the old cunt and the audience were fucken priceless.

To his credit, the old boy ended up smacking it on his head and breaking it.. but he did seemed a bit miffed for the rest of the show- so did the rest of his crew.

the rest of the night was a top laugh as well, I'd class them as more acrobats than martial artists, but I 'spose it's only a show and we had a good fucken giggle throughout it.

As we were leaving, some dickhead in front of us goes cunt up down the stairs 'cos he wasn't looking where he was going.

Goes monster..."he said not to fucken try this at home you fuck wit, are your fucken ears painted on?" ...

and we stepped over the cunt and went back to the bush.




maybe one day I'll relate our trip to the Monet exhibition....