Tag Archives: humor

Today I lost my pants at the beach


I enjoyed my last paragliding visit to Port Macquarie so much that I’ve come back – but the locals are wishing I’d stayed where I bloody well come from. But hear me out, it wasn’t my fault!

There’s less wind than on the moon today, so I decided to head to the Rainbow Beach to have a dip. It’s a top spot (although it could do with a few less dogs. The four-legged kind, I mean, not ugly women. Although, truth be told, it could do with a few less of them, too) and I had a great time reading a book and listening to some music. And then it all went wrong.

I decided to go for a swim, and chose to go in only my underpants, so my board shorts will be nice and dry when I went to the shops afterwards to buy a Curly Wurly. Bad choice, bro, bad choice. After paddling around in the vibrant water for 10 or 15 minutes, I was hit by a monster wave, and when I resurfaced, things felt a bit different downstairs. A bit lighter, a bit roomier, a bit more like my undies had been knocked off and were floating away.

I looked around frantically, and saw them being picked up by a wave. I swam in that direction, desperately trying to grab them before they disappeared forever. I reached out, stretching my arm further than it’s ever been stretched before, and finally grasped them. And that’s when I realised I’d been chasing a chunk of seaweed. My underpants were gone, and I was naked in public.

Luckily, Rainbow Beach isn’t very crowded, and I figured that, if I was quick, I could get back to my towel without being seen. I waded back to shore, carefully looking for a chance to get out. And that’s when a family of five decided to sit down to eat their lunch about five metres from where my stuff was. Mum, tide two little kiddies, and even Nana was there. Shit.

I swam around in the shallow water, terrified a fish would mistake my doodle for a worm,and hoping the family would finish their lunch and fuck off. But they had a lot of lunch and they were slow at eating it, and when they finally finished they all lay back in the sun, obviously with no intention of leaving. I was pruning up and getting tired from fighting the tide, but I couldn’t exactly barge up the sand with my water noodle flapping about.

I needed a plan. I thought about wearing the seaweed as a kind of cock cover, but decided the family would simply thought I had a lot of pubic hair and would start screaming. There are a lot of trees at the back of the bush, so I figured that if I could get to them, I could circle behind the Addams Family, reach my bag, and get my boardies back on. Well, it was worth a shot!

I swam up the beach and darted out of the water, then raced across the sand like some sort of demented crab. I dived into the bushes just as a fisherman turned my way, and barely missed being impaled on a stick. Then, like a naked Rambo, I made my way through the trees as the family started singing a song about bananas. I know, I thought it was weird, too.

I waited until they were in mid-singing, then burst out of the bushes and made a bee-line for my bag. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the log lying in my way. I smacked my shin on it and flipped like a gymnast, then rolled along the sand before ending up five metres from the family, with my sandy Willy flapping in the gentle breeze.

It was not my finest hour.

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


Since I first broke the story a few weeks ago, Australians have fallen in love with Dean*, the brave 20-year-old who freely admits to having sex with animals. Sadly, this inspirational tale has taken a depressing turn.

Dean recently ended a long-term inter-species relationship with a spirited kid named Carl, and has since been enjoying the single life with a number of different animals, including cows, budgerigars, and even a slutty goanna he met while on the pull at notorious Gosford nightspot Pulse.

But Dean’s debaucherous lifestyle has finally caught up with him, with the beastie bonker admitting that he’s come down with fleas after enjoying a number of wild sexual experiences with some local dogs.

Dean reacted poorly to news that he had fleas. Wait, actually, he’d just stepped in some dog shit when this photo was taken

“There are a few strays around my house and I’ve fucked them all,” Dean admit, after retrieving a tennis ball I had thrown. “I’ve always stayed away from dogs because rooting them’s a bit of a cliche, isn’t it? If someone decides to fuck an animal, they usually start with a dog, and I don’t want to be a part of the pack – I’m a trailblazer.”

But temptation got the better of Dean. “I was walking back from the beach one day and saw a couple of dogs sniffing each others’ arses and I’ve thought to myself, ‘I wouldn’t mind a piece of that.’ Next thing you know, I was just one of the bitches.”

Dean smiles as he remembers his time as part of the pack. It was more than a sexual relationship – together they urinated on trees, chased cars and barked at children. “I even bit a postman once,” laughs Dean. “You should’ve seen the cunt run!”

