Tom Cruise Lied to Me: A story about drunken debauchery and artistic sculptures

16 08 2010

We’ve all worked in horrible jobs. Some jobs we make us depressed and some jobs make us completely turn into utter nutjobs. Some smart cookie once said:

“It isn’t work if you enjoy what you are doing”

This is a very astute statement from an intelligent but most likely unemployed person who has probably never worked in a job that has kept him or her above the poverty line. I have worked in a variety of jobs from sifting through rock samples as a geological assistant to manning the store and herding stoners out the door during the late night shift at a 7-11. The majority of these jobs felt like work but only one of them actually slotted into the statement above. I speak of my time working in an inner-city hotel/nightclub. I shall not mention this place by name but those who worked there and who frequented it’s sticky carpeted floors will know exactly which venue it is. It was the home of “The Bucket of Booze”.

I had moved up to Brisbane from Melbourne and needed a job quickly. I had always dreamed of working in a nightclub ever since I saw that midget Tom Cruise in the movie Cocktail throw bottles of booze around with scant regard for health and safety laws. I wanted to be this guy except without the strained weird laugh and the leanings towards crazy cults that take all your money under the guise of religion. I applied for several jobs and was knocked back for every single one even though I had lied out of my arse on my resume. I hadn’t actually worked in hospitality but figured it wasn’t that hard to carry a tray of drinks so I peppered my resume with a summary of numerous nightclubs in Melbourne where I had plied my trade. This didn’t work. Experience didn’t count one bit. The guys hiring wanted boobs. I heard “Nah mate. We are only hiring chicks, eh” on numerous occasions. Not perturbed, I walked the streets asking for a job and I finally got one.

I walked into this somewhat seedy hotel in Paddington and asked to speak to the manager. A pony-tailed man not much older than I am greeted me with a smile and said “That’s me!” I asked straight up for a job and told him about my ‘awesome experience’. He was suitably impressed and said he’d give me a trial. I was overjoyed. I would work my butt off, impress him and the other staff and become Tom Cruise. This was going to be awesome. I was going to be a drink pouring superstar working in a flash night club. Knee deep in sexy ladies within a week. I was quite wrong.

On my first night I saw a drunk lady smash a pool cue over a guys head and then try and stab him with the shards. The second night I worked there I had a vomit-speckled man hurl abuse and spit at me for ‘looking at him funny.’ These things didn’t happen in Cocktail. Tom Cruise had let me down again! First Risky Business (dancing in your underwear isn’t a good look for everyone) and now this. Going to work in this hotel was literally like walking onto the set of a Brazilian porno movie with a decidedly violent theme, and I loved every minute of it.

The best feature of this hotel was the marketing strategy that was used to bring the masses in. It was a great strategy and was ultimately one of the reason for the tighter alcohol laws that were brought into Qld in the mid-90’s. We sold buckets of booze. Like, a bucket…with booze in it. We had hundreds of those 1L white paint buckets and for three bucks you could get six shots of your favourite basic spirit plus a mixer. $3 for a bucket of sin. You could spend less than $10 and be as blind as Ray Charles. Like dribbling drunk. Some fallout occurred after a string of nasty incidents at other venues (not ours, of course) and we agreed to change our price structure. A bucket was now $6. We copped some flak from the drunken popped collar hordes and the slutty skanks but it was still a bargain. A better bargain if you were one of my friends as I’d put about nine shots in there and just wave a bottle of coke over the top. By midnight things got a bit messy. People would be rutting like dogs on the dance floor, glassies would be getting furtive blowjobs from drunken single mothers in the parking lot and a certain bartender would be slamming down shots with the aforementioned pony-tailed manager in the office. Crazy times. I used to love going to work. That was until the ‘Phantom Shitter’ started plying his trade.

Yeah. The Phantom Shitter. That was our name for this faecal terrorist.

One Saturday night we were in full swing and the glassy came running over and said “Some dude has clogged the toilet!” Now as any hospitality worked will know, cleaning the toilets is a horrible yet necessary task. It also has to be done several times during the night. The ladies toilets are the worst. You see, men just piss everywhere and you can hose that stuff right off. Women go a little bit feral. Sometimes you’d walk in there and the scene that confronted you would be so shocking that you would be frozen to the spot in abject terror. Toilet paper everywhere. Used tampons flung against the wall. Vomit and smeared shit all over the cubicles. Just feral crazy oestrogen charged antics, really. So a clogged toilet in the men’s was nothing in comparison. I walked in there and was traumatised with what I saw.

Someone had clogged up the toilet with paper. Then smashed a pot glass in there. And then did a big poo in another pot glass and left it balanced on top. Then they had pressed the flush button resulting in a revolting brown and grey malicious soup. This was nasty. This was also the work of a creative genius. I dare say in some circles, people might call it an artistic installation. I called it a disease trap mainly because of the broken glass which just screamed hepatitis if you got cut. We got thick gloves on and a spare bin and cleaned that up. Well, I didn’t. I supervised and pointed a lot. I wasn’t going to get elbow deep in poo for $13 an hour. No way. We thought that was the end of it though…until next Saturday night.

