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Professed Whitz

Overtly Superfluous

Updated: 2015-09-17T03:08:57.299+10:30




The CITES database – the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora) is an extensive list onto which rare varieties of animals and plants are placed, to sanction innumerable arseclowns from international trade. Roughly 5000 species of animals and considerably more types of plants are protected by CITES against over-exploitation, whose database includes the Leontopithecus, Saguinus Oedipus, Ailuropoda melanoleuca Ailurus and the Balaenopteridae Humpback whale.

My friend Gough has recently had his sexual prowess added to the list.

Hippy Victory


The group collectively stop as one.

The bong is discarded, unpacked, forgotten for a moment; the playstation is temporarily unseen. Dye is spilt on the grass mat by the avid hemp clothes fashion designer of the group, and a half consumed pizza slice stops in mid air between box and mouth, as one murmurs; “Told ya so”, through a half-baked grin.

This comes as the Age, Nigel Free-Marijuana’s publication of choice - reveals that we're in it for the oil.



This here be a test of strength. A test of ones abilities. Against all ods, will this be a success? If you can read this, lets get it on!



This blog is undergoing a sphincter bleaching. Worldviews amongst other things will be discussed - by way of the backdoor, at a later date - when the canyon finally matches the tone; and the travel insurers get to my claim for such a heavy operation.

Batman's Legacy


As if in despair, the local Counsel has enlisted the man who brought syphilous to Melbourne to eradicate the city’s pigeon population. We have to give the man credit however, he did play a sizeable role in settling the place And trialing it’s brothels.

John Batman - an obvious choice due to his involvement in the eradication of various other populations in Tasmania – has the good fortune of having a park named after him alongside the Yarra River.

Unlike the Dutch – who I’m reliably told exterminate their pests’ by way of an instant grilling in the dead of night when nobody is looking, only to resell their carcases onto red-eyed Feebo shoppers – the Melbourne city counsel has erected a concentration camp for the faecal matter of the streets in said park, designed to keep them from destroying Melbourne’s bluestone wonders.

Bluestone – the only weapon Melbourne holds in the relentless war against Sydney – dissolves before our very eyes when shat uponst by the common pigeon, which is reason enough to drop a derisory 60k on the undertaking.

Batman will keep a sightless watchful eye over the proceedings, and is certain to offer trinkets to the new residents, and converse to them in a certain dialect with words not unlike ieday othermay uckersfay – obviously because pigs pigeons and aborigines all speak the same language.

Visitors are encouraged to give up their lunches’ at the site, and Sydney is encouraged to go fuck itself!

Be careful


Womens’ atrocities unto men have taken a step too far.

A Sydney court had to endure the tale of this Harlot, 31, of the Northern Beaches yesterday, who got up the duff without old hubby’s knowledge, hid her already cellulite ridden body throughout her mysterious pregnancy with a wardrobe stocked from the racks of Millers, popped the kid out in their bathroom, then stuffed it in a beer carton presumably for safe keeping. The least she could have done was to put it on ice.

My thoughts are with poor old mate throughout all of this. The unsuspecting father – the victim - comes home from a hard days surfing, reaches into the box to withdraw a 6-pack of Tooheys New – dinner – to shelve in the fridge, only to discover a hefty lawyers bill and a body to dispose of.

Shoulda stuck to Ekkie Dry. Smaller Cartons.



A hiatus is inevitable when you're as busy as me!

Skidding off the runway


When making preparations to land an airborne plane, a pilot goes through a series of routine steps designed to ensure the plane, the passengers and the precious cargo of smuggled cocaine arrives to the destination in tact.

The pilot must lower altitude, reduce speed, inform the crew, align the plane with the runway, deploy the landing gear, take instructions from the control tower and in some cases – employ reverse jet thrusters to minimize the risk of skidding off the runway.

Such is an accurate depiction of having a shit at my present address.

Very shared household


It’s painfully obvious when my flat mate has been banging his girlfriend. Though where is another question.

For starters, she arrives to the house all smiles and conversation, discussing such no brainers as the weather, university, the World Cup and the best way to skin a cat; when suddenly BANG! She disappears without a word, and his bedroom door slams shut in a lust-driven fury.

Roughly half an hour later, the door springs open, and they both come bounding out, matching each other’s stride in a reenactment of the Boston Marathon toward the bathroom, towels slung carelessly around naked arses, dog collars still semi-fastened, anal beeds still in place.

