Category Archives: comedy

I went to a meditation evening (and things were far from tranquil)


I’m really good at sitting around and doing absolutely nothing, so when a lady friend asked me to accompany her to a meditation evening, I gave her a thumbs up and told her I’d love to. I mean, I’d just be bludging in a dark room with a bunch of very relaxed oddballs, so what could possibly go wrong?

While I have long hair and can often be found frolicking around fires, I’ve never really been into new-age medicine and spirituality – in fact, the last time I hung out with a bunch of hippies I embarrassed myself. Still, I’m open-minded and always willing to try new things, so there I was, standing outside a vegan restaurant in Newcastle, preparing to head inside and experience something new.

I was ravenous before heading into the restaurant, so I ducked into the kebab shop next door and ordered a massive kebab and a can of Coke. With only a few minutes until the start of the session, I scoffed what I could and the swaggered into the dimly-lit restaurant with garlic sauce dripping down my chin. There was a small collection of nutters sitting in a circle with their eyes closed, so I put my leftovers on a table and joined them.

Most of the hippies were older, sitting cross-legged on cushions. They were mostly wearing shawls and yoga pants, and certainly looked like they were relaxed and at one with the universe. There was only one other bloke there, and he introduced himself as Rudolph and the went back to meditating. I felt a bit silly at first to sit there with my eyes closed while the teacher spoke softly, but I soon realised that there’s not a lot to the whole meditation process and it’s actually pretty tranquil.

There was absolute silence as I sat there on my journey into the mind, and I couldn’t help thinking that I could’ve just as easily done this at home (or, even better, kicked back with a beer while watching the footy). As I sat there with my eyes closed, it soon became apparent that shovelling most of a kebab and all of a can of Coke down my gullet immediately before starting a meditation session wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. There was a rumbling in my guts, and while everyone else was breathing in and out calmly, I was doing my best not to let out a burp. Well, my best wasn’t good enough, and I belched loud enough to wake the dead, drawing angry looks from the group – especially Rudolph.

After burping through the next ten minutes of meditation, the teacher decided to switch things up a bit. She told us that we’d spend the next 15 minutes meditating while walking around the room, which sounded good to me because I was pretty bloody sick of sitting there. I thought we’d be trotting around and working up a sweat, but instead we walked in a circle very slowly with our eyes closed. It was a bit like what goes on in mental hospitals in American movies.

I got lost in my own little world as I strutted around the room. I was busy wondering what the score was in the footy when I headbutted something hard, and looked up to see that I’d bumped into a huge wooden statue of a cat, and had to struggle to keep it from toppling over. When I finally had it under control, I turned around to see Rudolph absolutely steaming as he returned to his cushion.

I was thinking it would be a good idea for me to piss off and leave the hippies to it, but I didn’t want to offend my lady friend, so I sat back in my chair for the next section of the night. We all had to sit down with our eyes closed, while the teacher quietly asked us questions. I was kind of zoning in and out and didn’t really know what was going on, so when the teacher asked me what I thought about this or that, I didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on.

I started rambling on about various things I’d been up to lately, such as playing PlayStation and getting a really good deal on cask wine, ending with an incredibly graphic depiction of a sexual encounter I’d had with a girl met on Tinder. I thought I was being deep and getting away with it, but when I looked over at Rudolph he had veins popping out of his forehead and his face was all red, so I cut my story short.

A couple of the hippies started rattling on about nature and butterflies, until Rudolph started chatting about his spiritual journey. His story started millions of years ago with the explosion of some far-off star, and 20 minutes later he finally getting closer to talking about the day he was born. I was bored out of my brain and really hungry, so I had a cracking idea; everyone had their eyes shut, so I snuck over and got the rest of my kebab, and kicked back on my chair to eat it while watching the footy on my phone. I was having a great time while Rudolph prattled on about rainbows and holding hands, and everything was going great until the Sharks scored.

“Oh, fucking hell!” I yelled out, forgetting where I was. Rudolph fell silent, then turned to look at me with eyes that burnt like the embers of hell. His mouth was twitching and his body jerking around as he stood up.
“You fucking arsehole!” he yelled, tipping over a chair for dramatic effect. “You fucking, fucking, fucking arsehole! This is my one time of the week to relax, and you have taken it away from me, you fucking arsehole! You. Fucking. Arsehole!”

Rudolph came at me with his arms outstretched, so I hopped up and raced outside. Fortunately, Rudolph tripped on his oversized yoga pants and sprawled on the floor, allowing me to make it to my car. I looked back at the restaurant and saw that it had descended into chaos, with hippies yelling at each other and throwing cushions around. One woman even bonked the teacher over the head with a ceremonial hammer. My lady friend threw open the passenger door of my car and got in, allowing me to drive off while an enraged Rudolph chased us down the street.

As I drove her away from the pandemonium, I thanked my lucky stars that my lady friend was very in touch with the universe and probably wouldn’t get too upset with me. After a long, silent drive, we got to her place and I dropped her off. I didn’t have high hopes that she’d want to see me again, but was still surprised when she punched me in the face and called me “the world’s biggest cocksucker” before slamming the door and storming off into the night.

Meditation, eh? I don’t see what’s so bloody relaxing about it!

