Upon request he had his producer forward him the email concerning his apparently offensive social media activity. The worst bits of his blog and facebook postings had been cut and pasted out of context into one long email. It read like the disjointed internal monologue of a psychopath. He had to admit, he was quite proud of it. One of the main points of contention was a review he had written of a review that had been written about one of his shows. It had been a good show, but the review had been negative because the reviewer quite obviously did not get it, or as he had put it in his review of the review, the reviewer was ‘a stupid piece of shit who doesn’t know jack about what he’s talking about and I hope you die motherfucker with the shrapnel scarred hands of a flashbacking 3rd-world refugee wrapped around your useless, pointless throat you cunt.’
But something was amiss. After some quick research, it turned out that the social media coordinator for ABC TV was a douchebag the comedian had gotten into a pathetic facebook argument over regarding said review of a review, a few months previously. For legal reasons, the comedian could not disclose the social media coordinator’s real name so he referred to him by the moniker, ‘LUKE BUCKMASTER IS HIS REAL NAME AND HE IS A PIECE OF SHIT.’ Aka Puke Fucked Bastard. He was the social media coordinator- someone who was paid taxpayers money to go on facebook and twitter. How much more of an unnecessary human being could you be? To summarise the petty facebook fight, Puke Fucked Bastard had missed the point of the comedian’s piece and thought that instead of being a comedian writing from an edgy and offensive (to some) comedic point of view, he’d had been absolutely genuine and literal and blah blah blah the comedian called Puke Fucked Bastard the term ‘faggot’ many times, not for any homophobic reasons, but because it upset Puke Fucked Bastard and the comedian enjoyed upsetting him. Puke Fucked Bastard then defriended him, and after ten million tears were shed, the comedian moved on with his life. It seemed highly likely that Puke Fucked Bastard was behind all of this because it was this review of a review that was the main focus of the email that had been sent around detailing his offensive social media activities, even though a blog detailing a masturbation fantasy involving Tony Abbott having his ears and genitals cut off with a butchers knife and then bludgeoned to death and fed to sharks did not warrant a mention. It also turned out that the social media coordinator was a cocaine addict which is obviously someone you would want at the helm of a major networks social media site and the comedian sincerely hoped the next line he snorted would make his heart explode like a teenagers uterus at a Justin Beiber’s concert you despicable pointless stupid piece of shit who doesn’t know jack about what he’s talking about I hope you die motherfucker with the shrapnel scarred hands of a flashbacking 3rd-world refugee wrapped around your useless, pointless throat you cunt.

The next day his ex-producer called him up,
‘Have you signed that contract yet?’
‘I’m not signing it.’
‘Why not?’
‘There are all these confidentiality clauses in it which say i can’t talk about anything to do with the show or my termination which is counterproductive because i intend to write a fringe show and a story about it.’ He didn’t say.
‘I don’t feel like it.’ He said instead.
‘Don’t you want the money?’
‘Not as bad as i want to not get fucked.’ he thought.

He read over the contract for the 50th time. It was written in terrible English. Triple negatives, overlapping clauses etc… Designed to be impenetrable to the average schmuck reading it, to allow for maximum penetration from the fuckers trying to fuck him. The comedian needed professional help.
As stated before, except for prostitution, there was no business like showbusiness, but now it seemed the lawbusiness bore many similarities. $300 an hour was the cost to hire a lawyer, roughly the same price as a mid-range comedian, prostitute or combined comedian/prostitute.
Unfortunately, due to his dismissal, he had zero dollars in his bank account, as his last bank transfer had gone through for rent. He had no choice but to liquidate his assets. At the time, the only assets he had was an ounce of high-grade organic cherry bomb marijuana and 2 grams of crystal dimethyltryptamine.
The comedian went to his local 2 dollar shop and pointed to the small plastic baggies behind the counter that were commonly used to hold contraband.
‘I’ll take those please.’ He asked the Chinese lady behind the counter. She frowned suspiciously.
‘What? They are for uhh… Buttons.’ he said unconvincingly. He walked up and down the main street trying to find a shop that sold digital scales. Eventually he ended back at the two dollar shop again eyeing some scales that were semi-hidden behind the counter. ‘I’ll take those please.’ he asked the Chinese lady. She frowned suspiciously.
‘What? They are for uhhh… Weighing the buttons.’ he said unconvincingly. Why should she judge him for buying the products she stocked? Then he realised she wasn’t frowning at him because of his actions, she had always been frowning because she was horrifically unhappy with her life.

