Stolen stuff

McSweeney's is one of the best literary websites I've ever come across (if anyone has seen other good ones, pass them this way). It's the brain child of Dave Eggers (A heartbreaking work of staggering genius) and is loosely associated with my favourite writer, Michael Chabon (Wonderboys, Amazing adventures of Kavalier and Clay). Here are two of my favourite recent contributions to the site.

Punchlines suggested by Ashton Kutcher for PUNK'D that were rejected for their archaic nature
By Afrooz Family
- - - -
You've been hoodwinked!
You have been beguiled by my cohorts!
You are the victim of our flimflam!
You, unfortunately, are the jestee!
You are the one who was hornswoggled!
It is you the gomeril!
The previous contingency was an apery!

__________


The Von Trapp Children Speak to a Geneticist.
By David Ng
- - - -
LIESL: Why is it that we can all sing very well?

GENETICIST: Liesl, that is an excellent question! And essentially one that boils down to the classic debate of nature versus nurture. Are your genes responsible for this particular talent, or has it more to do with your upbringing? Looking at this scenario objectively, I would have to say that it is both. There have been reports that the ability to have perfect pitch—that is the ability to distinguish musical notes without points of reference—is a hereditary phenomenon, thereby strongly suggesting a genetic basis. This would seem to be supported by your father's musical talent as well. Of course, you've also had the benefit of being tutored by your wayward novice governess with all-world pipes, Maria.
In conclusion, like most things pertaining to our individuality, we are influenced by both our biology and our surroundings.

GRETL: I think Liesl is very beautiful. Why am I not as pretty?

GENETICIST: Assuming no mutational errors occur during the production of sperm and egg cells, there was approximately a 1-in-70,000,000,000,000 chance that you would have been an identical clone of your sister. If you included the multitude of mutational and regulatory events that ensue during this process, that statistic would escalate to an even smaller chance that is, quite frankly, unfathomable to calculate. How did I get to this absurd number? Well, one must realize that your genetic instructions are housed as a collection of 23 pairs of chromosomes (i.e., 46 in all). In other words, it is correct to say that each human has two sets of instructions—one given to you by your father, and one by your mother. If you keep in mind that your parents themselves also have 23 pairs of chromosomes, and you realize that the child may receive only one from each pair, the likelihood of siblings having the same 46 chromosomes is the fantastic number mentioned above.
However, Gretl, do not fret. You are the youngest of the lot and still have a good chance to blossom into a stunning flower like your sister Liesel. Furthermore, cosmetic surgery these days I hear is quite impressive. And then there is always the chance of Liesl having a disfiguring accident—I hear she may be a Nazi sympathizer, which is never a good thing.

FRIEDRICH: Yes, Liesl is hot. Sometimes, even I have feelings for her. Why is it bad for me to feel that way?

GENETICIST: Incestuous relationships, as well as being frowned upon by most of society, are also disadvantageous from a biological point of view. In the genetic world, diversity breeds fitness. One example is to imagine the following. You have a set of genes that determine the ability of your immune system to recognize and combat various pathogens. Your sister Liesl also has a set of genes that do the same thing. And because you and your sister come from the same genetic pool (you have the same parents), Liesl's immunity is quite likely to be similar to yours. Do you not see that the net effect of this is that you would create offspring with a limited repertoire of immune-system genes? Compare that to your having a child with, say, Marcia from The Brady Bunch, and you will note that this union will create offspring that have the benefit of a wider genetic pool (your parents and Marcia's parents), thereby allowing your children to acquire a more diverse and fitter immune system.
Also, dude, she's your sister.

BRIGITTA: Why do all of our siblings have blondish hair and blue eyes, whereas Marta and I have dark hair and dark eyes?

GENETICIST: You are thinking, perhaps, that your mother was a whore? It is true that the disparity in your outward appearances is a mite unusual. However, there is no reason to believe that any adultery has occurred. Here is the reason why. Although it is generally thought—though not confirmed—that extreme blondness (as in the case of Louisa and Friedrich) has a recessive distribution, there are numerous factors that can account for your instances of dark hair and dark eyes. First, hair and eye color are very subjective terms. Is Greta or Kurt blond, dirty blond, or strawberry blond? Genetic characterization is very difficult when the observational characterization is less than strict. Second, the pigmentation of hair is normally attributed to melanin levels, which have been shown to vary greatly during different stages of a person's life. You may have noticed, for example, that a person's childhood hair color tends to be lighter than their adult hair color. Third, the amount of melanin that an individual produces is influenced in part by their environment. For instance, melanin acts to protect the person from the damaging effects of the sun's radiation. In conclusion, I do not feel that there is anything to worry about. Besides, you did not mention Liesl, who herself has dark hair. Did you omit her because you are secretly jealous of her hotness?