Sure enough, the shitter struck again. Same motive, same style. The weird thing was, we’d removed all glass from the nightclub in order to curb costs caused by patrons throwing them around like footballs and randomly glassing each other after drinking four buckets in an hour. We only used the plastic/poly-type glasses so this dirty bastard was bringing in at least two glasses from a neighbouring hotel in what seemed like a  premeditated attack. We cleaned up the poo…but every Saturday night he’d return and lay a big steaming nard on top of a broken glass sculpture. Every fucking Saturday night for about 6 months. We even had a bouncer on duty near the toilets, sussing people out but we never caught  him. We never even got close to seeing who might be doing it. There were rumours that it was an inside job but everyone had their turn at de-clogging the toilet so we certainly didn’t think there was any employee that masochistic who would inflict that on themselves just for shits (literally) and giggles. One thing was certain though. I loved working at that venue.

Except Saturday night…

When Birds Attack: A terrifying story involving grevilleas and galahs.

6 07 2010

I quite like animals. I really do. I also like to think that they like me but sometimes they don’t and this story is about one such occurrence.

Approach at your own risk.

I grew up with animals. Lots of them. My parents ensured I wasn’t one of those maladjusted social retards who freaks out at the sight of a puppy by surrounding us with cats and dogs and other animals. I lived in the small mining towns of Central Queensland and as such had plenty of furry playmates with which I could dress up and parade around the living room. We even had a kangaroo and an emu, both of which sadly ‘ran away because the gate was left open’. Telling my sister and I that an animal had ‘run away because the gate was left open’ was my parent’s way of avoiding the topic of the horrific death from diarrhoea that our emu (Eddie) and our kangaroo (Joey) died from. We never questioned the repeated careless gate maintenance that occurred all too frequently at the Thompson household but since we barely closed our front door it was quite feasible that an open gate should occur and a sickly native animal could escape.

We also had other more generic animals. We had a tomcat that sired an entire population of feral cats in Central Qld and a one-eyed spaniel-cross that detested men. We also had a budgerigar called Blinky. We called him Blinky because he blinked a lot. We weren’t very imaginative people when it came to naming our pets; our fluffy tomcat was called Fluffy. Blinky was a cool bird that, despite blinking like a nervous junkie on dole-day, used to mimic the whistle of a boiling kettle. A talented bird indeed. I loved all of our animals and they loved me. Not once did I have a bad animal experience as a child. Recently I had an experience that changed all of this. A bad bird experience. We’ve all had them but possibly none as terrifying as this.

A few weekends ago I ventured out to a local nursery to buy some native plants. We like native plants because they don’t require the coddling that other plants do. This is a good thing because I am next to useless in the garden and there is less of a chance of me killing a plant if I don’t have to touch it or whisper encouraging words to it. I’m also like the Ivan Milat of the gardening world. I am generally harmless but every now and then I go on a bit of a rampage with the lawn mower or line trimmer and we are soon missing a few plants. I also bury them behind the shed in shallow graves but I digress.

Micky went off looking for grevilleas and I was carrying my son around looking at the pretty fountains and cacti. It wasn’t long after we separated that Ollie spied a bird in the shop. A galah to be exact. He wanted to look at the pretty birdie and I obliged. I walked over and noticed that this bird wasn’t in a cage. He was on a stand and was grooming himself and looking relaxed as some birds do. There was a sign around the stand that said the following:

My name is Aussie. I am quite tame and enjoy being scratched!

Ollie and I admired Aussie for a bit and we indulged in some head bobbing and Aussie dutifully replied with some head bobbing of his own. I felt we had developed a nice relationship here so I reached out to give Aussie a scratch. My hand got about 20cm from Aussie when, quick as a flash, this pink and white terrorist flew onto my arm and then raced up to my shoulder where he bit the fuck out of my ear. I was carrying Ollie in my other arm and I didn’t want to alarm him by screaming in terror so I said “Oh gee whizz. Will you look at that? Aussie is playing. Ha, ha. He’s playing with Daddy’s ear. Ha, ha…” I put Ollie down so I could attend to the situation of a large bird being attached to my head by its beak but Aussie took this opportunity to let go of my ear and latch onto my neck. Now, there’s a spot on a person’s back where it is next to impossible to reach with either hand. Some people develop an itch in this spot and relieve it with a stick, a ruler or a supportive friend. This is the spot that Aussie had targeted as his ‘attack zone’ but instead of an annoying itch in this spot I had 300 grams of malevolent bird burrowing into my spinal column.

It was at this point that I realised I had a bit of a problem. I couldn’t straighten up because Aussie would bite harder so I was bent over with this fucking bird gnawing into a chunk of man-neck. I looked like a bald hunchback with Tourrette’s auditioning for ‘So You Think You Can Dance’. And that is kind of what my son thought I was doing. As I spun around in a circle trying to dislodge this neck-eating bird my son was clapping and yelling out “Daddy is dancing with the funny birdie!” Bless him. What I was actually trying to do was get rid of the bird without screaming or swearing too loudly and scaring my son or anyone else in the shop. I looked for something to rub this bird off on but I was in the cacti section and didn’t fancy a bout of acupuncture to go along with a serving of avian mauling.