A journey of a thousand beers starts with a single can…


The adventure is finally underway and I’m happy to say that I haven’t been bashed, stabbed, shot at or blown up yet. Of course, that’s not saying much seeing as so far I’ve travelled only 50km from Gosford to Sydney Airport, but it’s a start.

The trip down was very exotic – I sat between an Asian bloke who dropped his noodles in his lap and then slurped them up anyway, and a homeless bloke who was doing his best to slurp his noodle, but was unsuccessful. I’m gonna miss this place!

Security at Sydney Airport has been ramped up, with all sorts of X-ray machines that look like something out of Total Recall but don’t, sadly, allow one to see through the clothes of pretty girls (trust me, I checked it out). Despite the increase in security, and no matter how shady I acted, I didn’t manage to convince the big, fat, hairy dude really sexy and pretty security sheila to give me an internal examination. Oh well, there’s always hope when I get to the other side of the world.

Speaking of which, by the next time you hear from me, I will have travelled slightly further – another 15,000km, all the way to the ancient city of Riga, Latvia. That’s where the Drunk and Jobless 2016 World Tour of Europe: The Search for Beers, Kebabs and the Greatest Love the World has Ever Known will truly kick off. As the title suggests, I’ll bee stumbling through Europe with a can in one hand, a salmonella-encrusted wrap in the other, checking out thousands of years of history, while keeping an eye out for the girl who will become the love of my life.

It will take me from Lativia, to Estonia, Lithuania, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Austria, Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia… I’m struggling to remember them all here, but I know I’ll be finishing up with an epic week of so on the Greek Islands. It’s going to be like Acropolis Now, only with less Effy and more effing (I hope).

I’ll be reporting every day on the weird shit that’s happened to me, the freaks I’ve met, the wonderful things I’ve seen and other crap that will hopefully make you laugh. There’ll be photos (some where I’ll even be wearing pants!) and the best writing you’ve ever se read (that’s probably a lie). I’m gone for more than two months, so stick around because I might get lonely…

Awesome, they’ve just called my flight – one can of your shittest beer, please, Qantas!


See ya the fuck later, Australia!


I love Australia, and I love being Australian. The refugee-cuddling diesel dykes who stalk the piss-stained alleyways of Newtown might tell you that’s a bad thing, but it’s not, it’s something I’m proud of. So, as I prepare to spend more than two months rolling through Europe, I must admit that I’m going to miss my country.

This time tomorrow I’ll be winging my way to Riga, Latvia, so I’ve spent the last few days loading up on a bit of Australia. On Thursday night I went to see the legendary Kevin Bloody Wilson live in concert at the Davistown RSL, and it was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time. With my brother and father along for the ride, we rocked out to classics like D.I.L.L.I.G.A.F., It Was Over and Living Next Door To Alan.


In short, it was a fucking awesome concert. Kev was in fine form as he warbled his way through politically-incorrect ditties that would make greenies, pooftahs and towel-heads shit themselves with offence. Not only is Kev a brilliant performer who is able to keep his audience enraptured for hours with little more than a guitar and a smirk, but he’s also one of the few blokes who isn’t afraid to piss of a few softcocks.

Of course, Kev is best enjoyed with an alcoholic beverage or 20, and that’s just what we did. While beer is probably the drink of choice for a balls-to-the-wall concert like this, it was wine that we went with… and lots of it. Enough wine, in fact, that I don’t remember the end of the concert, only waking up under a pile of pillows in the corner of a dark room, feeling like a rhinoceros had been headbutting me in my sleep.


Today, I backed it up with a trip to the footy to watch the Sydney Roosters play the New Zealand Warriors at Grahame Park, Gosford – just down the road from where I live. It’s a ground I played rugby league at as a kid, and the best footy ground in the world, as far as I’m concerned. These days rugby league is largely banned from being played there due to the mayor of Gosford being the former coach of the local soccer team (and a complete cunt – honestly, Lawrie McKinna, shove a pack of razor blades up your arsehole, you prick), so today’s match will be the only one this year.


The Warriors won a match the quality of a Chinese condom, but it didn’t matter. It’s just good to sit in stands and watch the footy with thousands of other fans. I had my dad and my friends there with me, along with a few beers, and it was an awesome way to say farewell to Australia for a while.

Well, except for when a fat Warriors fan spilled his drink on my crotch, and a small child pointed at me and said I’d wet myself. That bit wasn’t good at all.

In a few hours I leave on the Drunk and Jobless World Tour of Northern and Eastern Europe, a journey that will take me through weird places like Bosnia and Serbia, where the people speak – and probably smell – funny. I’ll be blogging every single day to let you know where I am, what I’m doing, and who I’m doing. Hold on, it’s gonna be a helluva ride!



A junkie, a blood fetishist, an alcoholic nymphomaniac and the overweight wife of an islamic fundamentalist

I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years, and most of them I haven’t been very good at. So when I decided to become a professional photographer, I didn’t let the fact I barely know which direction to point a camera stand in my way.

While working in the porn industry, I soon realised that the snappers were raking in the big bucks, while I was making chump change putting together the words that nobody reads. So I rented a flea-bitten room in the cheapest hotel in Newcastle, put an ad on Gumtree, and headed along with my point-and-shoot camera in my pocket and a smile on my face. Little did I know, I was in for one of the weirdest nights of my life.

Four ladies responded to my ad, which had proudly boasted that it was open to women of all shapes, sizes and ages – and I sure got a mixture. In fact, it was like a freak show was passing through my room that night.


