« December 2005 | Main | February 2006 »
January 25, 2006
Old File
I was going through my old files, and I found something which Jake and I wrote together when we must have been around 17. I like finding this ol’ childish comedy stuff.
The TRUTH of CLICHES
Cats cannot be killed by strong personality traits, but yes by bows and arrows which can be constructed out of common household objects.
Don’t place your hopes and dreams on the possibility that chickens might arrive.
To accept that a rolling stone gathers no moss one must assume that there is endless hill, which is absolute bullshit. And that’s that.
Every dog has its day, unless the dog exists in a bizarre night world. Note: Could still apply, if bizarre night world had some cataclysmic event which created a day-like anomaly, in which case the dog would become confused, and perhaps very scared.
Good things come to those who wait, provided your idea of waiting is working constantly.
It’s a small world, and there more and more people on it everyday. Soon we will have to eat each other to stay alive. Are you prepared?
Every cloud has a silver lining, caused by atmospheric pressure and reflection of light - but not every situation has good possibilities.
Time is not adequate medical treatment for severe injuries, and conversely, medical treatment does not solve time/space anomalies.
Sam and Jake’s New Obvious Clichés for People On the Move
1) If you are ugly, people won’t like you.
2) A lot of noise makes cooking difficult
3) What goes up must come down, except for objects which achieve or exceed orbit.
4) A glass that is half full is half full not empty because empty is not a quantitative mass.
5) Many people want to become a star, but it is unlikely that you will.
6) If you do something wrong, something good or bad may come of it.
7) Three is pleasant amount of friends.
8) Make the RIGHT decision or you’ll feel bad later.
9) Work hard and one day you will be rewarded, perhaps.
10) Death comes to many different people, in many different ways; you should hope that your death is not too horrible. The postman also comes to many different people. Therefore the postman is similar to death. You should also hope that your postman is not too horrible.
11) A watched pot will take the same amount of time to boil as a regular pot. A human watching a pot will, however, become bored easily, and this will make it seem like it’s taking forever.
12) If someone loves you, and you love them back, you may still be very unhappy.
13) Sometimes two people love each other very much. Then one of them loses an eye and the other doesn’t find them attractive anymore. It’s sad but it happens. Just not very often.
14) Practice will make you frustratingly mediocre.
15) Try not to give birth to deaf children, as their lives will not be as full an experience as normal children, and we can say that because they’re stupid.
16) Absence makes genetalia more wanten.
17) If familiarity breeds contempt, then how do you get familiarity?
18) There is a light at the end of the tunnel, unless it is a dead end, in which case, only death awaits. Or the tunnels light source has shut down. In which case, other motorists may become a hindrance.
19) It takes a village to raise a child. It also takes a village to kill a rogue giant. Villages are useful.
20) It takes a village to raise a child, but only one peadophile to sexually abuse many children. Pedophiles are more efficient than villages.
21) It takes a village to raise a severely emotionally damaged child, who believes they have many different parents of differing temperaments, one of whom is a blacksmith.
22) Good things don’t come to those who wait, it’s just that the person has been sitting on the couch for so long that they are amused by anything.
Posted by Sam Bowring at 05:18 PM | Comments (0)
January 16, 2006
Die Bryant Die
Happy new year me! As indicated previously, I didn’t make any real resolutions. The fuck would I?
So I was up late last night watching singles ads smoking a bong with my dick in my hand ... I saw an ad for a new singles website called Red Hot Pie. I do NOT understand how that is meant to be sexy.
‘Babe I want to smother your naked body with red hot pie then lick it off.’
‘Baby I want to stick it in your red hot pie.’
‘Why don’t you come around to my place for some red hot pie, if you know what I mean?’
Speaking of pies – Kent and I were driving back from Canberra on thursday, and we stopped at this service station run by troglodytes with their name tags on backwards. I bought myself a curry pie. The brand of pie was ‘Bryants Pies’.
Now I’m not saying it was a bad pie BUT if I had a button I could press to murder Bryant in his sleep, I would press it. I would sterilise his children so there is no chance of his shoddy pie making genes being passed into future generations.
For a start, I hate foods that trick me into eating peas. Peas were riddled through this pie like green tumours. And if you turn to the ingredients list on the back it does NOT list peas, or potato, or any of the other filth Bryant scratched out from under his fingernails to make this pie. On closer inspection of the packet I realised why this is – it’s because the packet actually says its a plain pie, whilst only a little hand scrawled sticker on the front says 'curry'. Bryant is such a six toed broom handle of a man that he can’t even tell which of his foul creations are which. I wouldn’t be surprised if he makes all the pies the same way, then gets drunk and decides what flavour he’s going to pretend they are.
The heating instructions read:
Heat oven to 175 degrees. Insert pie for 20 mins. Remove. Stand two mins.
This is wrong. What they should actually read is:
Place pie in a deep pit in the ground and cover with warm peat. Wait ten days or until you forget, whichever comes first. Count yourself lucky.