For peace of mind, I will presume the shower makes for scheduled after-play. The place where they each get lathered up – in a different sense – to cleanse away any physical miscellany of their devotion.

However, imagine my anxiety I suffered last week when I crossed the threshold to the bathroom after this special ritual to discover a large murky puddle on the floor, the origins of which I shudder to think of. Speculations are running rampant if it was dirt, or if somebody will be receiving an enema for their birthday.

Need a clitlift?


I’ve sometimes been branded a chauvinist by various tards who were clearly objectionable toward my character. I like to call a spade a god dam spade; and as I’ve often thought, why fuck a girl in a skirt, when you can fuck a girl in a skirt in the arse.

Having carried this encumbrance for many years, I’ve decided it’s high time I give back something to the community. While The Reverend Tim Costello – brother of rightwing Liberal Party Treasurer who has been discussed at length in an earlier post – fills the cockles of the heart with good will toward young African children, child sponsorship is a little sinister for me in a Michael Jackson-like way.

Therefore I have decided to adopt a clitorus.

In the landlocked nation of Burkina Faso in western Africa, towels are quite proudly warn uponst the heads’ of at least half the population. As such, women are subjected to various atrocities such as cooking, cleaning, and female circumcision.

But singer songwriter, car racing enthusiast and all round show pony Claude Vorilhon - better known as Rael - has thrown his “spiritual” movement into overdrive to open up the Pleasure Hospital, and restore the clitoris - and therefore sexual freedom – of ladies with genital deformities.

The Raelian movement, whose fundamental belief systems about humans having been genetically engineered by extra terrestrials - were brought into existence after Vorilhon’s other business ventures had failed in the 70s. Rael, whose website proudly promotes “intelligent design for atheists” – further prophesises that the Elohim – Hebrew for the word “God” – will come to pay us a visit only when the Earth is peaceful, which at this rate should be some time next week, and when we all have a sense of sexual determination, which I for one have had since the tender years of my teens.

Taking all of this onboard, the Raelian doctors behind the venture ask for $500US to restore a clitoris, which is money well spent for when ET comes down to fuck all of our brains out.

Hooker Language


As is the nature of my job, people often ask me, Whitz, how do I get a prostitute, and how should I go about talking to him or her?

This makes me wonder; what the fuck do you want to talk about with a hooker? However the caring, facilitating English teacher that I am, I set to work explaining the delicate subject of money for sex.

For those at least here in Spain, the nature of the Spanish language leaves its speakers’ in turmoil. While in Latin American countries, the language is very formal and straight down the line, this is not so here. Even the smack head who lives in a cardboard box on the corner is your long lost amigo, and the gypsie conspicuously rifling through your pockets while offering you directions is your comrade in a time of need.

However, at what point do reservation and informality trade places? Can one really refer to the woman with her laughing gear wrapped around one’s member as usted? Can the money shot– as intimate as it is - really go ahead if sir is picking up the bill? Is madam ready for madam’s pearl necklace?

Thankfully English doesn’t exhibit such complexities.

Subliminal Pronunciation


Audiotapes. The lazy English teacher’s best friend that not only allows for some moments of peaceful relaxation, but also can be used to instill subliminal messages into the minds’ of students. I transcribe here – for your reading pleasure – my newfound weapon of choice for English pronunciation.

Man: Practice

Woman: Duty

Man: Oral

Woman: Plenty

Man: Swallow

Woman: Frequent

Man: Quickly

Woman: Tasty

Man: Dreadful
Woman: Sorry

I applaud the producers of English 1 2 3 (2nd Ed)

Road to Glory


Its high time I revealed my role – as crucial as it was – in getting the Socceroos to the finals of the World Cup in Germany.

On this auspicious day when Aussies around the world are extending the forks to the Japanese for being gracious losers - just like they did roughly 60 years ago – we can be forgiven for strutting around like pubertal adolescents who just got our first roots’. Allegorically we did, though it took thirty-two long years to lose our collective virginity, and for the passed several attempts at football flagellation, the pesky Ururuguayans deflowered us.

Close on a year ago, I was drunk in a bar.

A two-bit scank from my language school saunters in closely followed by a man who I can only presume was her pimp for the night. I should mention she was of the United States, though which state I cannot say. He – as it would turn out – suffered the affliction of being Uruguayan, though his Spanish was far more agreeable to the ear than that of the Madrileño twats who surrounded me, and his English was superlative.

From memory, the skirmish went much like this.

Whitz: Uruguay eh?