The first lass was barely 18, and had a bit of an emo look about her. Rhonda also had a nice set of tits, which she didn’t hesitate to drag out for me. While I took photos with one hand and pushed my boner down with the other, she told me that she wouldn’t be able to shoot any explicit shots due to having her period. I told her that sucked.

“Not really,” she grinned. “I’m turned on by blood, so when I’ve got my period I get really horny and have to fuck a lot of blokes.”

I found this quite interesting and asked her to explain further. Apparently she’d spent her youth haunting the local hospitals, getting off on seeing poor bastards wander in with massive head wounds, or with their intestines spilling out onto the concrete. She liked that sort of thing so much that she was studying doctoring at university, and would become so turned on while watching medical documentaries that she’d drag fellow students out of the lecture theatre and bonk them senseless. And people say I’m weird for asking girls to dress up as Mal Meninga during sex.


As soon as she left to suck off someone with a paper cut, the next lass rocked up. I’d seen photos of Pixie, and they were awesome. She had model good looks and a cracking body, and I wondered whether I’d be able to do her justice with my limited shooting skills. It turned out the camera from a broken Nokia 3210 would’ve been the best way to do her justice, because it appeared Pixie had been hitting the drugs hard. Her eyes were sunken in her skull, her bones were sticking through her skin, and she looked a mess. Best of all, she wasn’t alone, and I struggled to hide my iPod and wallet as I led Angel and her shaggy, toothless, meth-addicted boyfriend into the room.

It was sad because she had been so beautiful before the drugs got their hooks ino her, and she’d obviously modelled a fair bit in the past, because she knew all the positions (even the one where she put both her ankles behind her head). Once I’d taken all the photos I could handle, Pixie and her handsome hobo fella locked themselves in the toilet for a few minutes to smoke ice in the bathtub, then fucked each other senseless while I sat on the bed listening and wanking wondering where it all went wrong.


If Angel was too skinny, that certainly wasn’t a problem with the next lady, Fran. When talking to Fran on the phone, she’d wanted to clarify two things. “You say any shape and size, but I just want to let you know that I’m 15 stone,” she said hesitantly. I don’t have a clue what a stone is, so I told her it was fine. “I also don’t shave,” she added, and I threw up in my mouth.

When Fran showed up, I learned that 15 stone is actually quite heavy (around 95kg), especially when hanging off a woman who stood about 5’1″. To top it off, Fran was in her 60s, covered in prison tatts, and smoked like a chimney. “I’m really going to earn my money today,” I thought as I led her up to my room.

Things only got worse as I closed the door and Fran took her gear off. Her tits almost hit the floor and her muff was hairier than an Armenian bloke’s back. Right above the smashed orange that passed for Franny’s fanny, was a tattoo explaining that it was the property of a local motorcycle group. I apologised to my camera and started shooting. The stench was so bad that my eyes were watering and, as she spread out on the room’s lounge, I assumed I’d be getting a dry cleaning bill for that in the near future.

“I hope my husband doesn’t find out about this,” Fran told me, while pointing her cheesecake arse at my wincing face. “He’s a hardline Islamic fundamentalist and he doesn’t let me out of the house much. I had to tell him I was going to a job interview, and he’d kill me if he found out the truth. He’d probably kill you, too, if he found out.” With visions of a little brown fella blowing me up with a homemade shoe bomb dancing in my head, I took the rest of the photos and Fran mercifully put her clothes on. After she’d left, I found a slip op paper with, “Call me written” beneath her phone number. I threw it in the bin and briefly considered lighting the bin on fire.


After my brush with death, I settled my nerves with a few glasses of wine while waiting for the next lady to show up. She was late, so I managed to guzzle a fair bit of booze – but not nearly as much as she did. When Sienna turned up she was rolling drunk, her teeth stained red with wine and her eyes spinning in her head. Never one to refuse a girl passage to my room simply because she was as pissed as a porcupine, I led her up the stairs and asked her to strip off.

Sienna was in her mid-30s and not a bad sort, but when she pulled another bottle of wine out of her bag and started smashing it, I knew there was something wrong with her. As I snapped away she never let go of the bottle, and I ended up with dozens of photos of her skolling from the bottle, spilling wine on the bed, and generally acting like a bridge-dwelling wino. When she finished the bottle, she took out another and knocked that off in record time. I didn’t know whether to be disgusted or ask her to marry me.

When we were finished, Sienna asked me out to dinner. Never one to knock back a free meal, I said yes and, ridiculously, got in the passenger seat of her car as we headed off to Hungry Jack’s. Smart idea, right? We only had to head a couple of hundred metres down the road, but she cleaned up a letter box, a stop sign and a wheelie bin during the journey, before finally crashing into the wall of the fast food shop and passing out in the entrance. When I woke her up, she ate a Whopper she found on the ground and drove me back to my hotel (leaving a trail of distruction in her wake). When she asked if I wanted to go back to my room to finish off my cask, I had to seriously think about it; on one hand she was pretty hot, and was mad as a meataxe, so she’d be a cracker in the sack. One the other, there was a high chance that she had AIDS and would probably try to steal things from me, and being crazy meant she would probably try to shove things up my arse. I made the call to send her packing at which point she staggered into the closest pub, stole a bottle of wine from behind the bar, and sped off in her car, almost running over a dog.