I spied the lady who worked in the nursery. Ah! I’m sure she can help. I grabbed my son’s hand and hobbled over to the lady, Aussie still biting the shit out of my neck with his beak and grappling for purchase on my bent back with his sharp claws. She looked at me and said “Can I help you?”

I replied with “Can you help me? What the fuck do you reckon you stupid bitch! I didn’t walk in with this fucking feathered velociraptor attached to my neck!”

Of course I didn’t say anything of the sort. I didn’t want to draw any undue attention to myself and I also didn’t want to raise my voice with my child in earshot. I said to her “As a matter of fact yes, you can help me. I seem to be having a slight problem with your bird. You see, he’s biting my neck and I am in a bit of pain. Could you be so kind and remove him from me before I start bleeding everywhere?”

She looked at me with those dead flat eyes that morons have everywhere and peered over my shoulder to see what the issue was. She then said “Oh, that’s Aussie. I’m not touching him. He bites people”


Come again?

He bites people?

Then why is there a sign over there saying tame. Tame? Tame generally means docile or domesticated. I’m fairly certain tame doesn’t mean getting attacked and having a bird chewing on your neck! Why are you inviting people to give this little pink fucker a scratch! Do you enjoy lawsuits? I looked at the lady and said “Ah okay. Do you have a stick I could beat him off with? He isn’t exactly giving me gentle love nibbles”. Luckily another worker came over with a towel wrapped around her arm. A fucking towel! Like he’s a Wedged-Tail eagle. She gently pried Aussie off my back and he lovingly hopped onto her arm while she stared at me with a “what the hell did you do to this poor bird” look. Sensing a few people coming over to see what the disturbance was I picked up my son and scurried off to find my beloved. Hopefully I could get some sympathy from her.

I was halfway through telling Micky about this story when we both spied another bird sitting in the nursery. This one was larger and with a massive hooked beak. It was also not in a cage. He also had a sign around his perch saying “my favourite foods are seeds and fingers!” What kind of nursery is this? The nightmare nursery? Were there crocodiles in the fountains? This is almost like the kind of stuff that inspired Stephen King to write horror. At sunset do the plants come alive and eat you? If Alfred Hitchcock could have seen what had transpired that afternoon he would have been laughing, rubbing his fat porky hands together in glee. We bought our plants and got the hell out of there before the birds could debrief each other and regroup for another neck attack.

Now I have this fear of birds. Something I never had before. I am actually thinking about conquering my fear by getting a parrot. Something small like a cockatiel which doesn’t have that neck-grasping, spinal-cord ripping ability. I don’t know if it will work though because knowing my family’s track record with animals there is no doubt that the bird will ‘run away because a gate was left open’. Everyone has their cross to bear. Mine is covered in feathers and squawks.

Burger Rings and Border Collies

6 04 2010

I witnessed something today that made my blood boil. It was a random act of physical cruelty that kicked off the day in bad style. I saw a lady beat her dog unnecessarily. Sure, no biggie in the scheme of things but the first day back at work after a long weekend means I get all punchy and shouty at even the smallest incidents. Let me sum up the situation. I’m waiting for the bus. I’m watching a young man sitting near me eat from a bag of salty snacks. Burger Rings to be exact. A lady with a nice looking Labrador dog is nearby and the dog notices that one of the snacks has fallen from the bag onto the ground. The dog, being a dog, knows that anything on the ground is fair game and decided to get its munch on. The lady, seeing her dog acting in a purely natural dog way, reacts by giving her dog a belting and saying “No!! Bad dog!” in a loud shrill voice.

This made me angry and, to be honest,  also a bit hungry. I’ve refrained from eating salty snacks as part of a new health regime and the sight of a bag of Burger Rings made me salivate. I sure love Burger Rings. They are like the retarded cousin of Cheezels and taste like no burger I have ever eaten but I used to love munching down on a packet or two every now and then. As a child I wasn’t allowed to eat bags of mass produced salty treats. When I was hungry I was either given a Granny Smith apple, which was either floury or horrifically sour, or told a story about how tough things were in the past and how much we take food for granted these days. I didn’t mind the stories but they did nothing to quell my hunger. I would have much preferred a packet of Twisties or the like.

The first time I ate Burger Rings I went a little silly. I was given a packet at a friend’s birthday party and I snuck away and crawled into a small recess under the house to eat them in private. I gorged myself, scoffing delicious ring after delicious ring pausing only to wipe my mouth with my hand and to growl at other children who were searching for me. Perhaps it was the feeling of them exploding on my tongue or the knowledge that I was eating something forbidden that made me act this way. I have since worked out that I behave like this when I have overindulged in MSG (flavour enhancer 621). I found this out after a nasty incident at our local Chinese restaurant. Who would have thought eight MSG-laden main courses, fourteen beers and a Karaoke machine would have resulted in a short police chase and a somewhat embarrassing court case, but I digress. Let’s get off the topic of tasty snacks and onto the issue that raised my ire this morning.

