A POPSICLE AWARD...

I haven't handed one of these out for a while so I'm well overdue. And the unworthy recipient this time is Anthony Tran, a thief who stole a stereo out of a car, couldn't fit it to his own vehicle and asked the car owner's boyfriend to help him with the installation.

http://j.mp/mD3NkM

Police are charging him, among other things, with being a frigging idiot.

Congratulations Mr Tran for being the latest recipient of my Popsicle Award, presented to those who clearly only have a Popsicle stick keeping their ears apart.

A Popsicle Award -

Here in Australia, Mirza Zukanovic was sentenced for 30 days in jail for contempt of court after blowing a bubble in court with bubble gum. The sentence was later overturned on appeal. Much comment is now being thrown around about the appropriateness of that sentence. Personally I think it was a 'no brainer.' If anybody does not know that they need to be on their best behaviour in court, then they are simply looking for trouble.

Things then took a really ridiculous turn with Zukanovic claiming that he is addicted to Hubba Bubba bubble gum, offering that up as his excuse.

So Mirza, mate, you get a very special honour - being awarded a Popsicle Award twice. First, for being dumb enough to even get yourself in that trouble in the first place, secondly for thinking we are all dumb enough to believe that addition story. Clearly he is another one that only has a Popsicle stick keeping his ears apart.

Fore!

How many golfers do we have out there? Hands up. You mongrels! I was going to say something stronger but The Editor is in a Puritan mood today.

Have you lot ever once thought about things from the point of view of the poor ball? No, I didn’t think so.

Anyone in their right mind would be suspicious about golfers in the first place. Just look at the stupid clothes they were. And one glove. Only one? What is this – a convention of Michael Jackson impersonators?

Think about it for a moment. There is our little friend, the ball, cuddled up next to the Missus, warm and cosy in their little corner of the golf bag. Then this dirty big hairy hand reaches in, grabs him by the face and drags him out.

The poor little sod is still in shock when you decide you’ve had enough of handling him and sit him down on a tiny little seat amid the green grass. What is this? Potty training?

Then – whack! You belt the little fellow in the back of the head with a club. You don’t even try to pretend it’s something else like a Trajectory Accelerator. No, it’s just called a club. Freaking cavemen ran around belting each other over the head with clubs. What is this? Racial memory incidents? Neanderthal flashbacks?

Now the obvious thing to do would be to hit the ball nice and straight. But do you do that? Noooo. Our friend the ball is sent skewing wildly off to one side. Into the trees he goes, bouncing around like a ball inside a pinball machine. Bing! Bang! Ding! Until finally, mercifully, he drops down to the ground.

Adding to your litany of crimes, you lot are all hopelessly blind and go wandering off in the wrong direction while looking for the ball. Heck, if you wanted it so much in the first place, why did you club it as far away from you as you could get it?

The ball starts feeling lonely there in the long grass by himself. “Oi, over here,” he starts squeaking. But you lot are deaf as well as blind.

At long last, you manage to find him. Any apologies? Not flipping likely. You select another club from your arsenal and belt him again. Straight into a tree again and he comes rocketing back at you, just missing your head, and out onto the fairway. Except now the ball has gone backwards and you’re further away from the end than you were five minutes ago.

Fairway? Fairway? There’s nothing fair about this lark, mate.

Yet another club is pulled out. You have a whole damn bag of things to choose from. Even serial killers don’t carry that much equipment around with them for attacking people.

Whack . This time you really belt the poor sod nice and high. He is just getting over that shock and starting to enjoy the view, when he realises that gravity is catching up on things and pulling him back down to the ground. Fast.

Sheeeaaatttt!

This time at least, it is onto some nice, soft, short-cropped green grass that cushions the impact.
Next, having played He-Man with your clubs, belting the poor sod, now you just gently tap him this time. Into a hole. His whole world view is now just a couple of inches across.