As for whether I rooted any of the others, I’ll leave that up to you. But if ISIS asks, tell them it wasn’t the wife of the Islamic fundamentalist.

“I cooked and ate my animal lover!”

A few weeks ago I brought you the touching story of Dean*, a charming young man desperately in love with a handsome goat named Carl. Well, it turns out he still loves Carl – with a side of mint sauce!

In a disturbing twist to an astonishing tale of cross-species love, Dean has stopped fucking Carl, and has instead chopped him into a selection of meats, which he intends to eat over the next couple of days. And you thought your last break-up was bad!

The meat-mad maniac mashed his former lover into cutlets, chops and a string of delicious-looking sausages that wouldn’t look out of place in an Oktoberfest beer hall.

Deranged Dean holds what’s left of his former lover, Carl

While Dean has been enjoying his prime cuts, he’s obviously upset about the downfall of his groundbreaking relationship with the four-year-old goat – a modern-day love story that has inspired thousands of young men around Australia to come out of the wool shed and pursue intimate encounters with farm animals.

When I met with Dean, he’d obviously gained weight, his eyes were red from crying, and his bedroom was littered with empty ice cream containers and used tissues.

“Things haven’t been going well for a while,” Dean confesses, while tucking into a juicy chop. “Carl’s been hanging out with a bad herd, eating shirts off clothes lines and doing hard drugs. Don’t get me wrong, the sex was still grouse, but there needs to be more to it than that. He just didn’t understand me, so I ate him.”

According to Dean, there had been cracks in the relationship for a while: “Me and Carl were enjoying a romantic dinner to celebrate our anniversary, and when I ordered the roast, he just lost the plot, and kept bleating about me eating his mum. He was really out of line, so I walked out of him and ended up spending the night with a horse I know. We slept together, and I didn’t think of Carl once.”

Dean (right) and Carl in happier times

From that point, the relationship was unsalvageable. While Dean slept with a growing number of farm animals, Carl moved out of their shared apartment, and quietly deleted Dean from Facebook. But this break-up was never meant to have a happy ending. When Dean invited Carl around to sort through their CDs and maybe have a bite to eat, he brutally murdered the goat and spent the next six hours carefully slicing him into yummy pieces.

“Yeah, maybe I over-reacted, but I’ve never been good at break-ups. I guess I feel bad about it, but Car’s so tender and he really fills me up – something I couldn’t say about him when he was alive!” Dean chuckles, while wriggling his pinky finger in the air.

For the time being, Dean is enjoying his newly-single status: “I’ve been seeing a guinea pig, and I’ve been on a few dates with a feisty little dingo, but nothing serious. I’m not ready to enter into a long-term relationship at the moment – either with a human, or with an animal.”

“All relationships have to come to an end, and at least this way I’ll always have Carl with me,” Dean says with a sniff. “Well, at least until I take a dump.”

Confessions of a goat fucker


I’ve met a lot of weird and wonderful characters during my travels, but even I was shocked when I was contacted by Dean* recently. He’s 20 years old, works a respectable job, has an attractive girlfriend, and enjoys surfing and riding his motorbike. But Dean has a dark secret.

He likes to have sex with goats.

When I met up with him to hear his story, I expected to find a depraved, twisted individual with hairy palms, a hunched back and a persistent boner. Instead I found a charming young man with a cheeky smile and a vibrant outlook on life.

“Some people like to play video games, some people like to go fishing, and I like to fuck goats. What’s wrong with that?” he says emphatically. “I wish everyone would stop making such a big deal about it.”

A knockabout kid with piercing blue eyes and a mop of sandy hair, he looks like any other young fella on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Growing up, he usually had scraped knees from skateboarding accidents and enjoyed collecting Pokemon memorabilia, but his life changed forever one fateful Spring day.

“It was the day after my 15th birthday, and I was camping out at a mate’s farm. There was this goat – Fruity was her name, I’ll never forget it – and she kept giving me the eye. I was young and horny, so I was wanking five or six times a day, and I found it impossible to resist Fruity’s charms. So when my mates went to the river for a swim, I pretended I had diarrhea, and spent a romantic afternoon with Fruity.”

Dean made love to Fruity three times over the next hour, and was relaxing under a tree with his hairy lover when his chums returned from their swim.

“Unfortunately, there was some amount of rectal bleeding on Fruity’s part, which threatened to expose our afternoon of passion. I’m a quick thinker, though, and told my friend that Fruity had accidentally sat on a barbed wire fence. I promised to see Fruity again but, sadly, she was put down shortly afterwards. I actually ate part of her, and she tasted wonderful with mint sauce.”

But Dean’s appetite for billy goat love would not be abated, and as he grew up, he had experiences with a number of hirsute hunks.

“I live in a suburban area, so there aren’t a lot of goats wandering around just ready to be porked, so I was stoked when a petting zoo opened up a few kilometres away. They had six goats in there and I violated every single one of them, but one really captured my heart – a little black fella called Carl. He had an arse that could make a jellyfish hard, but it was his personality that made me fall in love with him. He was so playful.

“And honestly, Carl’s race didn’t come into it at all. I don’t see colour, I just see goats.”

Dean and Carl, shortly after meeting

Dean entered into a three-year relationship with Carl, where they frolicked by moonlight, binge-watched crime drama Breaking Bad, and even went on a romantic cruise through the Pacific. But Dean’s heart was soon to be broken in the most crushing way possible.