My one real vice.

Dogs are omnivorous and are known for their scavenging behaviour. Dogs are also intelligent animals and respond accordingly to our tone of voice and/or body language. They do not need to be physically assaulted. There is only one occasion when giving a dog a good flogging is actually needed and that is when your life is in danger caused directly by a dog. I have been in one of these situations and what I am about to tell you is a true story. So true that I have the scars to prove it.

It was a humid Friday afternoon. I had raced home from work because my partner and I had a rather important work function to go to. It was important because there was an open bar and I wanted to drink around seventeen gin and tonics before the CEO decided to cut everyone off. This usually happens around 7:30pm because I work with a bunch of drunken reprobates who don’t know how to pace themselves. I hurtled up the driveway, threw my briefcase onto the lounge and proceeded to remove my clothes. Time was of an essence here. My partner, sensing my urgency, started getting some nice clothes out and she had already ironed my jeans. How I love this woman.

At this point in the story I would like to introduce my dog. I like agile dogs. I like a dog I can wrestle with. I don’t want to engage in some rough horseplay only to find that I have crushed our household companion to death in a re-enactment of a martial arts technique I had once seen in an action movie. With this in mind we had recently purchased a border collie puppy. She was 10 weeks old and her name was Maggie. Maggie is now 4 years old and is quite easily the best dog in the world but for a short period of her life I was extremely wary of Maggie and this story is why.

Let’s recap. There I am. I am naked in the bedroom. I’m getting shoes out and my underwear ready and I am about to have a shower. You simply cannot drink gin and tonic while smelling like a hobo’s armpit. I was running around my room playing that fun game that dog owners everywhere know called “try not to step on the dog”. My juvenile dog thought this was a pretty fucking ace game.

It was at this moment that Maggie looked up and saw something she hadn’t seen before. A scrotum. A dangling scrotum. My scrotum. Now I’m not terrifically endowed in the ball-sack region but it was a warm day and my boys were hanging a tad lower than usual. Maggie looked up, defied gravity with a huge vertical leap and with cat-like agility latched onto my scrotum. Time slowed at this point. I vividly recall exactly what happened next. I shall recount in point form:

  • I felt pain. Extreme pain.
  • I looked down and noticed I had what appeared to be a very cheerful black and white ball of fluff hanging from my scrotum.
  • The black and white ball of fluff dangling from my scrotum growled happily and shook her head from side to side.
  • The black and white ball of fluff, being only 10weeks old, had a full set of milk teeth which are less like adult dog teeth and more like that of a fully grown mako shark.
  • I punched the black and white thing in the side of the head in a reflex action only to realise very shortly afterwards that I had also managed to smash the crap out of my penis with my closed fist.
  • I fall down in a screaming, howling mess with both hands firmly clenched around my man-bits.

It was painful, to say the least, but I dare say my screams were less about the pain and more about the fact that I had just witnessed a small animal chew on my softest and most tender part of my body. I screamed like a banshee. Imagine the screams if a bus was carrying the Vienna Boys Choir through the French Alps and it had started to careen off the edge of a cliff and the boys all knew they would be falling to their death? My screams would be like that, but with less vibrato. Amazingly, my voice went up an octave when I inspected the damage and saw blood. Not a lot of blood but let’s be honest here, when you see any blood coming from your genitals you can be forgiven if you overreact a bit.

I crawled into the shower, my trembling hands grasping my mauled sack with thoughts of castration on my mind. My voice then went off the  musical scale when I turned the water on and let it wash over the wound. Did it sting? Oh yes, it sure did. It stung like a motherfucker. I looked down amid the tears and the steaming water to inspect the damage. A small tear was visible in my scrotum. Not a huge tear, but again any tear in your genitals isn’t something you just ignore. Funnily enough, after the stinging pain from the water-dousing had subsided I felt only a little discomfort. I have since found that scrotums are wonderful things and can take a lot of damage. I gingerly dabbed some disinfectant (cue more screaming and sobbing) on my wound and finished getting dressed.

I ended up going to my work function and actually used this experience to ‘hold the floor’ for a good while. I strolled (albeit gingerly) around the function room retelling this story to the amazement and laughter of my work colleagues. As well as garnering plenty of laughs it also created a great distraction during which my partner basically stripped the bar bare of all gin-related products and anything with the word ‘tonic’ written on it. Well played, my dear.

As far as I know, the poor dog who got belted for eating a tasty snack wasn’t putting anyone’s life in danger nor did it have a mouthful of genitals. Therefore, I think we can all agree that the owner’s actions were unwarranted. Sure, I have since found out that the dog is in fact a ‘helper dog’ and it is also ‘borderline diabetic’ but still, there was no need for the smack. If she’d been able to discipline her dog properly I would have been able to have that tasty Burger Ring all for myself. Finders keepers and so forth.