In a tragic turn of events reminiscent of Charlie Sheen’s recent declaration that he has the AIDS, Dean’s carefree lifestyle has come at a heavy price. “I woke up one morning and I was feeling a bit itchy, so I gave myself a good scratch and all these little bugs came out of my hair. I was barking mad, because the dogs had told me they were clean and it was obviously a load of shit.

“My name’s Dean, and I have fleas.”

Dashing Dean’s treatment involves shampooing twice a day. He’s also not allowed on the furniture until he is rid of the fleas

After making the heartbreaking discovery, Dean first fell into denial. He partied heavier than ever before, binging on tins of Chum and engaging in depraved orgies, often with multiple species at the same time. “It was raining cats and dogs there for a while, but all the sex in the world can’t make the itching go away. I spread the fleas, but I couldn’t shed any of my pain, I was a wreck.”

It was after waking up in a cell at the pound at the end of a wild night that Dean knew something had to change. “They were going to put me down because I was covered in fleas and kept humping the other dogs. I was a mess but, luckily, I was picked up an Asian family who took me home with them. The Wangs sat me down and made me admit that I had a problem, and from there I started to treat the fleas. It’s going to be a long, rocky road, but I know I have the strength to win this war.”

With the love and support of his new family, the Wangs, Dean can see light at the end of the doggy door, and he’s determined to beat his affliction.

“The vet says I’ve also got worms, but he reckons it’ll clear up as long as I stop eating my own shit.”

“Can I nibble on your shoe and then curl up at the end of your bed?”

“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…

Tales From Pornland: The World Tour of Toowoomba

Hey, who invited the sex pest?

Journalism is the sort of career that takes you places. America, China, the Middle East – there are stories all over the world, and they all need someone to write about them. Of course, in the first seven or so years of my career the furthest I got was Cronulla, but I assume I’m the exception that proves the rule.

So when the opportunity came up to fly to Toowoomba for the opening of the city’s first strip club, The Vault on Ruthven, I was all over it. Of course, I didn’t realise that Toowoomba is sort of in the middle of nowhere, and that there’s no airport, but I didn’t let that stop me. It was a chance to get out of the office, so I booked my flights and headed to Queensland.

It took two trains, a plane and two buses to reach the Garden City, and after six or seven hours of traveling, I was thirsty. Thankfully, I was met at the bus stop by The Vault’s owner, Thor (no, he didn’t have a huge hammer, or a beard), and he was just as thirsty as me. He took me up to the club, where he poured me a beer and told me I wouldn’t be paying for a thing all night. Shit a brick, nothing tastes as good as free beer!

I’m not gunna lie, I made the most of Thor’s hospitality, and enjoyed a bucketload of beautiful beers as he took me on a tour of the city’s best pubs. I’ve never been treated like a celebrity before, so it was brilliant, and Toowoomba really is a nice place. It’s definitely a step back in time, with a church on every corner, but the place has a great vibe to it and really is nicely presented. But I wasn’t there to admire the architecture, I was there to get monstrously drunk and perv on nude sheilas, and I succeeded at both.

I wouldn’t mind going a few rounds with her!

After checking into my hotel (and being mistaken for a stripper by the lady at the front desk – there might be a career in it for me), I wobbled back to the club and was surprised to see a decent line forming out the front. I felt like a golden god as I swaggered up to the hefty bloke on the door and made my way inside while the other chumps waited. Shit, I could get used to this celebrity stuff.

It was choc-a-bloc inside, with hundreds of horny dudes drooling over the many spunks in attendance. Everywhere I looked, there were tits and fannies, so I grabbed another beer and settled in at the VIP table, next to a rapper named K-Nob and some sort of extreme sport yo bro dude called Gravy. K-Nob’s name was certainly appropriate, and the only thing extreme about Gravy was how extremely stupid his name was. But I wouldn’t have cared if I was seated between Hitler and Hotdogs from Big Brother, because all I cared about were the ladies on stage. And the beer, of which I consumed enough to drown a fish.

The girls on stage were very talented, and by that I mean they all had great jugs. Most of them were amateurs competing for the title of Miss Vault, with a handful of Oz’s best clothes-removers along for the ride. Actually, they were much more than a handful!