Mr. Uru: Yes – the most beautiful country in Latin America.

Whitz: Get ya hand off it mate – and listen while we’re at it – we’ve had a fucking boot full of your on-field antics.

Mr. Uru: ¿Qué?

Whitz: Listen carefully - I’ll say this only once. World Cup mate. No fuckin more are yous cunts gonna stand in our way. Next year its yous who will be the pants down fools. Ya hear?

Need I say more.

Grant Mac Bridge


After Grant McLennan of 80s band The Go-Betweens fame unexpectedly kicked the bucket in May, a group of warmhearted souls are pushing for a new bridge which will span the Brisbane River to be named in his honour.

Peter Walsh - the main man behind the presumably defunct Livid Festival – heads the group, whose agender is mostly based on the fact that the Go-Betweens were one of Brisbane’s biggest exports, and that the bridge itself will only be open to buses and pedestrians, which Grant Mac will dig because he “…never had a license to drive…”

While this alone causes Brisbane residents to shed a sympathetic tear for the man who was forced to rely on public transport throughout his forty-eight years, do the streets of this town really want to be associated with a muso who used to get off on surfing magazines? Does the alleged town of battered wives require a street, nay a major thoroughfare, to celebrate his contribution to music? Do we really want a bridge which goes-between UQ and Dutton Park anyway?

Cliché jokes exhausted and my thoughts turn to more pressing matters - the heavily publicized involvement of Mr. Walsh in the race to name the bridge campaign.

For 15 years, Brisbane played host to the Livid Festival – an institution which pulled big international names from all genres to this fair city such as The Cure, Rage Against the Machine, Devo, Oasis, Jurrasic Five, The Roots, Lamb and The Prodigy.

Come 2003, Walsh and Company took the festival Mexico-ward to Sydney and Melbourne, hoping to make a pretty penny.

In 2004, they fed us – the Livid-mad public - bite-sized pieces of bullshit by way of their website which claimed a 1-year hiatus was inevitable due to the lack of quality talent touring within the vicinity of Brisbane at that time, and the reassurance that the festival would return bigger and better in 2005.

While other festivals continued to thrive over this period, and with naut a word even broaching Livid since, Walshy continues to drop the ball.

Fuck you Peter Walsh and your bright ideas on Brisbane’s river crossings. Get off your indolent posterior and bring back Livid. Assume some fucking control of South East Queensland’s music industry and breathe life into what is fast becoming a beaurocratically engineered entertainment black hole.

I think old Walshy requires somebody's foot to Go-Between his arsecheeks.

A heads up


A Sydney man with a history of teenaged prankster-like behaviour – i.e. egging cars, flaming dogshit on the doorstep and the like – has gone one up by rocking his parent’s garage roof with his father’s own head.

His mother made the grisly discovery of her husband’s headless body inside their house on a chilly June day in 2004, while the head – which was hacked off with a common kitchen knife - was found in a bag a short time later on the roof.

The man, 27, was under the misapprehension that his family were conspiring to kill him and offer his organs to medical science as a gift.

Evidently, this fellow ain’t got much time for science.

Meanwhile, right wing, gun enthusiast philosopher/blogger John Ray of Brisbane has grabbed the bull by the horns and has used this case to illustrate the need to ban kitchen knives, because they’re just plane dangerous.

I totally agree. In addition, it’s about time we limited the distribution of plastic bags as far too many people are using them to dispense with unwanted body parts, as exemplified by this Sweedish lady killer.

ESL pain


The everyday hilarity encountered by an English teacher while acting professor de inglés via telephone with a beginner student in Madrid:

Whitz: Today I want to talk about animals.

Pablo: Animales? How you say… uh… Me encantan the… los Animales?

Whitz: You love animals?

Pablo: Yes, Yes, I love the animals.

Whitz: Right… Have you got any pets?

Pablo: No…No… its not possible. My friend has a caballo.

Whitz: A horse?

Pablo: Yes… A orse… beautiful orse.

Whitz: Ok! And…

Pablo: I like to … how you say… montar… the orse?

Whitz: to ride the horse?

Pablo: si si…. I like to ride orse all weekend.

The lord works in mysterious ways


After sitting beside the hospital bed of their supposed daughter for over a month, this devoted clan of intelligent evangelists in Indianapolis have been shocked by the realization that the girl in the bed was in fact not their daughter.