Don't let the cuteness fool you. She has one thing on her mind. Scrotums.

Anger Management 101.

19 03 2010

Dear Dr. Lazlo, when I get mad I tend to break things (small objects, house doors, people’s faces etc.) and this usually leads to costing me lots of money (replacing objects, fixing doors, paying off assault fines) it also has started to cause problems with the missus. If something slightly irritates me it’s “please don’t break something you always fucking break shit, you have no respect” this causes me to get mad and break things. Usually I want it to be her bones but for now I’ve been able to restrain myself and only bust up her pets and family members. What can I do to curb this violent temper of mine?

-Yours Truly, A Secret Sk8parx Forumer.

Hello there, Secret Angry Forumer. Do you mind if I call you Steve for this little session? I only say that because after reading your email, I immediately thought you sounded like a ‘Steve’ would sound like. I do believe my parents did the same thing but to this day I have no idea what a ‘Lazlo’ would sound like. Perhaps like a cross between the chirping of a recently hatched bird and a slightly broken edge trimmer. I’m not too sure.

You certainly do seem to have a few issues, don’t you Steve. Anger management is something that all of us have had to deal with in some point in our lives. Even your everyday peace-loving hippy can go into a frothy mouthed rage at the drop of a hat. Especially if they find a chunk of meat in their vegan stew. Especially if you put it there. My, that is a fun game. I suggest you try it one day. For extra fun, add cheese and dairy products into a lactose intolerant person’s meal and watch the expletives fly. It certainly does help to pass the time. A word of warning though, people who are allergic to peanuts are usually VERY allergic to peanuts. I found this out the hard way.

Controlling your anger is the first step. You say when things slightly irritate you, you then fly off the handle and break things including household objects and faces? Might I suggest some meditation? I find meditation to be a great way to focus your energy and control your feelings. Of course, it may also cause you to focus your anger, in turn making you an efficient killing machine who uses his hands to wreak vengeance upon an unsuspecting (or suspecting given how much you might yell when charging people) victim. Remember to breathe. Deep breaths in and out. I sometimes find that making a “weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” sound on the exhale makes the anger go away and fills me with a calming influence. It also indicates to other people nearby that you are meditating and not in some sort of drug stupor.

Once we have a handle on your anger we need to then work out why you fly into rages at the drop of the hat. Does something trigger your moods, Steve? I find ignorant people, the colour green and men called Nigel cause me to get all slitty-eyed and punchy. I also find when I am frustrated that my anger levels increase proportionately to my frustration levels. I first noticed this occurrence when I was on holidays with my Grandparents on the Gold Coast. They lived about 150m from Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary and it was always my dream to visit there for fun and frivolity. I was mainly interested in feeding the Rainbow Lorikeets but also fairly keen on finding and killing the bird that went “Berrrrk!!!” every morning waking me from my slumber. The day came when my grandparents took my sister and I to the sanctuary but much to my horror they drove us to Fleay’s Fauna Park in Burleigh Heads because it was cheaper. Let’s not get into the fact that I could see the fence to the Currumbin Sanctuary from my bedroom, it was far too expensive for my stingy grandparents.

If you haven’t been to Fleay’s Fauna Park, it can be described as a poor cousin to the Currumbin Sanctuary. All the animals are loose at Fleay’s, they don’t have their own cages. This is apparently an ‘attraction’. I saw it as they were too stingy to buy cages and therefore let the animals roam around together. At most sanctuaries you get specially made animal food to feed to the kangaroos and such. At Fleay’s they had home brand Fruit Loops mixed with handfuls of sawdust. This created an atmosphere of oppression, not dissimilar to that found at 3am in a suburban nightclub, mainly caused by the severely cranky and possibly diabetic marsupials. Being 9 years old and angry that I wasn’t at the tourist attraction of my choice I took my frustrations out on a small, and seemingly innocuous, wallaby. As it scrabbled around in the bag of food I was holding, most likely searching for something edible that wasn’t Fruit Loop flavoured sawdust, it nipped my hand. I took out my frustrations by kicking it squarely in the chest. I immediately regretted my actions not only due to the sight of a poor half-starved wallaby soaring across the enclosure like the first kick in the AFL Grand Final, but also because a nearby emu saw that I was distracted and decided to help itself to an unguarded bag of fruit loops. The ensuing scuffle and subsequent flurry of vicious emu pecks saw me hurtling across the meadow screaming like a banshee, sans shorts, with a large flightless bird in full chase. I learned two things that sunny afternoon. Never take out your frustrations on something with big soppy mammal eyes and emus see people wearing bright blue shorts as a threat to their territory.

In conclusion, Steve, it is wrong to hit things, especially women. I get the distinct feeling we’ll need to schedule some extra sessions sometime soon. In the meantime, I suggest trying meditation or even a yoga class. Try not to get angry at the yoga instructor. He wears those pants for a reason. Hippy chicks love them. Also, perhaps try a course of hardcore anti-depressants. This is a perfectly acceptable alternative to any sort of psychological treatment mainly because it absolves the prescribing doctor of any sort of responsibility should you lose the plot and “take some fuckers down with you”. I wish you well.