Would, would, would, would, would, would, would, would…

As I slipped further into the warm embrace of blackout drunkenness, I must’ve become very charming because, despite having spew all down my shirt, a very pretty young lady too a keen interest in me. Now, I’m a smart guy, but despite being at a special guest at a strip club, and there being no girls other than strippers in attendance, and barely being able to talk, and having a small amount of sick on my shirt, all I could think was, “Wow, I’ve pulled!”

It’s not the first time I’ve been convinced a stripper actually liked me and it won’t be the last, but the chick was fuckin’ smokin’, so I rolled with it. I mean, it was all free and it was nice to get some attention from someone other than the fat, bearded chick who lives next door to me (hi, Glenda!), so I ended up having a sweet night. I partied like a maniac, made a fuckwit of myself, lost my female companion in the crowd (on reflection, she probably finished her shift), danced in a cage and even managed to wobble on stage for a photo, then promptly fell off stage and into the crowd.

I don’t remember what happened after that, but let’s just say that it was wild, and that I may have touched some boobs at one point. They basically had to pour me out the door at the end of it.

I ended up staggering back to the hotel alone, and was confused and angered when my key wouldn’t open my door. I banged on the door and yelled out like an idiot, and a few minutes later – as if by magic – it opened. It was opened by magic, though, it was opened by the little old lady who was staying in there, and she then went on to point out that I was on the wrong floor. She also kneed me in the nuts which, on reflection, probably wasn’t unreasonable behaviour.

When I woke up on the floor the next morning, it felt like skinheads had been tapdancing on me in the night. After spewing up a few litres of warm beer, I set out on the seven-hour trip home. As I did my best not to shit myself on public transport, I was able to reflect on an odd and wonderful 24 hours, where I was treated like a kind and acted like homeless drunk, spent time with beautiful women and was assaulted by a grannie. A month later, I no longer worked at The Picture, and my story on The Vault was pulled for reasons I’ll never understand. I like to think of it as my last hurrah in the world of porn, a final wild story that came when work was not an enjoyable place for me. I’d like to take the opportunity to thank Thor for his hospitality, and recommend that if you’re in the area, drop into The Vault.

Because, really, who needs exotic locations and a respectable job when you’ve got tits?

Red, White & Bruce

There are many things I’ve done that I’m not proud of. Having sex with that chick in the wheelchair, for instance, and getting my penis stuck in a mouse trap. One thing I am proud of, however, is writing a book. It’s called Red, White & Bruce and, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there are no sparkly vampires or spectacle-wearing magician poofters in it. There’s a bit of bondage, though, so it should appeal to the Fifty Shades of Grey set.

Red, White & Bruce is about a really cool and sexy young journalist (remind you of anyone?) named Bruce Barton who heads to America to cover a funeral, and finds porn stars, drug smugglers, street fights and shootings. Basically, all the good stuff. There’s even a bit where a fat bloke shits into a bin while children throw firecrackers at him.

With his best mate Pieman along for the ride, Bruce’s adventure takes him from award shows in Los Angeles, to the slums of Tijuana, to the seedy clubs of Las Vegas and the sites of San Francisco. Think of it as a travelogue with more swearing.

There’s even some serious stuff in there, which is every bit as brilliant as the crap in War and Peace. If you enjoy my ramblings on here, don’t mind a laugh, or are a fan of Robert G. Barrett’s series of Les Norton books, you’ll love the Red, White & Bruce. Alright, that’s not a guarantee and you might think it’s shithouse, so don’t hold me to it.

You can purchase it for your Kindle bookmachine right bloody here, for the low price of $3.99. If you’re the sort of person who needs to carefully weigh up all your options before dropping a couple of bucks on a book, I’m just going to slide the first few pages in here. Crack a beer and enjoy. I’m off to get pissed.


I pulled my passport and landing papers out of my backpack and joined an endless line of tired visitors trying to get into the good ol’ US of A. It took me about 45 minutes, but finally some massive black dude stamped my passport and, with a dirty look, sent me on my way. Pieman was 10 or so people behind me, so I waited till he got through immigration so we could grab our bags and fuck off to the hotel.