The Vanryn Family – who set up a weblog praising the lord, and posting occasional snippets of information documenting the progress of their daughter’s recovery progress – reported that the penny dropped when the girl in the bed – the imposter – started speaking of things unfamiliar to them.

“…she'll say things that don't make much sense,” they report, like ‘who the fuck are you’ and ‘you’re not my child molesting, god fearing father’.

“Our God is so good. He is our healer and our protector - no matter our circumstance,” They assure us, and who am I to argue with a family who can’t even recognize their own children.

Las tetas Afueras


The community swimming pool. A haven for harmless family fun. An often-serene locale; children paddling in the cool water, parents cajoling them from the safety of dry land, teenagers splashing each other in a ritualistic game of underwater fornication, others – like me – trying to relive the old days when they could swim 50 metres without requiring oxygen at the other end. The usual.

Not so in sunny Madrid.

While these everyday meaningless occurrences certainly do take place, enter typical Spanish absurdities.


Ladies of all shapes and sizes, spanning all 3 generations of the present day, breasts out, arses squeezed precariously into vacillating g-strings, sunning themselves under the unrelenting Madrid sol; like veritable shrimps on a Barby.

With scarcely a bra in sight, imagine my terror when an elderly woman came bounding toward me, naked watermelons-for-tits bouncing with every stride, g-banger stretched to breaking point, woman gaining momentum as she walked. Fortunately, she was only in hot pursuit of a chair which had just been made vacant next to me. Clearly its previous occupant had foreseen this catastrophe unfolding, and taken off to safer ground. Shudder!

Having lived to tell the tale, I can say with resolve that it's not all bad at my local inner-city piscina, with many a bright young thing sporting some fairly enticing racks. You gotta take the good with the bad. Reckon I’ll take long-term membership!

Typos leak classified information


One day out from Murdoch’s crushing kettle-calling-pot “fuck off old man” tirade on Johnny, Fairfax – by way of The Spencer Street Soviet – has rushed to the PM’s defense.

Evidently in support of Howard’s dominating stranglehold on the top job over his closest rival – Peter Cunting Costello – they bring you "Prime Howard". A message – all be it subliminal – that Johnny is here to stay, and that they love his children over-boarding antics, his IR atrocities, his bald noggin, the eyebrows and his mate ship. At least, they prefer him over bean-counting, Islam-bashing, budget-turning, personality-exuding PC, who reportedly considers OLD Rupert with high regard.

Similarly to the Beatles’ “acknowledgment” of Paul’s tragic death in 1963, The Age is bringing the news to the people.

While the nation temporarily turns it’s back on politics to watch television’s greatest ratings purchase straight out of Beaconsfield next week, the Liberals – at least those in the Howard camp – will be rushing the new bill through parliament.

Prime Howard. The new title to the top job. A rehashment to an old British term which reeks of monarchy. A brilliant new concept designed to celebrate a man. His sovereignty over our land. Our fearless leader. Our man at the top. Prime Howard John!

In typical Howard Government form, the bill will likely accompany a pay increase for politicians, and both will be snuck through the house of reps quicker than Todd Russell can say “struth, where the bloody hell’s my Woodstock Bourbon”.

Don’t turn your backs’ Australia, or Howard’s legacy will live on even further passed his use-by date.