The dirty big hairy hand reaches down and drags him out by his face once more. And then you go through the whole charade again. Another seventeen times!

Golfers. Hah. You mongrels.

Anyone remember what my tee-off time is?

Crappolicious, baby!

I was having an idle read the other day, catching up on all the news of earth-shattering importance such as whether Jessica Simpson is single (well a bloke can dream) or how well Dickko is keeping his weight off. That was when I stumbled on a rather startling piece of news.

Do you know what the world’s most expensive coffee is? It costs roughly $1,500 per kilo. And the Poms will pay fifty pounds for a single cup.

Just what is that marvellous brew? Ready? Drum roll please.

Drrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmm.

It is made from civet poop.

The civet is a member of the cat family, found in parts of Africa. And somebody decided it would be good to make coffee from their pooh.
I mean, like, what makes someone decide to go trying to make refreshing beverages from animal crap? I can imagine the taste-testers now.

“Elephant droppings – a bit coarse. Giraffe – a little bland. Wildebeest – yearch. Civet – yes – we’re on a winner here!”

It’s cat pooh, people, cat pooh! They are drinking coffee made from cat pooh. Heck, if the Poms are silly enough to pay fifty quid for a cup of cat pooh, I am going to start bagging my own up and export it. Have a Helping of Hammo’s! Raise a Cup of Rant’s Finest!

Spare a thought for the poor sods that have to go out and collect it.

Consider the scene. In deepest, darkest Africa, Mrs OvamboWuckUck is searching through her pantry. Blast, the coffee canister is empty.

“We’re out of coffee again,” she screeches to the long-suffering Mr OvamboWuckUck. He sighs, and other elderly beasts left over from old Johnny Weismuller films (oh alright, those particular animals would be long dead by now, but it’s my story so sod off). At last he spies a civet cat. Even better, it looks like it is poop-ready. What? No, I’m not going to tell you the secret to knowing if a cat is poop-ready.

He pounces. For some reason the civet cat does not particularly like a dirty great big human jumping on top of it and it starts fighting back. Claws raking. Sharp teeth tearing. All the while, Mr OvamboWuckUck bravely battles on, blood running from the deep gash in his arm, one ear hanging by only a small sliver of flesh, the bitten-off tip of a finger now deep inside the civet’s digestive tract. But most important of all, he keeps the civet’s bum pointed over the opening to the waiting civet-pooh-collection-bag.

At last the battle and the wait are over. The animal shudders and squeersh – the deed is done. Mr OvamboWuckUck lets the civet go and it heads for the hills.

Our brave warrior tucks the bag with its valuable cargo under an arm, and makes the long trek back home. Back past the elderly animals who are still out of breath from their last encounter. Back down the cliffs. Splash through the rivers again. Hack another path through the jungle. Then finally, home, to the waiting Mrs OvamboWuckUck who has had her feet up, catching up on Kim Kardashian gossip.

Of course we wouldn’t have to go through all that in Australia. I hear that Woolies is talking of stocking its own range of fresh civet coffee. Forget battery hens, we’ll have battery civet cats, their bums suspended in the air for waiting shoppers to collect the fresh product.

It is coffee made from cat pooh, people. Cat pooh!

What's Dangerous and What's Funny?

Hmmm another blog. Some would say I need that like crumbs in the bed and a hole in the head.

So what's this one supposed to be about? Weeeelll I just wanted somewhere to post up stuff I think is funny. Sometimes it will be just random funny stuff from the net. Other times it will be my hopefully amusing funny shit. Oh - and those people who had already taken the names 'funnyshit' and 'funnyshite', may your short and curlies be infested with leprous crabs.

Now what is dangerous about something being funny and vice versa? I read a piece one time about a driver who was made laugh so hard while drinking and driving that he snorted beer through his nose all over the dashboard and then while trying to wipe it up, ran off the road, crashing the car.

I thought it was funny. So that's probably given you an bit of an idea of my sense of humour.

Sorry