I was scoping out some perky-arsed redhead when I glanced over to see my pastry-loving buddy take a piece of paper out of his pants, unfold it and hand it over to the same huge fella who’d been eyeballing me a few minutes earlier. The black dude looked at it, and he wasn’t amused.

“What the fuck is this, motherfucker?” he spat. “You think this is some sorta joke, bitch?”

Pieman just looked at him with a dopey-but-confused smile, and I started to feel a bit bad. I also started pissing myself laughing. He’d just handed over the picture I’d told him to draw of Obama injecting himself into a dog.

“Mate, that’s a picture of that Osama fella. Is he related to you? He’s one of them black fellas,” replied Pieman with an innocent look on his face.

“Motherfucker, he ain’t my relation, he’s my President. Now why the fuck did you think handing me this would be a good idea? I should send yo’ ass back to New Zealand.”

“I’m not from New Zealand, mate, I’m from Bathurst.”

“I don’t give a fuck where you’re from. Shit, if I hadn’t been caught smoking crack on the job yesterday I’d jump over there and kick your head in, you honky asshole.”

I stopped laughing long enough to walk over and explain to the huge negro that my friend was a ‘special person’ and didn’t mean any harm. He called me an asshole too, let Pieman through, and we gave him a big thumbs-up as we walked off. Shit, we almost didn’t make it into the country!

We walked past a bunch of guards wielding fuck-off huge guns, grabbed our suitcases from the baggage collection area, then walked out a set of automatic doors and into a brave new world. After the sterility of the plane and airport, my introduction to Los Angeles was a true sensory overload – the brilliant sun dug deep into my skin, while taxis honked and growled like angry animals and the stench of smog clawed its way into my nostrils.

I found the closest taxi rank, and we wandered up to the first one and the hairy, nervous-looking fella behind the wheel jumped out and helped us load our bags into the boot. Pieman went for the front seat – and got a confused look for doing it – and I hopped in the back. I pulled out a printed-out piece of paper that detailed where we were staying, handed it over to Akmal, and we were off, driving through the City of Angels.

The City of Arseholes would be a more appropriate name.

The first person I saw as we eased out of the airport was a skeletal junkie with a sign around his neck that said, “Will suck cock for drugs.” At the next servo were two whores – one black, one white, who had about three teeth between them. If I had to choose between sticking my dick in one of them, and sticking it in a woodchipper, I’d go for the woodchipper in a heartbeat. The further we went, the more hobos and hookers and junkies I saw, and it took me about two-and-a-half minutes to realise that LA wasn’t exactly as glamorous as it looked on TV. In fact, it was a bigger shithole than The Block in Redfern. Sure, there were nice cars all over the place, plenty of palm trees and the odd spunk, but overall it was filthier than a pig’s cock.

Akmal eased us out onto a freeway that was four lanes wide going each way, and Pieman and I both stared out the windows at the unbelievable amount of traffic buzzing around us. It was 11am on a Thursday, and the traffic was still backed up north and south, as bad as it was on the Western Distributor on a Friday afternoon. And every car was either black, white, silver or dark red – spotting a car of any other colour was as hard as spotting a white bloke in Cabramatta.

I was tired and hungover, so I can’t really remember where we turned off, but at some point we did and then we were driving past streets with names like Rodeo Drive and Sunset Boulevard. They weren’t anything special; in fact they just looked like the streets I was used to driving down in Sydney. Maybe a few more junkies, a few more plonkers with silly haircuts, but not exactly the exotic streets they promise in all those Yank movies.

The taxi – sorry, when in Septopolis, it’s a cab – pulled up out the front of a nondescript hotel in a nondescript street. It was a generic Crowne Plaza, exactly like every other one in every major city around the world. Exactly like the one down the road from my work. I paid Akmal from a wad of bills that all looked the same, tipped him a few bucks, and we took our stuff into the hotel. Shit, by this point I’d been awake for damn near a full day, and all I wanted to do was have a nap before meeting up with my porn star… and our room wasn’t ready. Wouldn’t be ready for an hour or two, in fact. Fuck, fuck, cunt, fuckity, shit, cunt!

“What do you wanna do while we wait?” I asked Pieman. He was already headed for the hotel bar. There was my answer.

