Tag Archives: nudity

Into the rape truck!

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After a week of brilliant flying in beautiful Candidasa, Bali, it’s time for the majority of the Cloudbase crew to pack up their wings and fly back to Australia. Me and Rich have stayed on for a few days, however, to continue flying in paradise with our mates Jules, Lewis and Dr Pete, a man best described as a ‘unique individual’ and one of the smoothest operators I’ve ever met. The flying’s been incredible, really tranquil and plenty of fun, and with nearly empty skies I’ve been able to work on my turns, chase thermals, and increase my confidence in the sky. It’s the happiest I’ve ever been with my flying, and I really feel like my skills have taken a massive step up – but things have been eventful.

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I’m even sexier at 700m above the ground

The day’s airborne adventures were cut short when a frighteningly huge storm cell rolled in, and we decided to head to the nearby Black Sand Beach for a few Bintangs, rather than stay in the sky to be tossed harder than a frustrated virgin’s pecker. After pulling off the best landing of my life (the words of advice finally worked, Mark!), it was off to the village’s tiny general store for the customary post-flight feast of icy cold beer and fried chicken skin. I’ve had some cracking afternoons sitting outside that general store, with friends old and new (and old and young, to be honest). Flying is brilliant and the ultimate drug, but the social aspect of paragliding is what really makes it the king of sports.

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It might be time to land

One Bintang turned into six, and soon me and the Hamster were becoming animated. I pulled out my phone and filled the dusty village with the feel-good beats of legendary 80s pop group Wang Chung, and we started boot scooting through the palm trees, which startled a group of small children who were using a dead chicken as a football. The locals had seen and heard enough (they must’ve been Duran Duran fans – there’s no accounting for taste) and ordered us into the back of a bright green truck with blood smears on the side. I yelled out to the driver to ask him what they usually carried in the truck, because it smelled awful.
“Mainly rice and rapist for execution,” he shrugged, and climbed into the front seat. He started it up and drove us away from the beach in a cloud of smoke while people danced around us.

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The locals didn’t chain Rich to the truck by his nipples, he just did it for fun!

As we bumped along the bumpy road the Indos raced out of their shacks to watch us cruising through the village. They laughed and cheered and threw flowers, obviously excited by the prospect of seeing a group of sex offenders get beheaded for their pleasure. Despite being in the back of the Gary Glitter Rape Wagon I felt like the queen, and waved to the little people as we passed. Unfortunately, bright green trucks designed for hauling paedophiles aren’t very comfortable, and were for thrown around as it bumped along the road. Palm fronds and electrical cables reached for us, and a moment’s lapse in concentration was enough to be beheaded by by a stray branch. I managed to dodge most of them, but then disaster struck. A jolt knocked me towards the back of the truck and a jagged palm frond lashed at my clothes and tore them off my body, leaving me rolling around the bed in my undies.

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This is why I’ve been asked not to return to Indonesia

Rich, never one to miss an opportunity to defrock, tore off his clothes and tossed them out the back, where they hit an unsuspecting motorcyclist in the face and caused him to crash into a stray dog. The truck driver had every reason to keep driving us to Kerobokan Prison, but thankfully he took us back to our palatial accommodation at the Puri Oka Hotel, before using a rusty machete to force us out of the back of the truck. The small crowd who had gathered around us slumped off in despair when they discovered we weren’t going to be executed for their entertainment.

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Jules was lucky to avoid losing his clothes in the tragedy

Despite being paraded around in the back of the Jimmy Savile Express, threatened and laughed at, it was one of the best days I’ve ever had, and another high spot in what has become one of the best and most insane holidays I’ve ever had. As the sun slid behind the horizon, we did our best to raise the stock price of Bintang and I did my best to win the heart of a beautiful young lady. What can I say, it’s a life…

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The walking cure for homosexuality

Today I lost my pants at the beach

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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.

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

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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!

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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.
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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).
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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.
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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.
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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!