“I snuck into the zoo one night and saw the owner fucking Carl, and Carl seemed to be enjoying it. I turned around and walked home in tears, and spent the next week locked in my bedroom, eating chocolate ice cream and watching old episodes of Gilmore Girls. I was a wreck, and vowed to never let another goat break my heart.”

From there, Dean’s sexual experiences with goats took on a more casual nature, as he sought out anonymous sex to help heal his broken heart. He would spend weeks at a time driving through rural areas, stopping only to have sex with goats he didn’t know and didn’t intend on seeing again.

“I was a wreck, and I’m not proud of how I acted. I must’ve had sex with 300-400 goats during that period, but none of them could replace Carl. I even tried bonking a few sheep and cows, just to help blank out the pain, but it didn’t work. I never thought having sex with farm animals would lose its luster, but it did.”

Dean gave up on goats and, in a move he never thought possible, entered into a relationship with a human woman. To outsiders he was just a happy-go-lucky young man with a bright future, but his passion for goats still burned.

“My girlfriend walked in on me masturbating over an episode of Landline. She was a bit freaked out and called me a sicko, and I broke down and told her everything. She was really understanding and cradled me in her arms while I told her about Fruity and Carl and the farmer, and afterwards she gave me a big kiss, as well as her blessing to have sex with goats. I think that moment really strengthened our relationship.”

Dean’s girlfriend took him to her car, and drove him back to the petting zoo where he’d spent so many nights. There, in a back corner, was Carl.

“He looked great, yeah. He was a little bit older, and not a kid anymore, but he still looked good. My missus waited by the gate and I sort of awkwardly shuffled over to him, and my heart was beating so hard I thought it was going to burst out of my chest. The feelings were obviously still there, and we made love next to a small patch of turnips. It was like we’d never been apart, and it’s so good to have Carl as part of my life again. Even my girlfriend loves him.”

When I decided to meet with Dean, I was expecting a pervert and a social outcast; someone to write a funny story about. Instead I met a sensitive, intelligent gentleman who isn’t so different from the rest of us – he simply chooses to express his love and lost with animals. In fact, it’s had me wondering if Dean has the right idea, and it’s the rest of us who are the misfits, depriving ourselves of meaningful relationships with critters merely because of societal conventions.

It’s a happy ending to an unusual story, and Dean has a message for any other young men who are battling with their passion for farm animals.

“All I can say is, if your heart’s telling you to fuck a goat, then fuck a goat,” Dean tells me as I leave. “Don’t worry about what other people say or think, because all that matters is shooting your bolt deep into a goat. It’s the best feeling ever – trust me, I’d know.”
* name changed by request of the goat fucker

Have you fallen in love with Dean and his heartwarming story? His journey through animal lust continues:

“I cooked and ate my animal lover!”

Dog-dating dork declares, “I’ve got fleas!”

Ask Row-Row: The world’s worst advice column


I get thousands of fan emails every day, and a large number of them are from down-on-their-luck champions looking for advice. And why wouldn’t they look to me for help? I’m living the dream.

So here’s my advice column.

If you have any burning questions about life, love, and the art of drinking wine from a Fanta can at 10am, send them through to the comments section, and I’ll answer them as soon as this hangover wears off.

I was walking past the local fish and chip shop the other day when the lady called out to me. She told me there was a blackout and all the shit in the freezer was melting and getting fucked up, so she said I could take as many ice creams home with me as I could carry. Well, I’ve got big arms, so I cleaned the joint out! I got back to my place and got stuck into the frozen treats, then decided it would be nice to share them, and sent my mate Gary a message asking him if he wanted to come around for a Gaytime. Imagine my surprise when he turned up 20 minutes later with a dildo in one hand and a jar of KY jelly in the other! To save embarrassment, we had an evening of aggressive bum sex, and I didn’t tell Gary about the ice creams. Thing is, now he’s always coming over and asking for bum sex and I don’t want that, I just want my mate back. I keep making up excuses about having diarrhea or something, but I’m afraid that if I tell him the truth, it’ll be the end of our friendship. What can I do?
Row-Row: Macca, mate, relax – we’ve all been in a similar situation to the one you’re in. I remember asking my mate if he wanted a Paddle Pop, only for him to misunderstand the situation and accept what he thought was a gay marriage proposal. Of course, so as not to offend him, I went along to a whole bunch of equal rights marches and other bullshit like that, but my heart wasn’t really into it. Eventually, he walked in on me getting sucked off by the single mother next door, after which his stormed out of my life forever. Well, until I saw him at the pub next week and we watched the footy. So, I guess, receive mouth love off someone’s mum, then get drunk.

Hello, Mr LeRock, how are you?  I’m fine, thanks for asking. I’m a keen fan of the film The Human Centipede, and I’m planning to create my own centipede. Obviously, I’d like you to be part of my ‘pet’, so my question is, whose arse would you like your mouth to be stitched to, and who would you like stitched to your arse?
Row-Row: I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, and I’ve decided that I’d like my mouth to be sewn to Jennifer Hawkins’ blurter, for the simple fact that she’s far too lovely to ever actually shit, so I’d be sweet. You can sew my arse to one of the idiots who votes for the Greens, because they’d be used to swallowing shit. Honestly, though, it would be brilliant if you could decide against kidnapping me to include me in your centipede. Perhaps you could take up a different hobby, like salsa dancing, model railways, or wanking in traffic? All the best!