We had two beers at the bar – a dark, wooden joint that was a few degrees too cold and as busy as Nathan Tinkler’s treadmill – then headed outside and walked through the sunshine. We had a beer at every pub we saw, which wasn’t a lot, while trying to spot celebrities. Pieman saw a fella who looked like Jack Nicholson, but who turned out to be a homeless bloke, and that was the closest we came to seeing anyone famous. Dunno, maybe they were all at a Scientology meeting or something that day. After hitting maybe five ‘pubs’, and I use that term loosely, we had to get back to the hotel to change and meet up with Loosey Lawless.

On the way back, Pieman headed into some pizza joint that served beer and, despite being on a tight schedule, I thought it sounded like a bloody good idea to grab another jar. From experience, porno stars, strippers and prossies are almost never on time, so I thought I might as well spend 20 minutes sipping on a watery beer rather than hanging out in a coffee shop down the road waiting for some well-fucked bint to rock up.

Pieman paid for the beers and a large pepperoni pizza (I almost fell off my stool when he offered!) and we took them out to the little fenced-off area by the street and started chucking them back while checking out the local talent. While there were enough hobos staggering around to make me think the zombie apocalypse had hit, the amount of good-looking babes on display was extraordinary! One chick with big, fake tits and a tight arse walked past, then two chicks with big, fake tits and tight arses walked past, then a whole group of chicks with big, fake tits and tight arses walked past. Then a Latino-looking homeless fella walked past pushing a trolley full of cans. Then three more chicks with big, fake tits and tight arses walked past. Fuck me sideways, I pretty much walked out of the little pizza shop on three legs.

Across the road was a shop called Alfredo’s Pies, and Pieman basically danced over to it despite having just polished off three-quarters of a pizza. I swaggered across the road and got in there just in time to hear the big fella order “Two meat pies and a chicken and veggie pie, thanks.” The place was singing with the sweet scent of blueberry and and strawberry, and the cross-eyed bloke behind the counter almost fainted.

“Is this some kind of the joke?” he said in a heavy accent that could’ve from anywhere this side of Transylvania. “We do not have the meat pie.”

“Bacon and egg pie?”


“Veal pie?”


“Steak and kidney?”






“Seafood pie?”


“What about crocodile?”


“Fuck me drunk, it says pies out the front, and I want a pie – I’m fucken starvin’! Now what type of pies have you got?”

“We have the apple pie, the blueberry pie, the strawberry pie, the plum pie and the cinnamon pie. You want pie? You order, or else you leave Mr Strange Pie Eater Man.” Pieman looked like someone had slapped him in the face.

“So, no meat pies then?” he asked, and slowly lurched out of the shop, mumbling something about apples and pooftahs and what a shitty, weird country America was.

“Don’t worry, my brother, they might not have meat pies, but there’s something better around here,” I said with a wink. “Poontang pie.” And then we gave each other a jumping high-five and continued on our way. If there’s one thing Pieman likes more than a dog’s eye, it’s a nice, juicy vagina to munch on. What can I say, the man has taste!

We headed back to the hotel and I was over the moon when they handed me the keys. We left our bags with some dude who didn’t speak English, then took the lift up to the fifth floor to find the bag-dude waiting for us at the door. We went in, bag-dude took our suitcases in, then stood there with a huge smile on his face and his hand out. I reached for my wallet, but before I could tip the bloke, Pieman walked over and slapped him a low-five. Bag-dude looked like he wanted to run out and bring his homies back to shoot Pieman in the face, so I chucked him $2 for his two minutes of service and stood by the door while he fucked off.

“Bloody hell, mate, what did you give that bloke money for?” asked Pieman.

“You’ve gotta tip in America. It’s customary.”

“And it’s customary for me to tell pricks to piss off if they want more of my hard-earned than they deserve.”

“Ah, Pieman, you’ll do Australia proud while you’re over here.”

The room wasn’t much – plain white decor with an 82cm LCD screen pushed against one wall and two single beds against the other. There was a small bathroom, a small desk, and a small window that looked out onto a very large brick wall across a laneway. Well, at least we wouldn’t be distracted by the view.

I took a dump and had a quick shower, then pulled out my phone and called Pieman over to check out the screen. “Mate, check this out,” I grinned, showing him a video of a petite brunette with massive jugs and a large dragon tattoo on her back. Two goofy-looking dudes with cocks like gums trees were having the time of their lives, with one taking care of her droopy smoo while the other jabbed away at her black-lipsticked mouth. “That’s the chick we’re going to see this arvo. Loosey Lawless.”