Dr. Lazlo Panaflex

Sexy Animals. Right or Wrong? Dr. Panaflex Advises.

17 03 2010

Hi Dr Lazlo.

First time reader, first time poster.

I read your advice column with some interest, but must admit to a little disappointment as at no time did you touch upon any animal related fantasies. For instance I have been assured that my habit of lightly stroking my perineal region with a kangaroo scrotum coin purse I purchased in Surfers Paradise on holiday in 1998 as I choke the life out of my man bits until they bulge purple is a quite normal and acceptable practice.

The librarian at Carindale shopping centre told me this when I quizzed her at length about my gooch related native mammal practices and judging by the fact that she had glasses and a small mole on her upper lip with two hairs in it I naturally assumed she was an authority on such things.

Could you please elucidate on why this day to day activity was left out of your piece of advice? I would hate to think that there are other readers out there such as myself (and I’m sure there are) who may be concerned that they are “doing it wrong” so to speak.

Yours sincerely,

Concerned Macropod Fancier.

Well hello there. Welcome to my blog.

Thank you for taking the time out of your very busy day to write a comment. I’m not sure what your day entails but going on your comment I am assuming you spend a fair bit of time collecting interesting skin samples and/or reading copies of National Geographic magazines from the early 1970’s. I used to love spending hour upon hour perusing the numerous copies of National Geographic that I found in my grandmother’s ‘library’. I say ‘library’ but it was basically a musty room full of piles and piles of magazines and books that smelt a bit like the tomb of an undiscovered mummy. I once spent several months diligently cataloguing her collection of magazines into my own kind of ‘Dewey Decimal System’, although my system was based on content categories rather than a sequential series of numbers and useful letters. Magazines were categorised based on the following content:

  1. Number of articles containing sharks and/or lions
  2. Pictures of war time atrocities.
  3. Issues covering Jane Goodall
  4. Nipple Content.

Needless to say, many a fun hour was spent in that dusty old room. Fun times indeed. Anyway, let’s get on with your question, Concerned Macropod Fancier. Do you mind if I call you Gavin? I think this will make it a bit easier for us to communicate? Now Gavin, I certainly don’t think there is anything wrong with fantasising, in a sexual way, about animals. This is perfectly normal behaviour, especially for a young man. What isn’t perfectly normal is when you start to act on this fantasy. This is known as bestiality or “the forbidden love” and has been frowned on in most civilised societies for quite a while now (feel free to insert a witty joke about New Zealand and/or Wales here).

You also most certainly aren’t alone either, so don’t beat yourself up about it (unless that is another of your favourite fantasies). I once had a patient who had a bit of a thing for crustaceans. He had a serious fetish for crabs, lobsters and the like. So much so that one day he decided to take it to the next level and was mortified when his wife and children walked in on him rigorously fisting himself as he writhed naked on a blow up mattress covered entirely by small hermit crabs and a rather large amount of industrial strength lubricant. Needless to say that therapy sessions were required for both him and his wife and the outcome has them both living happily together. He has an hour a week set aside as his ‘special time’ and she now calls when she’s on her way home. Of course his children had to be sent away to foster families but sometimes we all need to make sacrifices, don’t we Gavin?

So, in summary I certainly see nothing wrong about fantasising about completely obscure sexual desires as long as you don’t make the jump to full-on rampaging weirdo. In saying that, I think rubbing yourself on the perineum with a small yet silky smooth kangaroo scrotum is about as far as you should go with this, don’t you? If you take this any further you’ll find yourself in possibly perilous situation involving hardcore frottage with an aggressive, fully grown Eastern Grey kangaroo and we all know that this will lead to trouble for all parties involved. Might I suggest buying a full, figure hugging body suit made of kangaroo skin? Or even asking your hairy-mole librarian friend to join you in some native mammalian role-play? That could be the answer. Remember, always ‘ask’ not ‘force’ when it comes to this sort of thing. I really don’t think I can stress this enough.

I really do hope this helps you out and I certainly would love to hear from you in the future. Let me know how things work out. Now excuse me, I need to go and buy some hermit crabs from the local pet store. And some lubricant. Good luck, Gavin.

Dr. Lazlo Panaflex

Lustful Fantasising and its Consequences

16 03 2010

Hi Dr. Lazlo,

I have a question I want to ask.

This is a completely hypothetical scenario. Say you are dating/married/committed to a woman and you see yourself as a loyal chap, would you consider it morally wrong to spank the salami with visualisations of a different girl? I suppose you could keep it as your “little secret” but what I am wondering is if it would be a moral dilemma that you have dealt with in the past?


Well hello Kicks.

How’s your day been? Mine has been sort of okay however I am having an ‘issue’ with Gavin from Accounts. I won’t go into it in detail here other than to say I’ve been doing a bit of research into how deep a shallow grave has to be in order for it to be effective. The answer is: surprisingly deep. Sticks and twigs just don’t do the trick.