The label also says these pies are ‘famous quality’. Pie makers everywhere are always claiming their pies to be famous! You can’t go into a pie shop in some backwater town that doesn’t have ‘famous’ pies. Which makes me wonder, is it the specific pies the pie shop makes that are famous, or is it the pies themselves? As in
‘Mate, you ever had one of them meat pies?’
‘Nah mate, but I’ve heard about them – people say they’re great.’
Anyway, there is an address on the back of the packet, so I’ve written Bryant a letter to express my regard for his pies, which I include immediately:
Dear Bryant
I am writing to express my dissatisfaction with your pie products, one of which I was recently unfortunate enough to systematically put into my own body. If my body is a temple, then your pie was a suicide bomber. One who doesn’t wash or shave, so when he explodes there are bits of smelly hairy gristle all over the goddamn shop.
Let me be clearer.
If I was ever on a mysterious planet and found a cave full of strange eggs that opened as I got close, I would much prefer that an alien face hugger jumped out and wrapped itself around my head in order to force its murderous offspring into my stomach than experience one of your pies shooting out into my face.
I do not want a refund, as I never wish to come into contact with anything you have touched ever again. Also I would be too afraid that I would receive a fifty cent piece with a sticker on it that says two dollars.
Instead I deliver you this warning. If ever I am at your factory in Golburn, I will make an effort to spit on every door handle in the place. I will pick my nose and then turn all your light switches on and off. And I may sterilise your children.
I would not be surprised if you are your own mongoloid half brother and thus cannot read this, so to the person reading this out to the stew of recessive genes bubbling in the corner called Bryant, please punch him in the balls as part of this message.
Yours sincerely,
Sam Bowring
Posted by Sam Bowring at 09:29 PM | Comments (0)
January 11, 2006
A Hundred Metres
I hear a lot of interesting things on my balcony late at night.
I live in quite a pub oriented ‘cultural’ area, so there are lots of different kinds of people who live around me, and visit the area too.
The magnolia keeps me safe. I can eavesdrop comfortably for the time it takes them to walk fifty metres in either direction of my house.
A hundred metres of conversation, ha ha. Doesn’t sound like much, but it can be so very informative about people, characteristics, personalities, relationships ... people walk past and you’ll know they’re in love, or they’re bored, or housemates, or old friends, or their hearts have been broken ... a hundred metres can be a long way to travel past the balcony of Presiding Judge Sammy.
Course I don’t really know squat, everyone has their story.
Heard a couple of people go past my balcony just then. Here:
(distant arguing)
He walks past swearing, heads down the street.
She follows. Shouts abuse at him.
He slows down. She slows down. They remain equidistant.
Her: Fuck! Fuck you! Oh, fuck! (she stomps the ground forcefully with her feet)
He laughs at her.
Him: Come on. Come or not. Ah hahahahaha.
Her: Shit! Fuck you! (stamps her feet) Fuck! Holy fucking shit! Fuck you!
She is in the middle of the street walking so slowly as almost not to be, and screaming at the top of her lungs. He laughs, a cackle curving around a corner.
Him: Stay at my place if you like, ahahaha.
Her: Fuck you! You fucking fuck! Come back here! I’m not coming! Fuck! (stamps her feet) Fuck you! (stamps her feet for quite some time) FUCK YOU! Fuck!
She stands screaming in the street. He laughs again at her loud and feeble abuse. A tabby walks into the lamplight and stretches his legs, sauntering nonchalantly out into the street. The man's laughter fades away into the distance. The woman stops in shadows, throwing down her bag and screaming the same words again and again at the pavement, stamping her feet. She stops screaming to stamp, and stops stamping to scream – they seem to be very separate events. The tabby wanders towards her, curiously eyeing the drama. He keeps his distance however, slumping down in a c curl so as not to imply any respect. Eventually, crying, she stands. She swears quietly to herself, picks up her bag, and off she goes, down the street, after the man.
The tabby yawns. Whatever it was has passed out of his kingdom, yet the trees still sway and the leaves fall. The wind still blows metallic and chemical down the channel of houses from the main street, as it should be. The concrete is always nice and flat. Sometimes the sun warms these streets and makes for good basking - or if it’s too hot there’s always a shady hole under a house or a garage somewhere. Birds in the trees ripe for plucking, vermin on the ground, fights to be fought, broods to be made.
Besides, he’s seen it all before.
The kingdom stands and all is well.
Posted by Sam Bowring at 02:42 AM | Comments (0)
January 01, 2006
New Years Day
It's fucking hot, I’m hungover and I did a lot of regretful things last night.
My New Years resolutions:
1) Win more consistently at poker.
2) Eat the strawberries I buy before they reach advanced states of decay.
3) Keep on truckin’.
4) Try to be more restrained with my salad ingredients.
5) Continue being Sammy Fantastic.
Let the trials continue.
Posted by Sam Bowring at 04:26 PM | Comments (0)