Yo dawg, it me, MC Tuff Grill$. I the illest hip hop casanova on the scene today, so smooth you think I peanut butter, aiight. The smooth peanut butter, I mean, not da crunchy stuff. I spit dope rhymes, all y’all bitches start lining up, you know it! I fuck five, maybe six bitches a night, sometimes in da pussy, sometimes in da arse. I don’t even know they names, but they know mine – MC Tuff Grill$, don’t forget it, bitch, ‘cos your pussy won’t! Anyway, I got a launch party for my phat new tune Big Tit Bitch (“Yo bitch, you got big fucking cans/like two big juicy fucking hams/wanna shoot my love chutney all over dem honkers/fuck you in da mouth and cum on dem melons till you go bonkers) and I need a date, dawg! No, ya’ll ain’t trippin’, I’m having trouble getting a bitch, probably ‘cos I already fuck every hot slut in Australia, y’know what I say? I know you use that Tinder thing, so you got any advice for me? I want big titties, a jiggly arse, a face just beggin’ for a load of my precious jizz. I need my dick sucked pronto, motherfucker, I’m counting on you.
ROW-ROW: Using Tinder is simple, Grill$y. Firstly, you’ll need a good profile picture, so try to find one where you’re not flashing you silly golden teeth or flashing gang signs that make you look like an epileptic. Then you have to try to match with some girls, and I think you’ll have to cast as wide a net as possible, so make sure you say yes to midgets, fat girls, transvestites and other assorted losers. If you ever find someone who is intelligent enough to use a phone, but stupid enough to think you look like a good sort, it’s time to impress her with your conversation skills, so you might want to get a homeless bloke or someone from the local sheltered workshop to do that for you, because your email looks like the rantings of a maniac. If all that fails, just send her a dick pic. Shit, send her the keys to a brand new Lamborghini, I doubt it’ll do a knob cheese like you any good.

Hi, Arjay. You’ve been around the world and have seen so many wonderful things. The Great Wall of China, Rome’s Coliseum, the waterfalls of Samoa. You’ve parasailed in Malaysia and fought street thugs in San Diego. You’ve met people and experienced things that most of us can only dream of, and have had adventures that have thrilled readers all over the world. You must get asked this all the time, but where’s the best place you’ve ever been?
ROW-ROW: Your mum’s bed.

My mate Pieman and his all-pie diet


I’ve got this mate called Pieman, and he’s a really good bloke and is always the life of the party – at least, he used to be, before a bizarre and tragic decision changed his life forever.

Growing up, he didn’t mind a pie, hence his nickname. But he played footy, enjoyed breakdancing (he even appeared on an episode of Hey Hey it’s Saturday, where his head-spinning routine gave Molly Meldrum a boner that lasted for days) and even broke a unicycling world record. But all that ended a few years ago, when he made a drastic and dangerous choice. We were drinking heavily at Erina’s Woodport Inn when he told me of his plan.

“I’ve made a major life change,” Pieman explained, before taking a huge gulp of beer. I edged away from him, in case the ‘major life change’ involved a burning desire to root me up the blurter. But the truth was far more shocking than that.

“I’ve decided to go on an all-pie diet.”

I let that sink in for a second, took a sip of my beer, then shook my head. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“I’m on an all-pie diet. It means that all I eat are pies. Meat pies, chicken pies, egg and bacon pies…”

“But… why?”

“Well, I just really like pies, and whenever I’m eating something that isn’t a pie, I wish it was a pie. So, yeah, I’m not gonna bother with other shit anymore.”

I finished off my beer and headed to the bar, returning to the table with ice-cold two drinks and a packet of cheese and onion chips. I opened the bag and Pieman politely declined, before looking longingly at a week-old pie sitting sullenly in a warmer.

“But you can’t live on pies alone!” I reasoned, while Pieman sat there licking his lips. “You’ve gotta have vegetables or you’ll die.”

“Fuck mate,” he responded, swigging his beer, “what do you think tomato sauce is?”

I left it at that, and went off to pick up (and have disappointing sex with) a blonde spunk with a Yosemite Sam tattoo. Three weeks later, I was back at the Woodport, when a massive hand dropped on my shoulder. I looked up to see a fat bloke with a pallid complexion, sunken eyes and a slight twitch. I only vaguely recognised him.

“The all-pie diet’s doing wonders for you, Pieman,” I squeaked.

“Thanks mate,” he replied, then let out a rancid fart that would kill a Chinaman from 20 paces. “I’ve never been happier. I’ve just bought myself an industrial-sized pie oven, and the local pie shop delivers a fresh batch of pies every morning. I’m living the dream, brother.”

“What about work?”

“We had to part ways,” he nodded, fishing a party pie out of his pocket and guzzling it. “They didn’t understand my philosophies, and I’ve also been a bit short of breath lately. Must have a cold or something.”

“Must be that. Certainly isn’t the 30,000 calorie-a-day diet.”

A few weeks after that, I was at the shops buying Bryan Brown’s autobiography, The Lyfe of Bryan (it’s brilliant), when one of those mobility scooters almost ran over me, and I looked up to see that the fella behind the wheel was the size of a bus. It was Pieman, his fat rolls oozing over the sides of the scooter like a melting birthday cake. It smelled like he was sweating gravy. With him was a woman old enough to be his mother, who possessed a face that looked like Dave Warner had been using it for batting practice.

