Episode 8: Again with the Ramblings....

HAha, this is indeed an amusing coincidence isn't it? Almost an irony, in fact.
The fact is that I don't want to write an email, and you don't want to read one. *Shrugs shoulders* Meh; tough luck. No-one can stop me when I'm in the mood for a gibberish-spraying ramble. So let's recap what's happened over the last few days... Okay, Marty the weatherman, here; now if we refer to the Prat-O-Metre, we can see *this* is where the world is currently resting in being an utter bitch. It's brilliant living on Earth, isn't it? Such a liberating experience; like, each privileged citizen has a love/hate relationship with the gamey bastard, and we all live in crime, corruption, and general harmony. Yes, it's a great thing Adam ate that goddamned apple. Otherwise, we would never have been able to experience the thrilling pleasures of living in a world where the poor people are ridiculed, the coloured peoples are segregated, and the homosexual people get their own yearly parade in the streets with large fluorescent fluffy donkeys. Okay, haven't seen the donkeys? Haha! If you haven't seen the donkeys, you've obviously watched the Mardi Gras...ipso facto, you're a closet whatever. Me, I'm a closet communist. I found this out recently when I told my ears both to be the same size. I tell you, that would be a brilliant thing for Cuba to have, wouldn't it? If it had its very own tourist slogan: "Cuba: We're Not Communist!...Everyone Else Has To Say It Too!" Wouldn't it be great if every single continent had its own unique, interesting tagline? Australia, well, we all know what that would be, don't we? "I can feel a XXXX coming on." Yes, aren't we the cultured peoples? I mean, we get deluged by countless refugees struggling to live a life of privileged crime, corruption and harmony, and when they get to Australia, what happens to them? One of three things: They get shot back to Guam or wherever the filthy beggars issued from; they're placed on Coca-Cola Island to be considered as a "rare and endangered species" to be photographed daily by fascinated Chinamen; or, when all else fails, the refugees are employed in the Australian Taxi Service. I think it must be a prerequisite of the Taxi Service, don't you? If you don't have a name that sounds vaguely reminiscent of a transexual sloth's toe disease like Achmed or Schlamabadadickasuck you can't become a Taxi Driver. The only real qualifications to be a Taxi Driver, when you come right down to it, is that you have a face. As long as they can stick your face up on a piece of detachable plastic on the dashboard, then whoopsie doo, you've passed as a Taxi Driver. You certainly don't need to know how to drive. If you do, and you're a Taxi Driver, that's merely an added bonus. Usually, most Taxi Drivers are the sort of person who, when at school, sniffed liquid paper, and was always squinting in the class photographs. The sort of person who can't claim to have ever seen a steering wheel in their existences before, but, meh, what the hell...let's give it a shot... So that means that if you don't have a face, well, then you're not becoming a Taxi Driver. That's bloody oppression that is, especially to all those sad, faceless freaks. I mean, where the hell is the Elephant Man going to work now? Oh, yes, I hear you shout. He works in Amway. Well, of course. Damned refugees...what's the difference between asylum-seeking refugees and E.T.? E.T. wanted to go home. Not to be offensive, but do you know where they really stick all those superfluous refugees? I'll tell you where; either in Wacol Detention Centre, or they just add a perplexed Polynesian man named Tookie into the audiences of such charming game shows as "Burgo's Catch Phrase" and "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?". Yes, that's right: they're the ones who, when a 50-50 has been performed, and the guy in the hot seat resorts to Asking the Audience--they're the ones who vote for the answers that have already been eliminated. Now you know where those refugees go. So, really, they're not underprivileged at all. And we thought the Aborigines had it bad. Which is complete and ineffable ludicrousness, as a matter of fact. If they really had it bad, wouldn't they be sneering when they sit on those street corners sniffing empty petrol cans, instead of smiling? I mean, really, consider the logic. And if Aborigines are so oppressed, why the hell did we give them *any* land? I mean, they say their land was stolen, but that's ridiculous: white people haven't even touched Inala. And if they're really uppity about the unfortunate situation, why don't they go back to where they came from?...Africa. Okay, in case you're wondering, I'm not racist at all. I just enjoy the occasional ethnic slur. There's a marked difference: I make fun of Aborigines, but I still think Ernie Dingo is an absolute champion. So that's alright then. But if I'm going to insult the minorities, let's move on to the transexuals. I mean, really, what is their problem? A transexual is the pefect definition of the Uncertainty Principle: sould I be a he, or a she? When Erwin Schrodinger, famed physicist, wanted to depict the presence of indecision in a sane world, he should never have said anything about cats. It should have all been about the trannies. What *is* a transexual, may I ask? Is it a woman inside a man's body, a man inside a woman's body, or Eddie Izzard? I'm confused on this point. If you're going to be a transexual, at least come from an intriguing country. That way you can be a "Bolivian transexual goat-priest", for example. It's so much more intriguing then merely just enjoy wearing women's lingerie, and yet having a penis. I mean, at least you can put something colourful on your resume. "So you're a Bolivian transexual goat-priest are you?" "Yeth, thaff's correct darls." "You're hired! You'll be a credit to the Yellow Cabs uniform!" And