KURT: I think I might want to be with another boy. Is this to do with my DNA?

GENETICIST: Unfortunately, the answer is currently unknown. There have been numerous reports that have tried to implicate specific genetic regions to homosexual behavior, but presently those studies, although titillating, are at best only an indication that there is a hereditary factor for this type of sexual orientation. However, there is an abundance of ongoing research in this area, particularly with homosexual men. If you are interested, perhaps you could participate in the scientific process. Of course, it is important to remember that the Nazis do not dig gay people.

LOUISA: Why doesn't anybody remember who I am?

GENETICIST: Alas, it appears that this is because you are the second child. I would not be surprised if there are very few pictures of you. It is not, I assume, because your parents did not love you, but simply a facet of being born after the initial excitement and newness of parenthood has passed. This, of course, has nothing to do with genetics. In order to be taken more notice of, you could try different fashions, or perhaps a new haircut. In truth, Liesl could probably give you better advice, as I am, sadly, only a geneticist.

The one that got away

Last night Australia came within a greasy potato wedge of voting Courtney Murphy off Idol. But ultimately the country decided that the infinitely more fascinating Chanel Cole had to go instead.

And so Courtney lives to fight another day and get his chance at revenge on Mark Holden for questioning his falsetto.

That’s right folks. His Royal Largeness got his ego bruised on Sunday night when Mark told him that his falsetto was not up to the standards he expected. And now he’s angry. Sure, most of the other Idol contestants have been ripped apart with far nastier insults and have gracefully taken them on the chin but this is Courtney Murphy we’re talking about! The Great Fat Hope. It’s one thing to question his viability as a pop star due to his big fat arse. But heaven forbid anyone should question his big fat talent!

I mean, if/when he does get knocked off the top of the proverbial fondue fountain, surely it’ll be because the Australian public can’t see the talent past the bag of doughnuts. Surely it wouldn’t be because of a lack of talent!

Surely it couldn’t be because Anthony is better looking, more likeable and, here’s the killer, a better singer!

After Sunday’s show, Courtney said ‘honestly, I don’t know what else I can give’. Well, maybe that’s telling you something, big guy.

But I guess I have been rather harsh on the big man. And, I admit, if I were ever to record an album, Courtney Murphy probably wouldn’t be buying it either. So I’ve decided to be fair to him, and so without further ado…

Ten thing Courtney Murphy would probably rather do than buy a Christian Harimanow album

1. Eat a screwdriver
2. Eat a six-pack of microphones
3. Put on a padded suit and jump into a cage full of otters to try to steal their food.
4. Polish a public park toilet floor with his arse
5. Consume an entire small-sized camel (cooked)
6. Pump Clag glue into his system via an IV drip
7. Eat a plateful of another person’s earwax
8. Eat chocolate-covered goat faeces
9. Eat Don Pancho (preferably cooked)
10. Drink a bottle of Habib’s garlic sauce

Friendly winds

It’s been a good weekend. And for all the right reasons. I won’t go into what that means exactly. Suffice to say, these are not the kinds of reasons that could fly or fizzle with an email or phone call in the coming days. While certain emails or phone calls in the coming days may dislodge me from my current content state, they would have little to do with why this has been a good weekend.

Friday night drinks was refreshing because it was different. Different because it was new. New because it was old. Whoever was there will know what I’m talking about.

Saturday was good for similar reasons.

Sunday, Escalade won our first (of many) grand final of the ACBA basketball competition. Despite the fact that we were really just the opening act, it’s wonderful to see how our team has grown and matured over all this time. Having been through so many different days together, both bad and good, everything came together today. It wasn’t an easy win. There were moments when I was thinking ‘oh we’re done’ but we kept proving me wrong. I’ve had more dramatic victories, other victories where I’ve been a greater individual factor, and I’ve been on teams that have maximized the sum of their parts to a much greater degree. But this one feels special. Twenty-three teams. Twenty-six weeks. And we end up on top. That’s pretty good in my books. Well done guys. We bloody deserve this one.

Thanks to all who came to support our game. Thanks to all who sent me long-distance well wishes (all two of you!). Thanks to the Mob Red girls for…um… entertaining us. And mostly, thanks to Captain Bill and the rest of the Escalade team. Mark, Andrew, Ian, Guyi, Dennis and MVP Luke. There’s no I in TEAM but there are four in MISSISSIPPI.