“Reckon that could be me and you?” he asked, pointing at the fellas with the massive wangs. I chucked up a little at the thought of splitting a sheila with the big oaf.

“I’d rather share a girl with a pit bull,” I replied, putting my phone away. “OK dude, let’s get some shut-eye, then we’ve gotta get up to the café to meet this charming sheila.”

“Cool, and then we’re going back to her place to take some photos, right?”

“Yeah, so bring your camera and a bottle of disinfectant.”

I jumped into the bed nearest the window for a quick nap… and ended up sleeping 20 minutes past my alarm. When I finally got up I swore my head off, then woke Pieman from his equally deep slumber, then slipped myself into a plain black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. My hair looked rubbish, so I grabbed a cap out of my suitcase and chucked it on, stuck some shoes on my feet and the two of us raced to the front of the building to grab a cab.

The bloke who pulled up was another ethnic fella, with an accent somewhere between Borat and the Count from Sesame Street and no teeth. I got in the front and copped another weird look, Pieman got in the back, I showed the cabbie a slip of paper with an address on it and we started winding our way up and down congested street after congested street.

The coffee shop – a place called Patrick’s – was only a few blocks up the road, but with LA’s traffic it took us a good 15 minutes to get there. It seemed longer than that though, with the driver’s choice in music sounding like a recording of a bloke who’d caught his nuts in a toaster. It was all wailing and squealing and bongo drums, and I didn’t understand a word the bloke was spitting out. For once, the big fella in the back was quiet, his brain too busy taking in the sights and sounds of this strange new land.

The taxi stopped, I paid the driver, he coughed, I tipped him more, he muttered ‘Cheapskate Englishman’ and sped off, then we walked into the coffee shop. It was about half-full, smelled of exotic beans, and every single person in there looked like an extra from Desperate Housewives – fake tits, too much make-up, the whole deal. They were also the gloomiest bunch of motherfuckers you’ve ever seen – deadset, they were that sour I wouldn’t be surprised if every single one of them had a lemon up their arse.

Despite the booming sunshine outside, the coffee shop was gloomy inside with tiny candles at every table and dark purple walls, so it was hard to find Loosey, but when I saw the biggest set of jugs ever and knew I’d found my girl. The fact that she was sucking on a pen like it was a rigid penis kinda gave it away, too.

“Loosey Lawless, I presume,” I said, and shook her hand when she stood up. Beneath her massive norks was a tiny waist and cute little arse, and the whole package was wrapped in a skin-tight boob tube/spandex pants combo that made my knob want to break free from my pants and run around the room like a headless chook. Tattoos walked up and down her arms and when Loosey sat down, her black hair cascaded down around her face. With her dark make-up she looked barely 18, which made her perfect for a Terry Todger movie.

“You must be Bruce Barton. From New Zealand, right? I think I fucked a New Zealander once.”

“Close. Australia.”

“Oh right, where Schwarzenegger comes from.”

I let it slide. I mean, did it really matter if this buxom babe knew where I came from? It wasn’t like I was going to take her home to meet my parents. For one thing, she’d probably try to screw my dad. Actually, perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad present for the old pervert…

“You look like my brother,” she said to Pieman, then coughed a smoker’s cough and spat a green gob of phlegm onto the floor. “I wonder if your dick is as big as his? If we fuck, I’m calling you Paul, alright?”

Bloody hell, we had a live one here. Loosey finished the rest of what looked like a glass of straight bourbon in one shot as I took out my tape recorder and switched it on, then plonked it down on the table. Pieman pulled out his camera and snapped away a few photos, then we settled down to business.

“Alright Loosey,” I said, while trying and failing to grab the attention of a passing waitress, “we’ve got two things to talk about today. First, I wanna ask you a bunch of questions about your sex life and your career in the porno industry. Y’know, so we’ve got some words for the readers to ignore while they’re jacking off to photos of you with your wig-wams out.”