Now onto your question which is one that afflicts most men and, most certainly, plenty of women as well and that is: Is it morally wrong to think of a person other than your partner when ‘spanking the monkey’ or ‘diddling the doodle’? And the answer to this question is: Only if your partner finds out. Simple.

I think my loving partner would be horrified to know that on the rare occasions that I flog my sausage that I am usually thinking of Ricky Ponting’s fine century versus India at the MCG a few years ago. Sometimes I change grips and pretend I am Ricky smashing one through extra cover. For the money stroke I like to imagine Ricky dancing down the pitch and belting cantankerous spin bowler and renowned fuckwad Harbajan Singh over his head. It is up to you whether or not you tell your partner but just be prepared for her answer as well. She may well have a thing for Andrew O’Keefe from Deal or No Deal. And a woman who loves Andrew O’Keefe is a woman who needs serious help.

I know what it is like to be told that your partner thinks of someone else when indulging in some self-pleasure. An ex-girlfriend of mine once confided in me that she fantasised about Richard Wilkins when she gave herself a good fudding. Admittedly I took this rather well but only because I had a wee thing for Kerry-Anne Kennerly at the time. Of course I wanted to stay in a relationship so I didn’t tell her about my lust-interest. Some things should never see the light of day. To make things worse, she took my non-committal answer to her statement to mean I was ‘down with the whole thing’ and she wanted to take things to the next stage. You know where I am going with this, don’t you?

Yes, I had to dress up as Richard Wilkins once or twice a week when she felt randy. Let me tell you, you certainly do feel a bit daft standing at the foot of a bed wearing nothing but a beige jockstrap with a small furry tea cosy as a wig while you pretend to interview vapid celebrities on the red carpet with a 12” black dildo masquerading as a microphone. Needless to say, dressing as a C-Grade celebrity/reporter/ageless tanned zombie certainly got a bit degrading after a while and we went our separate ways. I was okay with this because this left me plenty of time to update and catalogue my Kerry-Anne Kennerly memorabilia. You know what I mean when I say “update” and “catalogue” don’t you? Of course you do.

Take Care

Dr. Lazlo Panaflex

When you are Online, no one can hear you scream

11 03 2010

So look. I’m going to confess something. I’ve met people off the internet. I’m not talking about trawling through the online Yellow Pages and phoning up ‘Steve’ from Custom Plumbing and then acting all “oh, you’re the guy off the internet” when he turns up at my house to fix a leaky pipe here. I’m talking about meeting people. You know, for a relationship. Sheesh, this is awkward. Online dating? Otherwise known as the “Lucky Dip”. Now I know, in 2010, that this isn’t an Earth shattering revelation but back in 2002 it was ground breaking. In a way I was a pioneer. A very desperate pioneer. Not as desperate as some it turns out. And that, dear friends, is what this blog is about. Desperation. Clingy, stalky desperation.

Her name was Helen and she was a nurse. She also looked, according to the grainy picture she sent me, surprisingly normal. She messaged me out of the blue from a dating website I had joined which I found a bit odd. I have never been messaged by a woman on one of these sites before. Men? Yes. Creepy men who wanted to know how sweaty I got after a run and if I’d mind telling them where I lived? Oh yes. There are plenty of weirdos on the internet. Following on from her message, things moved quickly. Below is what happened during the week we met:

Wednesday Night:  I get a message from Helen saying I looked cute. Immediately think one of my mates is trying to pull my leg here but I play along. I’ve never been called cute. Interesting? Yes. Leery? Often. But never cute. Helen seems normal if a little giggly. She must be nervous. We email back and forth and then chat on MSN. It all seems to be going quite nicely.

Thursday Morning: I wake up to find about 3 emails from Helen in my inbox. Okay, that’s a little weird but she did say she was getting ‘stuck into the vino’. We’ve all done that. I jot down a few terms that jumped out at me from one of her emails so I can have a think about them later. They are ‘iridescent’, ‘longing’, ‘relationship’ and ‘possessive’. I will look at these words at lunch if I get the chance.

Thursday Lunch: I forget to think about the words from her email due to a rather terrific sandwich. It had three kinds of meat on it and types of lettuce I thought were weeds. I get a text message and an email from Helen. No issues here except I can’t remember giving her my phone number. Alarm bells are dormant at this stage.

Thursday Night: We talk on the phone. I say talk but that was mainly Helen. I nodded a lot and laughed in the right places. She seems nice. We’ve decided to meet each other in real life tomorrow night. This will be awkward. I can’t decide which t-shirt to wear. I decide on the black one. I have a tendency to spray food around like a performing seal when I eat so black will work out well. I sure hope she’s wearing black.

Friday Lunch: Sandwich not as good as I remember but it tasted okay as I read the 4 emails from Helen telling me how much she is looking forward to meeting me. She says she’ll pick me up at 7pm at my house. How nice of her.