No I don’t know what that means either.

Another one bites the dust

With tonight's unfortunate demise of Marty Worrell from the Australian Idol finals lineup goes the last interesting Idol hopeful whose CD I would consider buying.

It also leaves Anthony as the lone contestant with a BMI below 25. Not that the rest are overweight. They’re just big-boned.

The way it’s going, the final Idol show will also become the first Circus Sideshow Idol. The fat guy and the midget.

Anthony is a talent no doubt. Great voice. Good looks. Small stature. A perfect addition to the lineup of Hi-5.

Courtney is also talented but is boring, pretentious, has an ego almost the size of his stomach and, frankly, is just taking up space.

__________

Ten things I’d rather do than buy a Courtney Murphy album

1. Jab myself in the ear with a screwdriver
2. Eat a microphone
3. Put on a padded suit and jump into a cage full of hungry otters
4. Clean a public park toilet with nothing but a bottle of Jiff and my hands
5. Kiss a camel
6. Drink a shot of Clag glue
7. Snort another person’s earwax up my nose
8. Roll around in goat faeces
9. Buy Don Pancho’s album
10. Give up Habib’s garlic sauce for a year

Thank the pig

It’s another dead carcass rotating over hot coals.

It's delicious.

My first full-blown Viet wedding extends into a thank you dinner for the helpers.

I was a helper.

I helped carry the pig.

Inside the house, the men eat around one table. The ladies on the other. I ask her if this was normal. She says it’s always been that way. And I say OK.

The oldies tables. They get all the good stuff.

Out the back is the relatively young table. That’s where I am. Next to us is the really young table.

Our food is still fantastic as always. Mostly unpronounceable to me. But wonderful. Except the salad. There was a lot of that left. I'm not going to say any more than that about the salad.

After dinner the baboon runs around taking pictures of everyone and everything and periodically tells me ‘I can’t believe she’s only 16.’ Meanwhile, Lolita’s even younger sister starts jumping on his back for reasons neither understandable nor apparent to us 25-year-olds.

The baboon also learns tonight the lesson that there really isn’t much you can do when your friend’s intoxicated uncle starts hitting you over the head for reasons apparent but not understandable to us non-intoxicated-uncle-types.

Sometimes I don’t mind just being an observer.

At least it’s less painful.

Eventually we end up on the front porch drinking tea with her. Then the sisters come to join us. And so does the little brother. A little boy in oversized clothes comes in and out and makes bird-like impressions. After a short while, this act no longer amuses us and we stop paying attention. And then he doesn’t come back. Or it may have been the other way around. I’m not sure.

It’s late and we’re talking about the future. Mental fatigue often does produce these kinds of conversations. I should look into that some time.

We’re the last to leave. I get another doggy bag. So I’m happy.

The next day, I’m playing in my basketball semi-finals. I’m tired as hell but I’m giving it my all. We win. Not that I’m suggesting cause and effect. But we’re in the finals now. That’s kinda more the point of this paragraph.

And so after that dreadful end to Friday night, the rest of the weekend was a nice slow-burning contented smile on a tired face.

I like that.

I like that a lot.

Long hot summer

It’s not even summer yet and I’m already hating summer. Bring back the frost, I say. I escaped Indonesia at the tender of six in the hope that I don’t again have to live in 37 degree weather. When summer comes, all I want to do is stay indoors. Or find a shade. And consume copious amounts of liquid. Spring and Autumn are my favourite seasons. Then comes winter.

You see, I’m a big sweater. During summer, I sweat standing still. Even in winter I sweat. All it takes is a little movement. And I hate that. I can only think of three activities where I don’t mind sweating to. For everything else, sweat stinks. Figuratively and literally.

During summer, I never feel clean. Even after a shower. It’s disgusting and I am not looking forward to it. Secondly, in winter, if you get cold you can put on as many layers as you want. In summer, if you get hot, naked is as little as you can wear. And if you go around naked in public, you may get arrested.

So in conclusion, summer means either staying indoors (which, with artificial climate control, is about the same as being indoors during winter) or going out in clothes and sweat and feel disgusting or going out naked, sweating less but risking a police arrest.

There’s really nothing to like about that.