“Sure, I’ve fucked more guys than colon cancer, so I can tell you a story or two” snorted Loosey, bored. I assumed that she’d done this a million times before. I knew I had. I asked her a bunch of questions about how she got into the porno biz, who her favourite co-stars were and what was the most extreme thing she’d done on camera (“Drugs aren’t cheap”, “The UCLA college wrestling team” and “Getting fisted by a dwarf while two blokes dressed as robots jazzed on my face”, respectively), and when I had enough material to run alongside a simple glamour shoot I decided to ask her a few questions about Todger.

“He’s a cunt,” she spat, before I could even ask her anything. “I don’t think you’ll find a person in the country who’s sad he’s dead.”

“Fairy nuff,” I replied, a bit taken aback by her frankness. “So how’d you get involved with him?”

“It was about a year and a half ago and I would’ve been 19. Back then I was really new to the business, and I’d only done two scenes – one was girl-girl and the other was a nice, normal scene with some random dude who I barely remember. His dick bent to the left, like a banana, hit all the right spots. Then that old fuckwit got in touch with my agent and said he wanted me to do a scene with him. Some of the other girls in the industry warned me not to but I was naïve, and the money was good, so I went along.”

“Let me guess, Todger wasn’t exactly a gentleman?”

“He was barely human. He was, like, 100 years old and he stank like he’d peed himself. The first thing he made me do was lick his ass – gross! I’d never even done that to a cute guy, but he yelled at me and said my career would be over if I didn’t do it, and I got scared and went along with it.”

For a second – and only a second – Loosey looked into the distance with half a smile on her face, as if she hadn’t hated it nearly as much as she was making out. Then she screwed up her face again and kept going.

“Then he fucked me rougher than any guy had ever fucked me before – pulling my hair, slapping me, spitting on me. I usually like that sort of thing but he was just gross and weird. He even fucked me up the arse without asking, and laughed when I screamed. It was fucken horrible.”

I looked around again for a waitress, finally caught the attention of an outrageously skinny brunette, and ordered a plain coffee for myself, a beer for Pieman and a pint of wine for Loosey. Not a glass, a fucken pint. No wonder she stunk like a wino. “So was it just the girls who hated him?” I said.

“Fuck no! The cameramen hated him, the lighting guys hated him, the other male actors hated him. As well as being a complete asshole on set, he was a complete cunt away from the camera. Always putting people down, always bragging about how much money he had and just acting like a dickhead. He was about as popular as Chlamydia at a gang bang. Everybody was saying they wanted to kill him, and someone even punched him out a few months back.”

“Really?” I asked, and already I was getting the feeling there was more to this story than most people believed. I saw headlines, I saw awards… I saw myself getting laid for getting headlines and awards. “Who knocked him out?”

“Some Asian slag’s boyfriend. Yeah, Todger kept going up to this guy at a party and telling him he’d fucked his girlfriend up the ass and made her cry. That was typical Todger; he wasn’t just cruel during scenes. I genuinely think he hated women. Shit, after what he did to me, things changed…”

Our drinks arrived and I took a sip of my coffee, which felt like velvet as is rolled across my tongue, and then asked Loosey to elaborate. “After he broke me down and did all that to me, I got into drinking pretty hard to forget about it. Drugs, too. Todger said I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, that he was going to make a star out of me. Before that I’d had a bit of interest from the major porn studios, too, but that dried up after they saw the depraved shit I did with Todger. There was nothing left for me but gang bangs and fucking midgets. It’s pretty demeaning to cop a bukkake from a bunch of blokes who have to shop in the kiddie aisle at Wal-Mart.”

I spat out my coffee and laughed, then felt like shit when I saw how hurt Loosey was. Pieman, who’d been playing Angry Birds on his phone, suddenly looked up and said, “Our boss is a midget. Perhaps you could fuck him? He needs to relieve some tension, he’s an angry bastard.” I apologised for the both of us.

“So there’s your story,” continued Loosey. “Todger was a tosser to everybody, so everybody hated Todger. Now everybody’s happy ’cos the old bastard’s worm food.”

“Do you…” I started, then paused, then started again. “Do you think there’s more to his death?”

“Do I think someone killed him? Yeah, I do, but I don’t have a clue who.” Loosey finished her drink a little too quickly, like she had something to hide.

“Did you ever see Todger after the scene you shot with him?” I asked.