Friday Night: It is 6pm and I hear a car pull up outside. I peer out the window and see that it is Helen. She’s an hour early. There’s a small insistent voice in my head that keeps telling me this is a little weird. I ignore it as Helen is wearing a short dress. I invite her in and excuse myself so I can shower. While soaping up I come to the realisation that I didn’t actually tell Helen where I lived. The small insistent voice in my head starts sniggering and telling me “I told you so”. I walk out of the shower and see Helen at my computer. “Just having a look” she tells me. Right. Knock yourself out.

We go to dinner at a nice little cafe. The food is rather good and I am getting a little drunk. Helen asks if I want to go back to her place. My brain says no but my genitals say yes. Things are done. I won’t go into detail other than to say I was happy with my performance. I note that Helen has quite a lot of teddy bears in her unit. Helen says “Oh I just lurve teddy bears”. Ooookay.

I catch a cab home as I don’t want to outstay my welcome. Helen says it isn’t a problem but I don’t want to give too much to this girl. You know, keep them wanting more.

Saturday Morning: I wake up to my phone beeping. I have a text message from Helen. She says “thanks for the wonderful night” and she hopes I’m not too hungover. I stumble out of bed and have a shower. My shower is interrupted by a phone call. It’s Helen. She wants to know if I want to go to a BBQ later that day. I said “sure, that sounds wonderful”. As I hang up the phone I start to wonder why I said that. Helen is coming at 1pm. It is 10am now so she’ll be here any minute.

Saturday Afternoon: We are at the BBQ. The food is nice and there is plenty of beer. It is also Helen’s family reunion. Awesome. I am being introduced as her “NEW BOYFRIEND”. I grin like the Cheshire Cat and at one stage it feels my face will split in half. Her mother corners me and asks me when I think we’ll be having kids. I don’t know what to say to this so I nod and smile and say something about it being a little early on for that sort of talk. Her mum says she’ll chat to me later. Just awesome. I need to get out of here so I complain of a migraine and ask Helen to drive me home. She’s a little annoyed at this because we haven’t played Pictionary yet and she was certain I would be a good match for her Uncle Gary (never been beaten apparently) but she takes me home. I say goodbye which takes a good ten minutes as I try and persuade her from ‘tending’ to my headache. I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

Saturday Night: I’ve had eight messages from Helen so far. Eight. Three phone calls too.  Only one email though.

Sunday Morning: I wake up to a text message from Helen asking me “what are WE doing today”. I reply “I’m helping a friend move and then he’s taking me to a movie.” I get silence for a good hour or so and then a message telling me to “get fucked” and to “jump off a fucking bridge”. I immediately get another message from her apologising for her actions and that she hopes I have a good time with my mates.

Sunday Night: I tell my mates what has happened over a beer or two. They stare in stunned silence at me. I tell them “she’s a nice girl though”. One of them makes stabbing motions and laughs at me. Oh my friends are funny jokesters. We enjoy the movie. It had zombies in it and zombies are pretty much fucking ace. I turn my phone back on and I see I have missed seven phone calls from Helen. Does she not know about the policy of turning phones off in movies? I wonder what she wanted but then realise the fourteen new  messages from her on my phone will probably give me an insight. They range from “I hope you’re having a great time, babe” to “you fucking arsehole. You’re with another girl, aren’t you?” I decide that Helen and I are done.

I get home and tuck myself into bed. At 2am I get a message. I wearily roll over and grab my phone. The message reads “Andrew. We need to talk. I know you are in there. I am watching you sleep”. Oh fuck. My first thought was “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” and my next was “I need some sort of weapon”. I look out through the window and there she is, standing in my garden bed like some sort of loon. She beckons to me. I shake my head and say out the window “No Helen. We’ll talk about this in the morning”. She howls like a banshee when she hears this. I shut the window, make sure the front door is locked and turn off my phone. I try and get back to sleep but I hear some banging on the front door and some weird scrabbling that I hope to fucking Jesus is a possum trying to get in the back door. I don’t sleep much. At 4am I get up and look out the window. Helen is still there, frantically writing on a pad of paper. She’s been there all night long. I wait for another hour or so until I hear her leave, her car squealing like a kicked cat up the street. I open the door and written all over my front step are the words “Fuckhead” and “Cheating Bastard” in black pen. Also on my front step is about 15 pages of handwritten scrawl. Helen’s thoughts on the whole incident. I try reading them but get a bit scared after she threatens to slice my penis off on page 4. I file these pages away to read at a later date but we all know the true reason. Evidence. If I was to disappear at least someone might find out what really happened.

I don’t know what became of Helen. I got a couple more emails from her but they were barely legible. Basically she’d gotten into her mind, in the 5 days that we got to know each other, that I was the “one”. The man of her dreams. I once thought I saw her mother in a shopping centre and I spent a couple of very nervous minutes looking like a creepy dude as I hid behind some clothing racks in a Just Jeans store.  I was wary for a good couple of months after that. I sure hope she’s happy. And in another country. In some sort of institution would be nice.