__________

One friend has stopped blogging. Another doesn’t want to blog anymore. I don’t get it. Why does blogging have to be taken so seriously? Why can’t you blog when you feel like it and when you don’t, just leave it there in case you feel like it on a later date? Bloggers need to relax about what they write, how others read it, etc. There are lots of blogs I don’t like reading. I’m sure there are lots of readers who don’t like my blog. So what? We keep writing. In the beginning, most bloggers go through some level of blogging anxiety. Then eventually, if you persist, you get over it and stop caring or you grow an enormous ego and think that everything you write is brilliant.

Just take it easy. And you’ll be fine.

__________

Sleepwalker’s da Vinci Code diary Part 3

I’ve finished. It kinda ran out of steam towards the later parts of the book and the ending was rather disappointing. But still an enjoyable experience overall. It felt similar to when I had just finished reading Silence of the Lambs for some reason.

I’m still sticking with my main criticism, which is that there is absolutely no way a locksmith wouldn’t be able to open a cryptex. As a locksmith once told me, ‘if it can be locked, it can be opened.’ (Actually a locksmith never told me that but it just carries more credibility coming from a locksmith. This, however, just took all that credibility away.) Also, my friend suggested (this one is real) ‘couldn’t you just freeze the vinegar?’

Too right, my friend.

__________

OK, Ricki-Lee is gone. NOW do you believe me that Australians are morons?

Make way for the Pig Bearer

The little brother likes me. He keeps trying to bash me up with a balloon and the sisters insist that it’s a sign of affection. The dad and uncle once threatened me off their front lawn with power tools in their hands. Today, they seem to like me too. The other brother, the groom, is nice to me as well. When I came to their house, he got karaoke started. That’s a sure way to my heart.

At times it felt like I was at a wedding that I wasn’t supposed to be at. Having to wake up at 5:15am and not understanding a word being said during the entire ceremony heightens that effect. Not really knowing the groom and having the bride forget who I was didn’t really help either. But I was glad to be there and I was glad to help. These dead roasted pigs don’t carry themselves, it seems.

This was my first ever Viet wedding. Perhaps if I continue with my little Viet fetish I can aspire towards having one for my own wedding. Perhaps not.

We arrived at the bride’s house, a troupe of tiny girls in pastel coloured see-thru dresses that split at the waist and bearing gifts for the bride’s family, followed by me, Yui and a pig in a box.

We weren’t wearing pastel coloured see-thru dresses that split at the waist. We were wearing regular suits.

I look smashing in a suit by the way. In case you were wondering.

I haven’t had a more interesting and fun Saturday morning in a long while. A delicious roast pig, an eye-opening look at a foreign culture, the company of a friendly family and friends, playing with little kids to keep them quiet during the speeches, being accidentally groped by a little girl (no I didn’t enjoy it you sick bastards!), a very cute bridesmaid (consensus 7/8 on the R scale – unfortunately she didn’t grope me) and other assorted sights and sounds.

Thank you for inviting me to be a part of this special occasion and asking me to help out.

It was my pleasure.

__________

After I exercised my compulsory right to vote, I went along to the second wedding of the day. Although I was far more involved with this wedding and much closer to the couple, I won’t write so much about it (for several reasons).

But I just want to say congratulations to the both of you. I want to say that it was a wonderful service. A nice reception. And I want to thank you so very much for the kind words.

Catherine and Mitchell, you’re possibly the best-looking wedding couple I’ve ever seen. You two were glowing in each other’s company.

You allow me the privilege to still believe in love.

xtn, recording artist

Georgia and I went to the recording studio (otherwise known as 'the living room') today and guess what?

I sound like a weenie.

I've never heard a recording of myself singing and now that I have...

I think I sound like a friggin' weenie.

*sigh*

A minor setback to my music career. I think I just have to get used to this.

Doo wa diddee

What is surely a recipe for disaster is actually coming along quite nicely, after a bumpy beginning.

It's nice.

I like the word nice. It says so much, yet gives away so little.

Of course, knowing us (and especially knowing you), this can only eventually end in tears. And probably mine at that.

But just as I know that Habibs will eventually kill me, I still indulge from time to time (or maybe more than that).

You're charcoal chicken to me.

Just hold the garlic sauce.

My friend has this guy who gives her flowers and presents and stuff all the time. And they're not just gifts for the sake of giving. They're actually quite meaningful gifts. Stuff that he knows she wants.

I'm jealous.

I want my own sugar mamma.

Why can't I get my own sugar mamma?

So if there is anyone out there interested in filling this position, please drop me a line. I am a man of many talents.

I am sure there are plenty of things that I can do for you...