what is that with Yellow Cabs? They are *definitely* not yellow. I mean, it's a giant multimillion dollar company which ensures that you arrive at your allotted destination in time...but the guy in charge is colour blind! Doesn't that make you feel safe? If you're still feeling secure, go hire out "Taxi Driver" with Robert Deniro and see what you're oh-so-reliable taxi drivers get up to in their lunch breaks. The good thing about the humble taxi driver is that they're certainly consistent: don't expect them to get you there on time, don't expect them to have the right change, don't expect them to even understand English, let alone a known universal language which doesn't involve the words "Money", "More money", or "Cheap bastard." If you hold no expectations whatsoever for the struggling taxi driver, then you'll have a peachy day, I assure you. The only real expectations one has to hold for them is that they hit at least three innocent pedestrians on your way to your destination--some of these pedestrians may have even been waiting on the sidewalk. But, you know, when in Rome do what the Romans do: drive on the footpath, and run down passers-by. As long as you have a car with snazzy mag wheels, shiny hubcaps, and a respectable name like "Bentley" or "Fiat" then you can be certain that those poor people you imbed into the asphalt will be quite pleased in having your shock-absorbed tyres crush their cranium. I mean, who wants to go out by being run over by a Volkswagen Beatle? Or, if you're currently living on New Caledonia, go out by being run over by a rampant three-legged komodo dragon? The richest person in New Caledonia gets to drink someone *else's* pee. That's the economical hierarchy there. If you don't have halitosis, clymedia, dyspepsia, chronic haemorrhoids, gonorrhoea, diarrhoea, syphilis, genitals herpes, genital warts, genital permutations of any kind, after coming back from New Caledonia, then you're doing just dandy. Just watch out though; the pilots employed for the fly-back from New Cal are often ex-taxi drivers. It's difficult to ascertain why I don't particularly like planes. Maybe it's because the last time I was on one, the co-pilot was a goat, and there were fluffy dice on the dashboard. That's the extremely frightening aspect of air travel; you're entrusting your life into the hands of a dyslexic axe-murderer named Errol who keeps a dog with a bobbing head on the cockpit windscreen. For years, people on planes have been riddled with anxiety, not knowing how to find salvation. Well, that's pretty damned daft, one must postulate. Their salvation was right in front of their fucking eyes: the airline food. It's not meant to be eaten. I mean, it's food made with the culinary skills of a deceased aardvark, and it's made on a Carribean island where the inhabitants drink their own pee. Don't expect champagne and strawberries; and if that's what you get...look again. Anyhoo, the airline food isn't meant to be eaten. It's there so that you can, with full intention, stick it up your nostrils, in case you don't have a gas masks. Talking of which, gas masks don't actually exude any oxygen. They're just there to muffle the screams. I mean, you can tell you're going down in flames when there's a guy with the name Kennedy on board. If not, look out for those suspicious Afghanis who just happen to have five-metre large Barrettas clenched between their teeth. And no, it's not because they forgot to bring their Oral B toothbrushes. When the plane lands, you can expect the obligatory sigh of relief that everyone on board hasn't died, but of course...that's providing the pilot has actually stopped driving down the runway with maddened fire in his eyes. If you're wondering what this is, it should be blatantly obvious. The stewardesses drug the pilots with a combination of sherbet, caffeine and cocaine, just before take-off. There's nothing to be worried about; as long as the pilots stay on the provided mixture, their own brains won't function properly, and they actually *won't* crash. So before you slap that stewardess' buttocks next time, remember she holds your extremely fragile life in her delicate manicured hands. I bet you all feel utterly pathetic, now, don'tcha? The very fact that there's some ditzy peroxide-headed woman with more skill in putting her ankles around her ears then doing exams, with a name like Cherry Soda or Candy, are actually dictating your safety across international waters. Well, it's true. If we didn't have idiotic female plane staff named after softdrinks, well, where would we be? We certainly wouldn't be living the lovely lives of crime, corruption, and harmony that we are now. So just remember that before you consider becoming an astronaut to navigate a lunar rock made of cheese, or a giant hovering marshmallow the size of the baby's floating head in the Teletubbies...just you remember, before becoming a professional goatherder, or yak ambassador, that those stewardesses *live* to serve you. Which is not to say that they're prostitutes (obviously they are, but that's not what I originally mean to imply): I mean to say that they're modern day saints. As are the Polynesian taxi drivers with names like Tookie, Achmed, and Schlamabadadickasuck. All these good people in this world live to serve you. So if you're depressed one day, remember that there's some girl with an IQ of a refrigerated sultana with blonde highlights in her hair, with a name like Fanta, looking out for you. Er, well, I guess that's all from me (unfortunately). I can't think of anything more overly much to ramble on about, other than every other prejudiced minority on this planet (what's the difference between cookies and Jews? Cookies don't scream when you put them in the oven). Um, so unless you want to hear me continue to bitch and moan about how much the Bosnian hermaphrodite window-cleaners get on my nerves, than this is a buh-bye from me.