Anthony Capon

Charles Darwin was a very clever man, but his book 'The Origin of Species' did not explain the purpose of poofterism in the animal kingdom. To be fair though, Darwin could not have predicted the arrival of television, and the plethora of pooves that seem to proliferate upon it's pusillanimous programming. Will Anthony and his friends become an evolutionary dead end, even if only on pay TV (yes, people are paying for this pap)? I deeply hope so.

Tankard rating: Four 'get a real job' tankards

Unless you actually enjoy waking up with a nose full of coke residue and a really sore bunghole. Gaaarn.

Glad Wrap

Perhaps I'm retarded around the kitchen, but fuck me if I can't get the fucking Glad Wrap to tear off properly - you know, where it's supposed to, along the 'dangerous to small animals' sharp steel edge of the box. No matter how many times I try, no matter which angle of attack upon those leftovers/lunches/Richard Gere gerbils, the flimsy wrap shit rips in half, six inches from the carton's cutting edge of death. And it shits me every single time. Grrrrr.


Tankard rating: Five leather tankards.

What did mankind do before Glad Wrap? My guess would be 'swear less' Gnaaaaaaarrr (frustrated gnaar).

Show offs

Yeah, but what do you do for an encore smarty pants?

Tankard rating: Three ceramic tankards

Let's see ya do the spinny thing AND juggle these! Gaarn.

Floyd the Cat / My Mother-in-Law

Sit right down and you'll hear the tale of Floyd the Cat, Mrs Poopey's favourite housebound mammalian lifeform (and yes, this includes your truly). This is a glassing that's been a long time coming my friends...

Way back in 2006 my mother-in-law (shudder) decided it would be a fucking awesome idea to buy Mrs Poopey a cat for Christmas. Any normal person might have had the common sense to ask the prospective cat receivers if they actually wanted one first, but no, not my mother-in-law. Oh no.

I do not like cats. I don't hate cats or feel the need to go out torturing the little fuckers but rest assured that I'm a dog person and always have been.

So, a week before Christmas there's a knock on the door and 'quel suprise', Ma and Pa Kettle are there with a cat carrier, a bag of Gritty Kitty and miscellaneous items of cat chow in tow. "Hey, what'cha got there?" I nervously asked, to which they replied, "this is Mrs Poopey's secret Christmas present, do you think she'll like it?"

Naturally at this point my internal monologue is using words such as "fuck" "shit" "Jesus" and "arrrrrrrrrgh".

When the natural urge to scream had subsided, I tried my best to give the little fucker a go. We set up the cat's gear in the kitchen and I got on with life as best as I could. Of course there were suddenly new house rules - there was no way Mrs Poopey was gonna let Floyd outside the house, too many cars and asian neighbours apparently, and before too long I was beginning to miss the simple pleasures of opening up the house to let fresh air through. And it was the middle of summer.

Turns out that Floyd was abandoned or separated from his mother much earlier than the animal shelter had let on, and therefore clueless in the way of using a litter tray the way nature intended. Fucking great. And yes, I was down there on the floor after Floyd's meals waiting for the right moment to grab him and put him in the tray when the sluces were going to open - and boy, there's nothing more pleasant than copping a whiff of little Floydie letting loose I'll tell you. It's been nearly three years now and we've had maybe four turds actually land in the tray. Here, my friends, is a picture of what greets me upon my return to Chez Poopey after a fun day selling what's left of my soul to the corporation:


















I wonder if I should photoshop a large "FAIL" over this and send it off to that website that has all the other funny "FAIL" photos.

We've tried everything, believe me. The little fucker even has three trays to choose from, but still shits outside them every fucking time. And there's nothing like the smell of fresh cat shit out in the back room to tickle the nostrils and remind you that it's probably time to ring the upholsterer because the $150 scratching post you bought isn't as much fun as Captain Poopey's favourite couch/fly screens/shoe laces/carpet/trackydacks tossles/speaker grilles/hi-fi cables. Not that the upholsterer could help me with several of those issues but you get the idea.


















Notice how the deadly stench has even peeled the paint off the wall.

Apologies to Festy if you're having breakfast dude.

In closing, I don't know if I should glass the cat, the lying animal shelter, my mother-in-law or all three. What I do know is when the day comes and I go postal, that this has been a definate factor.

Glass rating: Four milk bottles

Did I also mention he's lactose intolerant?

It's a fucking cat! Grrrrrrrrrr!!

Penny Wong

Clearly has the 'wong' idea, yet we're going to be paying through the nose to boil the kettle and producing sweet fuck all of the world's carbon emissions until someone sensible comes along and decides to tax the buttload of coal and gas we're selling to China for a pittance instead. Not that we'd notice, one of Penny's press conferences is enough to bore anyone within earshot into a forty-year coma. Australia's most boring lesbian? You be the judge...

Tankard rating: One atomic tankard that Peter Garrett would no longer find fault with. Not at all, everything's lovely. What songs? He said what for twenty years? No, no, that wasn't him leaping about like a demented praying mantis, that was someone else that had environmental concerns. Truly. Gaaarn.

Losing your keys

Support your local locksmith - lose a key.

Tankard rating: Three steel tankards

Gaaarn.

Self portraits leaked to the internet

Ok, so perhaps at first glance one might think 'this photo wasn't meant to be posted on the internet, it's for private consumption' - and then one might ponder to oneself 'maybe this is meant to be seen, and therefore a cry for help'. Another theory is this could be a bold statement of the subject's need to be accepted as a cross dresser by fellow members of the Russian mafia.

At any rate, this is fucked up. No pondering necessary.



Glass rating: Three bottles of vodka dressed to the nines in brown paper bags.

Those times when the wife gets home earlier than expected

Mrs Poopey is insistent that I never wear that codpiece again, no matter how hot I think it makes me look. Lucky for me that I hadn't had time to inflate the Juicy Lucy love doll!


Glass rating: Two 'let's get it on' wine glasses

Barry White albums optional. Gnaaaaaaar.

The Home Ice Cream Man and his Fucking Annoying Ringing Bells

The prick comes past every other afternoon and the fat little Leb cunts next door get even more vociferous than usual. As if they really needed any more incentive to be little cunts.

Another fatty-bashing post? Why not?

Nom-nom-nom-nom. Gaarn.


Glass rating: One glass sumo coffee table

Somewhere to put more icecream! Nomnom.