“Sure, but just at parties and industry nights and that, with some stuck-up bitch. I never hung out with him or anything. Never.” She took another swig of her wine. Again, it was just a little too quickly. She was lying, I could tell that, but I couldn’t work out why. Porn stars, hey, I wouldn’t trust ’em as far as I could throw ’em, and with tits that size I probably couldn’t toss Loosey too far. I was about to push on when she licked her lips and reached under the table to grab first my dick, then Pieman’s.

“I’m shitfaced,” she slurred. “Let’s go back to my joint and get these photos out of the way. Afterwards, I just might let you boys fuck me up the ass. Reckon I might be a bit yeasty up front, y’know. I gotta take a dump first, but.”

“How charming,” I laughed.

“And remember, boys, I want my cash before I do a thing.”


Thought it was great and just have to find out what happens next? Then pick up your copy right fucking now, my dude

Tales From Pornland: Why I’ll never be Prime Minister

[1301] 4 stories[1301] 4 stories

When lovely ladies find out that I worked for a gentlemen’s masturbation manual for seven-and-a-half years, their first question is always, “Why?” Their second is usually, “Can you please get the fuck away from me, you chauvinistic pervert?”

My answer is usually along the lines of the fact that, for the first five or so years at least, writing for The Picture gave me more freedom than pretty much any magazine in the country. I was given the opportunity to write genuinely funny and clever articles, even if they weren’t always the most intelligent or important stories in the country. In my time there I wrote many, many stories that I’m still incredibly proud of and, when it comes down to it, that’s why I stayed.

Of course, the lovely ladies focus on the fact that I also interviewed not-so-lovely ladies, the sort who earn money by allowing sickos to either perv on their vaginas, or insert their horribly deformed penises into them. I heard some wild stories (one chick fucked a dog. I’m not making that up – she fucked a dog while a small group of people watched), but after interviewing more than 1000 women, there was no titillation or excitement there. I just called them up, got a couple of quotes, then threw together a few words for blokes to ignore while wanking over the photos.

I suppose I could lie, and tell the lovely ladies that I actually wrote for Model Train Monthly (Australia’s second-biggest-selling quarterly publication dedicated to scale locomotives and associated miniatures), but I’m an honest fella, so I’ll probably always have that shadow over me.

I’ve also come to realise that my past career have robbed me of any chance of ever becoming Prime Minister of Australia. Alright, so the fact I’ve never tried to become a politician and am not an absolute fuckwit also count against me, but if I ever ran for the top job, there are a lot of photos that could be used against me.

A lot of photos. And, because I’d rather get laughs than have the opportunity to lead my country, here are some of them, preserved on the internet forever, ready for greenie lesbians with unshaved vaginas to uncover just as I’m ready to waltz it in at election time. Waltz it into the Prime Ministership, that is, not waltz into an unshaved vagina.

Of course, Julia Gillard fucked a bunch of married men, is a criminal, and has an arse wider than the Simpson Desert and a head that looks like it fell out of the wrong end of a dog, so I guess anyone can be the Prime Minister. Vote for me!

This was for a story about some doofus who got arrested for doing 80km/h over the speed limit, with a bag of weed on the passenger seat, while filming himself masturbating. I didn’t get to fuck the model.
I came up with an idea for a story about a very Australian superhero, whose powers extended to shouting beers and wearing spandex. The blokes in the background were a couple of homeless dudes, who were paid for their time with a glass of cheap wine each. I didn’t get to fuck the model (or the homeless dudes).
The Picture might be a grot mag full of fannies and boobies (tee hee!), but at times we’d have some in-depth literary analysis… or something like that. Here I was playing the role of Little Jack Horny who, in our version, didn’t stick his thumb into a pie, but instead stuck his hand into his shorts and pulled off his cock. I didn’t get to fuck the model.
[1151] as per Kristi
For a few years, I had my own character who appeared in most issues, and his name was Barry the Bullshit Artist. Like me, Barry was intensely attractive and possessed a large penis and a razor wit. I didn’t get to fuck the model.
This is Darren. He’s a lovely English chap who was scarred for life when, on his first day at the mag, he was sent along to the studios for a photo shoot with Dirty Gertie, a fat, mulleted sex pest with many horrible diseases. This time, I did get to fuck the model!