‘How ironic.’ the comedian thought as he weighed and bagged up the weed into $20 and $50 bags and the DMT into 1/8 and 1/4g bags to pay for his legal fees. He made a few calls and business was open. Drug dealing was by far the best job he’d ever had. The hours were great, you could get high on the job, you got to hang out with interesting people… It didn’t seem like work. The drug dealer even gave himself a raise for making enough money to pay for a months rent and a lawyer very quickly, much quicker then when he was a comedian or a call centre operator living the dream.
The lawyer advised the drug dealer that he didn’t have to sign the contract. But to get the termination pay out, he had to at least write an email saying that he would not discuss what had happened. So he wrote an email stating that he would not discuss any details concerning the show or how he had been dismissed, which as you can see he has since upheld to the best of his abilities.
Two days later, $3000 magically appeared in his bank account. He bought a house special breakfast and then later a Halloumi burger with the works for lunch that day.

Four weeks later, the drug dealer/comedian was at his friend’s house, who owned one of those flashing things he didn’t watch, watching the show that he’d been fired from. He had his pen and pad ready to write some disparaging jokes about what he was about to see. He had been replaced by an attractive non-ethnic lady who said unfunny lines like she believed in them to an adequate level and didn’t look at all like Danny Devito, much less than he did at least. The show was such a mediocre non-event that by the end, his pad was still blank, blank as the wall behind the TV screen that was far more entertaining than the show on the flashing box in front of it that he’d just watched.
It suddenly hit him that being fired from the show was probably the best thing that could of happened. He’d dodged a bullet. He hadn’t compromised his artistic integrity to be a part of a mediocre product, he had learnt a lot about contract law, his experiences had inspired a lot of material and finally, he had discovered his true calling as a drug dealer.

The End.


The next day he got a call from his producer.
‘Hey Dick, listen ummm we gotta make a show with wide appeal and i know you’re edgy and offensive and all…’
‘I’m not edgy and offensive, I’m just desensitised.’ Dick replied. What the fuck was edgy and offensive these days anyway? He’d just read another racist anti-muslim headline story in the Daily Telegraph that had inferred that all muslims were terrorist sex criminals. That was pretty edgy. The government had just proposed to have the anti-discrimination law 18c to be altered in order to protect bigots. That was very edgy. He’d just seen videos of acid attack victims on the evening news while eating his chicken parmagiana dinner. That was pretty offensive. He’d just seen ‘The Bachelor.’ That was even more offensive. What was edgy and offensive to some was entertainment to others. There were no lines or standards, just a million different niche markets vying for profit from various consumer demographics. Consensus reality was just the collective hallucination that had the highest ratings. Just because more people were tuning into it, didn’t necessarily make it the best show, he thought scratching his balls through his trouser pockets.
‘Well whatever, the point is that you are edgy and offensive to us and all that’s why we got you on board, but is there some way we can compromise and find a middle ground?’
‘Really?’ The producer said surprised.
‘Yeah, but it will be shit.’
‘Hmmm.’ The producer said.
The comedian clearly was not playing game. He couldn’t help it. Like most human social relations, the TV industry seemed to be based on variations of their simian counterparts: A bunch of monkeys picking bugs off each other’s backs and eating them. You had to pick and eat the bugs off the backs of those higher up in the monkey ladder to get ahead, in order to get the chance to eat the bugs off the backs of monkeys even higher up. A lot of these monkeys fought tooth and nail for a chance to eat bugs off their superior’s backs. He guessed the goal was eventually to be the monkey at the top who didn’t have to eat bugs off the other monkey’s backs, while these other monkeys clamoured to eat their high-demand bugs off theirs’. Still, that didn’t change the fact that they were still a monkey hanging out with other monkeys and that if you didn’t hang out with dirty monkeys, you probably wouldn’t have any bugs on your back that needed picking and eating in the first place. The comedian didn’t even like eating bugs, so not having to eat bugs off the backs of any monkey seemed like the best possible outcome.

A few hours later the comedian got a call from one of the heads of the network. They’d found his blog site and facebook page and found the content on it to be highly offensive. The content in question pre-dated the project so he was a bit perplexed.
‘We were wondering if you could take your blogsite down for the duration of the show season and make your facebook profile private.’ Asked the network head gravely.
‘No problemo.’ It was only for 3 months so he complied.