“This is my lover, Darla,” he explained, before tossing a chicken and garlic pie into his mouth. The thing next to him reached into her handbag and pulled out another pie, which she placed in Pieman’s blob of a hand. Seconds later, it was gone. “As I like to say, crusts get the busts.”

“I like a real man,” the thing said, then licked her lips in a way reminiscent of a lizard. “Skinny men can go to fucking hell, I need a proper man with some meat on his bones.”

The old lady was a fucking feeder! She’d latched onto Pieman, and was stuffing him full of pies so as to make him as fat as possible! I had to do something!

But then I got drunk and forgot about it, so I didn’t hear from Pieman for another couple of months. When I did, it was via a phone call on a wet and windy August evening.

“I’ve been in hospital,” he heaved. I barely recognised the voice on the other end. It was pained and troubled. “I had a bit of a heart attack and they had to take me away so I didn’t die. They had to carry me out on a stretcher made of bed sheets because the normal one wasn’t big enough. I guess I’ve put on a bit of weight since going on the all-pie diet.”

“Yeah, you could say that. So what did the doctor say?”

“He told me that if I stay on the all-pie diet, I’ll be dead within a year.”

“Sounds about right. So you’ve gone off it?”

“Yeah. It was magical while it lasted, but I have to put my health first. So I don’t eat pies for every meal, and I feel better already.”

“Good on you, mate! You’ll be back in shape in no time. So what does the new diet involve?”

“Well, it’s easy, two days a week, I don’t eat any pies,” he said, before pausing to catch his breath. “So on those days, I eat sausage rolls instead.”

I bought a mobility scooter and now everyone’s really nice to me because they think I’m disabled


I’m often too drunk to drive, which presents me with a real problem every time I finish another cask of wine; how do I get up to the bottle shop? Sure, I could walk, but that’s stupid, so I recently invested in a mobility scooter.

Yes, a mobility scooter, like the ones old people hoon around in. Well, they don’t really hoon, because these things max out at about 6km/h, but the one I’ve got provides a comfortable ride that is also very safe, due to the big fuck-off orange visibility flag on the back.

So I’ve been riding this thing around a lot lately, taking it to the bottle-o, taking it to the supermarket, doing doughies in car parks, that sorta stuff. And the biggest thing I’ve noticed is that when I’m seated in my mobility scooter, everyone’s really, really nice to me, because they all think I’m either physically or mentally handicapped. Sure, some people assumed that beforehand, but the scooter really sells it.

Normally I’ll walk along the street and people won’t even look at me (I give off a bit of a bad-arse, devil-may-care vibe, so they’re just doing the safe thing), but when I’m in the scooter everyone wants to say hello. They say it slowly because they assume I’ll have a hard time understanding a word with two syllables, but they’re lovely to me all the same. Strangers wave at me for no reason and I wave back with a big, cheesy smile spread across my face.

Yesterday I was tootling along past a family who were enjoying a picnic, and they called me over to have a couple of sausages, with a side of pumpkin salad and homemade quince chutney. I was pretty drunk at the time, so I was slurring my words and wobbling around like some sort of demented fish, which added to the image of me being differently-abled. They kept telling me how brave I am and I just nodded goofily, helping myself to another slice of garlic bread and pinching one of Dad’s craft beers. When I left they slipped a $20 note in my pocket, which I used to buy some wine.

While cruising down the chip aisle of Coles in my scooter, I nearly had an accident with a very fat lady who was also astride a fancy ride. She looked me and my scooter up down, coughed until she hocked up a golf ball-sized chunk of phlegm, then gave me her sexiest wink, which wasn’t too sexy at all. “I’ve got space for two scooters in front of my unit,” she said in a husky voice, and I backed out of there so fast I knocked over a standing display of Arnott’s Shapes.

I’ve even made friends with some of the fogies from the old-people’s home down the street. Most mornings we do laps of the local park in our scooters in what must look like the world’s slowest grand prix, and talk about lost love and why the young people of today are such fucking idiots. We’re like a car club, only our chariots cruise at the speed of a sausage dog and struggle to make it over cracks in the concrete.

I live an idyllic life of free sausages, sexual innuendo and heartfelt conversations Alzheimer’s sufferers, and it’s all because of my mobility scooter. Maybe I should get a colostomy bag next, everyone would love that…

Dildo Warfare: A tale of strippers, sickos and unwanted hand shandies


A few years ago I headed up to the Gold Coast for two weeks on the piss with a good mate of mine called Dion. Alright, that’s not really his name; I’ve changed it for reasons that will soon become clear, and have gone with a name that suggests I have a big, black, bald-headed friend.

After an all-day drinking session that ended with us having watermelons thrown at us by angry locals, me and Dion staggered up to Orchid Avenue and rolled into a scummy nightclub called The Sugar Shack. It was ladies’ night, so there was wall-to-wall poontang. Unfortunately, there was also a massive Maori gentleman dancing around on stage with most of his gear off, and when he de-pantsed and started waving his sizable wang around, I felt very uncomfortable. Still, there was something familiar about him… about his face, I mean, not his wang.