Media Circus Vs Miners


In his new role as big jefe de canal 9, Eddie Mcguire has hit the nail on the head. Having “persuaded” oustraya’s favourite cave dwellers to appear on the Footy Show – to make thank you speeches no less – he has wrapped up a simply dazzling game of simulated footy. The Virtual festival of the boot parts 1, 2 and 3, has been played out; where the two teams went head-to-head for over two weeks. Where both sides – the Australian, nay the World Media, and the mining community of Beaconsfield have been playing a grueling grudge match – desperately jostling for the top position. A tournament unlike any other. Lives were lost; points were scored. While my present arrangement causes me to be joyfully missing the local broadcast media’s spin on the story-that-stops-a-nation, I’ll assume the role of Ray Rabsy Warren to summarise.Anzac day, 2006. A late kick off on this - a brisk, autumn evening. Even the diggers – whats left of them – have put down their schooners to get a load of this. The mine’s collapsed; somebody will be getting a shafting at Beaconsfield gold mining HQ. The yellow canary clearly wasn’t doing its job. This reminds me of the stunning try of King Wally Louis’ in the 2nd clash of the 1987 Origin, when he wore the maroon number 9 proudly, as he darted through attempted tackles from Webber and Ballsnatcher, for a simply thrilling put down right between the posts. The blues weren’t doing their job properly, and they knew it. A great day for Australian football, a great day for the colour maroon, and most of all, a great day for the fans.The media comes in slow and steady, dutifully passing the ball. The 11 on field miners are on the offensive, playing their opponents without too much fuss; and suddenly team manager Mighty Matthew Gill has affirmed that two of the remaining trapped players are alive. Five days into the first half, and the media go into a scrum. Ball’s out, and the tables have turned on the miners, as the ball is passed through their defensive line. Kochi, Mel (one of our prettier athletes), passes to Naomi (Miss Universe), who dummy halfs Carl and Tracey, Richard Carlton, races passed the ABC, CNN, Noticias Cielo Bolivia and is put down 50 metres out from the Beaconsfield line. It looks like one man is down, number 3 from the mining team, Larry Knight. He’s badly hurt, and will be stretchered off the field by the paramedics. Is a great loss for…them… The media crowds around, taking full advantage of the situation, and 20 metres out, Koch resumes play, passes it to Mel, who does her best to avoid passing onto her Channel 9 rivals, and back… Kochi, Kochi, Kochi scores a try. Brilliant footwork from Koch, absolutely astoundingly good play by the news team at 7, whose presence on the field is fast resembling a circus. Absolutely amazing!!! A miracle try to the media!!!The miners retake control of the ball, making slow progress toward their line.Good play from Fairfax, tackling a panic-stricken family member of one of the miners, in a desperate bid to get an extra scoop. ACA swoops on the Beaconsfield hair stylist for a new lead story, while 7’s Today Tonight tackles Jolene – a 12-year-old primary school student for her account on the commotion.The trapped miners are doing well, making outlandish requests for fried food, ipods and beer; when in comes Richard Carlton for a head-high tackle on Gilly, a question from way out of left field, which all but flattens the poor mine manager. He’s got to be badly hurt from that, just has to be! The ref has surel[...]

Post Cyclonic conditions


Australia's international carriers have been thrown into overdrive after it was discovered that we as a nation are in crisis.

Thanks to old Larry, who rocked northern Queensland like a V8 Commodore on high school graduation night – leaving its occupants broozed, busted open and demoralised - Australians will be flocking to the Filipines in droves not only in pursuit of mail order brides, but to wrap their respective laughing gear around the common household banana, where 12% of the world’s demand of phallic-shaped fruit is produced.

For as long as it takes to introduce a new mouth to feed at the family dinner table, Australians may be forced to go without their favourite edible symbol of sexual domination, due to bureaucracy coming out from Canberra – more specifically Federal agricultural minister Peter McGauran – who is anti the importing of bananas, because banana eaters vote liberal. Or something…

He told The Spencer Street Socialist here that those yearning for banana – including his own wife who had forebodingly left her post in the family kitchen – must learn to go without as nobody aches for it like those affected by the disaster in FNQ. "We all have to put it into that context and bear the pain for the next nine to 12 months," he said like a man who’s had to chastise his wife for such wrong doings before.

Would somebody please think of the children. For close on a year, Australian High Schools will be at a loss. When it comes to teaching pre-pubescent persons the ways of donning external contraceptive devices, gone will be the days of reaching into students’ lunchboxes, or making for the local green grocer for a bunch of ripened surrogate penises. Gone will be the nervous giggles’ of naive teenaged girls, eager to learn how best to please their loved ones’; and perhaps worst of all, a certain innocence will be lost in the demise of that simple act of rolling a condom over a ripened banana.

Pressure is mounting to open up trade barriers before our youth start taking matters into their own pants.

Meanwhile, the Banana Growers Council chief executive Tony Heidrich told The Age that bananas will become a luxury – particularly among those ladies with homosexual tendencies. But we can all breathe a sigh of relief, as our Aussie battling mates from the sticks are “…working to get bananas back as soon as possible."

Shut up bitch!


While swilling overly priced pints of ekky-dry at the Limerick Hotel in South Melbourne, my ears were somewhat offended by the Southern Australian, upper echelon, “yes darling” fist-in-arse brogue, which could be heard emitting in a constant stream from the neighbouring table. Taking matters into my own hands, I decided to put a stop to this irritant, by gently submerging my nuts in her G&T. Hey. It was a hot day.

This got me, and my fellow blogging amigo – whose anal adventures can be found here – all introspective. Which glass of alcoholic liquid would be the most appropriate in which to go the plunge?