The next day he got a phonecall from his producer telling him that he was on his way to his house and he would buy him lunch.
‘Sure. Lunch.’ Said the comedian, excited. But when he answered the door, something was wrong. His Producer’s face was grey and heavy.
Perhaps he had changed his mind about buying him lunch.
‘I got some bad news Dick.’
‘You’re not buying me lunch?’
‘No it’s not that.’
‘Phew. I was really excited about lunch.’
‘No it’s something far worse.’
‘Worse than lunch? Is there such a thing?’
The producer frowned.
‘I’m being fired arent I?’
‘How did you know?’
‘I’m an eternal optimist.’
They got into the car and they drove in silence to the cafe. Life had come full circle. This was how it started and this was how it would end: Some random guy buying him a meal at a cafe. He ordered a halloumi burger with the works.
‘I’m really sorry mate. I feel like i let you down.’ The producer said.
‘It’s not your fault.’ the comedian replied. It wasn’t. For all their differences, the producer was a genuinely good-hearted, well-meaning guy trapped between network funding and the egomaniac peformers. He was the meat in a fuck sandwich with shit for bread.
‘It’s not just you, after the recent defamation cases between the fictional comedy group, Le Chaseur and the right-wing commentators Piss Kenny and Cuntdrew Bolt, you were seen as a potential liability.’
These recent cases involved two right-wing commentators suing a comedy group for defamation. Piss Kenny had been dubbed a ‘Dogfucker’ in one of Le Chaseur’s sketches and took the case to court, in the process producing one of the finest, unwittingly comic quotes: “I’ll be remembered as the journalist called a dog fucker who stood up for his rights.”
All the comedian thought at the time was anyone who felt the need to contest such an absurd accusation in court was probably hiding some deep dark secret i.e. Piss Kenny really was a dogfucker who really did fuck dogs. But the way the comedian saw it, as long as the dog consented, who gave a flying dogfuck if you were a dogfucker anyway? Love transcended all boundaries- race, gender, religion, shame, species…
‘It’s not just your social media activity Dick, every network is frightened of edgy comedy right now.’
‘Couldn’t they of googled my name before i got asked to do this?’ he asked, as his huge Halloumi burger appeared in front of him, shaking it’s glistening rear in a suggestive manner.
‘Ummm yeah…’ The producer mumbled, pulling out a contract.
‘Sorry to get down to the paperwork, but as soon as you sign this confidentiality agreement i’ll deposit three grand into your bank account. What do you think?’
All the comedian could think about was how damn tasty the gigantic haloumi burger he’d just bitten into was. It had baby rocket leaves, wild green tomato chutney, shredded fresh beetroot, an egg, portobello mushrooms, red onions, creamy garlic aioli all in a sourdough panninis with those little black seeds on top that he didn’t know the name of.
‘What do you think?’ His ex-producer repeated.
‘Hmm? Oh… Yeah burger’s fucking awesome.’
‘I mean about the confidentiality agreement.’
‘When i chew it, I’m not here anymore. I don’t want to sign anything when i’m not here.’ He said, staring into space and chewing his way into flavour land.
Lunch ended and they went their seperate ways. He went home and sat in his room, staring at the walls with no giant collapsing building smiling faces. Pre-emptive resignation turned to self-righteous anger. He had been wronged. All they needed to of done was google him. All the ‘offensive’ material in question had been written before the program had been greenlit let alone contracts signed. Plus he’d quit his dream of working in a call centre to do the show. He had loved that job. He’d loved every hour-long, spiritually rewarding second that slid by in that tomb of joy. Now he was unemployed and left in a precarious financial position.
‘FUCK!!! IM UNEMPLOYED!’ he shouted, pacing around the empty house.
A few hours later he found himself smoking a huge spliff and watching Adventure Time cartoons on his wall screen projector.
‘WOOHOO!!! UNEMPLOYMENT IS AWESOME!’ he yelled at the characters on the wall.
‘WOOHOO!!! YOU ARE AWESOME!’ The characters yelled back, climbing off the wall and into the 3rd dimension. They put some banging Bugstep on and had a big dance party. Sweat condensed on the ceiling and dripped down into his eyes.
‘WOOHOO!!! MY EYES STING!’ The comedian screamed as he boogie-squerked.