Luckily, the dark-skinned sicko left the stage and me and Dion were able to get on with the important task of failing to pick up women. I was, for some inexplicable reason, wearing a sailor hat, which probably didn’t help my cause. Well, it didn’t help me get the women, but it was like a red rag to a bull for champion homos, because while I was sipping my beer a door opened and I saw the Maori stripper standing buck-naked in a change room, a huge smile on his face and his doodle as hard as an ex-wife’s heart. He gave me a wink, pulled his dick a bit, and beckoned me inside. I looked around, sure he was after one of the lovely ladies that were paying me no attention, but he was certainly after me.

And then it hit me. No, not his dick, I mean it hit me where I recognised him from. He was on a dating show called Playing it Straight, where one chick has to decide which of 12 bozos she wants to make bang-bang with – with the twist being that half of them were gaybos. Anyway, this stripper, Chad, was a finalist, and the show only had a week left to run. He was a famous telly start and he wanted me. Me! Unfortunately, I’d be shitting into a bag for the rest of my life if he caught me, so me and Dion hid in a dark corner while Chad gyrated around the place, looking for us.

I’ve gotta say, though, it hurt my feelings that he didn’t look harder for me. I was wearing a fucking sailor hat, after all, and he was big and buff enough that if he’d really wanted me he could’ve picked me up and carried me out of there like a sack of potatoes. Funnily enough, a few days later, Chad won Playing it Straight – and revealed himself to be heterosexual. Just goes to show that you can’t trust reality TV… or gay dancing Maoris.

While hiding from Chad, I started chatting to this attractive blonde chick with a cracking set of watermelons, named Casey. I can’t remember what bullshit I was telling her, but it must’ve worked because we started pashing under a fake palm tree. She had three friends with her – another attractive blonde, a fat chick who just sat there eating meat pies and farting, her fat rolls drooling onto the floor like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and some nonce of a bloke who appeared to be wearing a picnic blanket for a shirt. Dion homed in on the blonde and did his best to ignore the two freaks, and I did my best to feel my chick’s tits. Romance certainly ain’t dead.

Turned out the bloke in the picnic blanket was called Nathan, and wasn’t a huge fan of having sex with women. I managed to con an invitation back to Casey’s place, but she said she couldn’t leave until Nathan had found a fella to spend the night with. I’m a problem solver, so I pointed at Dion and said, “He’s gay. He’ll fuck Nathan.” Twenty seconds later we were out the door, with Dion none the wiser that he had been targeted for spermination by a very horny Nathan, who kept licking his lips in anticipation. He soon got an idea, though, because the pervert kept rubbing his leg and winking at him. I dunno, maybe Dion thought Nathan just had cerebral palsy or something.

We got back to their house and it was a dump. Not only was there rubbish and broken furniture all over the place, but they had a dog that liked to shit in the house, and instead of cleaning up after it they just chucked some newspaper down over it. It was as disgusting as seeing Iain Hewitson naked. Anyway, I was young, dumb and full of cum (my own, not Chad’s) so I headed off to a bedroom with this Casey bird. Much to Dion’s disappointed, the attractive friend pissed off, leaving him alone in the living room while I got on with the task of disappointing Casey.

I was a few minutes into a performance that would make a fur seal ashamed when I heard a scream from the living room, followed by crashing sounds. I pulled on my novelty boxer shorts and raced out to see a very angry Dion throwing anything that wasn’t nailed down at a terrified Nathan. “He tried to wank me off in my sleep!” screeched Dion, then threw a dying pot plant at his molester.

Nathan picked up a handful of dog turds and threw them back at Dion, who dodged them before they splattered all over the wall. If anything, it added to the ambiance of the place. I stood back, enjoying the bizarre spectacle, until Nathan took aim at me with a broken toaster. I ducked the deadly appliance and fired back with the leg of a chair. We were tearing the place apart and backing Nathan into a corner, when I spied a bag full of sex toys under a dirty table. I reach down and picked up a huge purple dildo and hurled it at Nathan, conking him on the head. Dion pulled out a butt plug and chucked it, and Nathan must’ve liked that because he tried to catch it in his mouth but ended up sprawled on the floor in a puddle of dog urine instead.

Dion plucked out a set of anal beads, and the last thing I saw before returning to bed (well, it wasn’t really a bed, it was more like a pile of towels in the corner of a room) with Casey was Dion choking out Nathan with the beads. Three minutes later I was finished, the bird was unsatisfied and I was dreaming the dreams of kings.

I woke up a few hours later and snuck out of the room, and went to find Dion. He wasn’t in the living room, or the brasco, so I rang his phone. I heard it blaring away in one of the rooms, and when I opened the door, there he was, completely naked and porking the fat bird from behind while she munched on a sausage roll. It looked like an ant on a scoop of ice cream, and her fat rolls were hypnotic as they jiggled back and forth in time with Dion’s thrusts. I left him to it, and a few minutes later he swaggered out the door, proud as punch, and we got the fuck out of that hell hole. I had to step over an unconscious Nathan on my way out.

It was a long walk home, so we picked up a case of beer and got back into it. When I got back to our unit, I poured Dettol all over my old fella. You can never be too careful.

A few nights later, we saw the big bird pull up in her rustbucket car outside of the Sugar Shack and get out with Casey. I told Dion to shove a banana up her tailpipe. “Why not?” he chuckled. “I’ve already done it once!”