There are many variables to take into account, and dogmatic rules to abide by. A pint glass – ideal in its capacity to hold a large volume of beer – may prove too capacious for comfortable emersion. Similarly, given that the doodle must not be present in the glass along with the testicles, one must be careful to ensure that the glass is not excessively diminutive. We chose to opt for the schooner glass, and/or the short spirit glass, available in most pubs and clubs across Australia.

Secondly, the liquid in said glass is a controversial issue. With many, many possibilities to choose from, one must select wisely. While Guinness Extra Cold may be best left to the seasoned plunger, the creamy consistency combined with a high concentration of pressure -PSI - may be quite pleasurable to some. While the same applies to other ails and English bitters, mixed drinks are likely to be a favourite, particularly those with bubbly ingredients, and ice which would bob gently around the testicles.

Personally I opt for Champaign. Sparkling wines are notably effervescent – the sensations of which would be somewhat congenial, and effective in its task to silence it’s owner in mid sentence. I must affirm that the beverage be served in a schooner glass for optimum comfort.

I throw it to you, my loyal readers. Please, only serious responses.

Incidentally, after careful consideration, my friend opted for Caffrey’s. Obviously some kind of hardcore.

Finally our courts got it right


Its just as well Sydney courts have put away these abominable characters for unlawful practise with beer bottles.

The two men, who were happily shacked up together, were found guilty for making molotov cocktails in beer bottles - with the intent to lob them into the arses' of the inferior. Given their alleged involvement in the Cronulla Riots, we can assume this refers to those of Lebonese descent, practicing Muslims, Turks, Greeks and icecream vendors.

I point the figure squarely at the licquer industry.

Yes, you Mr. Carlton, filling your pockets as every would-be terrorist comes in for a 24 pack of death chargers and a cigarette lighter. Heaven forbid you can even sleep at night, knowing that your chosen method of containment - the bottle - is nothing but a pre-loaded weapon!

While buying a 6-pack of artillery at my local IGA, I made some enquiries. My friends, these are dark tidings at hand. Beer consumption is rife among young males.

Even a shitty inner city Melbourne convenience store-come-bottleo makes a hefty contribution to domestic warfare, and with a plethra of chilled merchandise at the ready, I fear for my life.

Worse still, is those who claim to be homebrew enthusiasts. Stockpiling weaponery, filling each individual unit with a pungeont mixture of unfermented substance; unfit for human consumption. Substance, that will no doubt kill us.

Put an end to these hate crimes Mr. Howard, or at least impose more taxes on the beer industry, before we're all put to early bottle-afflicted deaths.

Bracksy's shed


Good on old Braksy for uprooting Kennett's firm grip on ridiculousness, with the recent proposal to erect a new convention centre - larger, swankier and more expensive than Jeff's Shed.

"This is the biggest plenary hall in the southern hemisphere," he told The Age. Which is exactly what i wager Kennett said roughly 10 years ago.

The $1 billion house of corporate prostitution will hold 3000 more people than its predecessor, will boast a Hilton International Hotel (which can only mean good things for Melbourne's Internet porn industry), and Victoria's tax payers are said to be throwing in more than $300 million. A bargain in anyone's eyes, given Melbournians' limited use of such facilities.

Just think of the after-christmas sales. Those fucking ads will be unstoppable!

Moreover, the high class hookers - of which i am related to one - who reside just across the river in the ever-so-glammorous Flinders Wharf Apartments will have to endure the delights ossociated with construction and sound pollution for the next 2 years.

Suffer in ya jocks ya cunts!

Pubic Transport


The Age never ceases to entertain, and the arseclown behind this story deserves a Walkley for his adjectival prowess; or at least a AVN award for putting sex back into reading the paper over breaky.

An expansion to Melbourne's suburban train network has been described as a "sexy" option. Which it indubitably is - next to prostate examination. However personally when it comes to public transport, I see little by way of stimulous which would get me hot between the sheets.

I'm sure we all have "pleasurable" stories to relay on the raunch behind taking a trip on our local tram, train or bus.

Only last week i was on an over-crowded tram in the city, where an old man was coughing up mucus into his hand, and then rubbing it into the seat beside him to prevent others from sitting down. NOICE!!

Further to prettying up the trains, "long-suffering" bus passengers will be doing high-fives in the isles when they find out that Bracksy plans to introduce "...minimum service levels on all routes, including night and Sunday services."

Now I've had some hilariously bad sex. But minimum service on all routes???