I was walking in the park one day when i happened upon a wishing well.

I took a counterfeit coin out of my counterfeit coin purse and threw it into the wishing well and made a wish.

My wish was that wishing wells worked.

I waited
and waited
and waited
and waited…

Suddenly I heard a noise. Then another one. Followed by another. Something large and wet was slippery sliding up the sides of the well wall. The sounds grew louder and louder until a pair of large slimy, off-white pseudopods gripped the brickwork edge and hoisted the rest of it’s mass over the side of the well.

It sat there staring at me, heaving gently.

It’s shape was of an obese teardrop ending in a long slimy flagellum. It was the size of an overweight teenage boy.
Many tiny faces appeared continuously on it’s surface, forming for a few brief seconds before dissolving like eddys in a stream.
The faces were all smiling, hopeful and dumb. Yet they all seemed to be hiding something.
Some kind of shame.

It sat there, oozing.

‘What?’ It asked.
‘What?’ I replied.
‘What do you want?’ It asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You called on me.’
‘Did I? I dont know even know who or what you are.’
‘I am the Wishbringer.’
‘That’s a very unwieldy name.’
‘Everyone’s a critic. Look what do you want?’
‘I want wishing wells to work.’
‘Shitty wish.’ It said, reclining on the well’s edge. It left wet, sticky prints on every surface it touched.
‘What’s a good wish then?’
‘A selfless one. People want and hope all the time for what they want. The more they want, the less they get and even when they get what they wanted, it isn’t what they thought it would be or even if it is, it isn’t enough.’
‘Whatever. So you live in a wishing well?’
‘Well, the well is actually just an extension of the sewer system.’
‘You came from the sewers?’
‘Well cumalatively over the years, technically i’m from many places, mostly from the end of millions of various adolescent teenage boys ahem…’
‘Eewwww…’ I said. The creature seemed hurt.
‘I mean… Uhh you’re very well-spoken for a clump of a cum.’
‘Well you learn things when you got enough time on your hands.’
‘How about you, what do you wish for?’
‘What me? No one has ever asked me.’
‘Well I’m asking you now.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘No idea, if i knew i would go there.’
‘Well if you’re the accumalated ejaculations of millions of teenage boys… by logic that means…’
‘Ahh of course… Mmmmm! ‘
I pulled a penny, from my pocket.
‘This is all the money i have in the world.’
‘The value of money means nothing to a sentient mound of teen ejaculate. ‘
‘Ok, ok, I want to just make one wish come true for once.’
I threw the penny into the wishing well and listened to the dull tinkling as it tumbled downwards inside.
‘I wish for you to find your home.’
All the many swirling faces on the wishbringers surface beamed, and i caught a glimpse of my own teenage face wink at me before dissolving once more into the ambiguous medium.
‘It will be done.’
A distant rumbling sounded from deep within the well. The smell of fresh rust wafted out, as thick clotted blood began to spill over the well’s edges.
‘I owe you one.’ Said the Wishbringer.
‘No, you already done it. You made my wish come true.’
The wishbringer winked, turned and slowly slid into the thick, clumpy menses.
‘Aaaaaaaaaaahhhh oohhh yeeeahhhhh…’ it moaned, like a hardworking single mother entering a hot bath after a long day at the steel mill.
‘Home at last.’ It burbled happily.
I watched it’s form slowly dissolve, off-white fading into the rich bubbling cauldron of red, the many tiny faces losing shape, smiles slowly detaching and expanding and finally dissapating into the formless muck.
The unified concoction then slowly descended back down the well.
I smiled.
Wishes did come true.
Magic was real.
If you believed.


A week later he met up with the producer and photographer to take promotional photographs for the show. The photo shoot took place in a room they had set up like the insides of a taxi company office that probably looked nothing like the actual thing. Tires were stacked up in front of a desk covered in papers, phones and tools, randomly strewn about.
It had somehow transpired that the comedian’s host character was to be based on Danny Devito’s character from the 1970’s hit series ‘Taxi’. He didn’t know where that idea came from, but he guessed to the network execs, as a six-foot hairy asian guy, he must of bore a striking resemblance to an aging, balding Italian dwarf. They dressed him in a bad 1970’s waist coat, pants, shirt, tie and shoes all various shades of faecal brown. Then they had him pull a variety of stock poses that were all variations of him looking like a fuckwit. For example:
– Hands waving, head tilted to the side.
– Arms folded, leg on the desk, groin exposed.
– Mock enraged, yelling down a phone with a second phone in his other hand and a third cradled in the crook of his neck.
All the while smiling, smiling, smiling that same fake smile he’d seen on the collapsing building faces of the network office walls.
But he couldn’t do it. Something was preventing him from doing what the photographer wanted him to do. Was it integrity or dignity? He wondered. Finally he concluded that no, it was that he didn’t want to look like a fuckwit.
His body was awkward and his eyes were dead as TV.
‘Come on mate. Throw me a bone.’ Pleaded the photographer. Sighing, he attempted the pose involving yelling down multiple phones once more,
‘I HATE YOU!’ The comedian yelled, secretly directing it at himself.
‘Yeah that’s it mate, now we’re getting somewhere.’ Said the photographer.
‘FUCK YOU! I HATE YOU SO MUCH!’ he screamed at himself again, really getting into it.
‘Yeah that’s it, that’s it… Now if you could just smile a bit more that would be perfect.’
‘I HATE YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE SELLOUT CUNT! 11 GRAND IS YOUR PRICE YOU CHEAP MOTHERFUCKER!’ He yelled at himself, wearing a wide, taut wire grin he contemplated using to slit his wrists later.
‘Ummm that’s kind of a bit too… Hmmm… Think of yourself as the boy next door. You’re the boy next door.’ The photographer said.
The plain fact of the matter was that the comedian was not the boy next door. He never was and he never would be. The last time he had been the boy next door, the neighbours on both sides quickly moved out because he was the boy next door. Then he quickly moved out because he was the boy next door to himself. Since then, he’d lived mostly in ditches at the end of long empty roads or in nests contructed out of discarded children’s toys perched precariously on remote, windswept cliffs above pools of black water he’d stare into until he dissolved. He was the boyman next door to no one.
The boyman next door to no one stood there, paralysed.
The photographer sighed.
‘Come on mate, work with me here, we need you to look approachable. Be approachable…’
The only way the comedian could look approachable was if he wasn’t there. He didn’t want to be approachable because he didn’t want to be approached. The comedian had had many bad experiences with the other homosapiens that had made him fear them and also become a comedian. He had since spent about 25 years cultivating a specific look, demeanour and comedy act designed to make other humans not want to approach him.
It was getting tense. Out of frustration, the comedian pulled a pose and a smile that to him seemed ridiculously sarcastic. Hand on hips thrust out to one side, head tilted at an unnatural angle and a face bearing the demented, open-mouthed smile of an intellectually challenged person on ecstasy.
‘That’s it! Perfect! Finally! Keep doing that.’ Said the photographer, snapping rapidly as the comedian continued to gurn like a special school raver.

A few days later, the producer asked him to supply a press quote that said why he was excited to do the show. Unfortunately, the truthful answer,’11 grand’ would not make for good copy, but TV was not about the truth, it was about saying whatever had to be said in order to get that 11 grand, so he was forced to make something up. This is what he came up with:
‘Hi, I’m Dick Moon and I’m really excited to be working on this show because it’s a great show.’
‘Can you go into a bit more detail than that?’ the producer asked.
He sent back a corrected version:
‘Hi, I’m Dick Moon and I’m really excited to be working on this show, because it’s a great show and im ethnic and excited and excited to be ethnic.’
‘Umm I’m not sure if you are really getting this. Remember, the show is about the truth. Have something about the truth in it.’ said the producer.
In the end they settled on:
‘Hi, I’m Dick Moon and I’m excited to be on this show, because there just isn’t enough comedy shows about the truth, and this show is about the truth. ‘
This of course turned out to be a lie.

Next they had to shoot the promo reel, that would be the show ads screened on TV. The script was a bunch of things that he didn’t believe in that he had to shout like he believed in them and was excited to believe in them. They made him point his finger a lot and shout like he was angry at there not being enough truth around and when he asked them why he had to shout like this, the director said, ‘Because that’s your character.’
‘What’s my character?’
‘You know, a shouty guy, who wants to get to the truth.’
To the comedian, this character sounded like an asshole.
‘Can we at least change the name of this character to something that’s not my name then?’
‘Don’t you want to be the face of the show? the producer asked.
‘Not really, no.’ he thought. The only faces he was interested in were the faces on all the sweet dollar dollar bills that would make up his 11 grand fee. In truth, he’d prefer to host the show wearing a paper bag over his head, a head that wouldn’t have a face on it because he’d cut it off as a failsafe measure, just in case an errant breeze blew the bag off of his head revealing his true identity on camera.

For the next three hours he shouted lots of lines he didn’t believe in like he was excited that he didn’t believe in them, at the studio cameras. A lot of the lines had the word ‘truth’ in it.
‘Take one commuter, one comedian, and put them in a cab. Destination: the truth!’ (Lie.)
‘No topic is taboo. Especially when it comes to the truth!’ (Lie.)
‘We take you where no comedian has taken you before!’ (Lie.)
‘We tackle the big issues and show you the truth!'(Massive Lie.)
‘Because the truth won’t take a backseat any longer!'(Yes it can and yes it did.)

Truth this, truth that… He was skeptical. Who the fuck knew what truth was anyway? Lunatic fascists and religious cult leaders who believed that god told them and their followers to drink strychnine laced Kool-Aid. The reality was that the deep truths, the truths that mattered, often upset the hell out of people and therefore the truth was very rarely welcomed on commercially-driven network television, especially when it was yelled angrily by a six-foot hairy asian guy dressed like a four-foot balding italian dwarf.
The comedian tried to sneak in a few lines of his own in a fasion that was amusing to him, in the hope that something representative of his true self might filter through.
(Smiling but defeated) ‘Get the truth up ya.’
(Genuinely) ‘We spit truths that make your ding dong wobble.’
(Exaggeratedly upbeat) ‘No topic is off-limits… Except for the things the network tells me that i can’t talk about.’
(Dead inside) ‘Because the truth wont take the backseat any longer, and the truth is that I’m only doing this for 11 grand!’
None of these made the final cut.
‘Dick, i have a great idea for a catchphrase for you.’ My producer said.
‘I want you to turn around to face the camera and point your finger and say excitedly, ‘Here comes the Sun.”‘
A shudder passed through the comedian’s body so intense, distant planets fell from the heavens.
‘I sorry, i can’t say do that.’
‘Why can’t you just do it?’
‘Well OK I can do it, but i won’t believe in it.’
‘Why can’t you believe in it?’
‘Because it’s shit.’ he didn’t have the heart to say. Despite unresolvable aesthetic differences, the producer was a good- hearted nice guy who meant well and the comedian liked him enough to not want to be truthful with him.
‘Because the show’s on at night and the Sun is only out during the day. It doesn’t make any sense.’ the comedian said instead.
‘Yeah.’ Said the producer.

(To be cont… (like you are still reading this right? If you are you are amazing. I have nothing this is all i do and im so lonely i tried to sexually assault my silouhette and i havent sold enough tickets to my fringe show fuck fuck fuck))



Once upon a time, this comedian got a phonecall from a stranger who wanted him to host a TV show he was producing. At the time the comedian was doing standup comedy to support his dream of working in a call centre. Despite the ecstasy of living every waking moment of this dream, he agreed to meetup.

They met in a cafe a few days later. Due to past experiences with TV people, he was very guarded at first, but then the producer bought him breakfast and he instantly decided that the Producer was an okay guy, because he’d bought him breakfast, and just like the breakfast, the comedian was easily bought. He was the kind of open-minded, anything-goes type of guy who if given a slice of cheesecake by a holocaust denier, while he wouldn’t openly agree with them, he would have to admit to himself that they weren’t all bad – of course depending on the quality of cheesecake.

The show idea was that comedians would pretend to be taxi drivers, pick up regular people and then… He couldn’t really remember the rest, he’d stopped listening at that point, too excited about the house special breakfast he’d ordered and how even though he wasn’t hungry (he’d already eaten breakfast), he was still going to eat it anyway (because it was tasty and free(that was the main reason)). The breakfast appeared.
‘So what do you think of the show idea?’ The producer asked. The comedian stared at the slices of fresh sourdough smeared with avocado and butter, the strips of organic bacon, the pork sausages, the scrambled free-range eggs, the home-cooked baked butter beans, the sauteed swiss brown mushrooms, the baked tomatoes and the caramelised onion and wild tamarillo chutney on the plate in front of him.
‘Yeah… Fantastic.’ he mumbled.
‘You think so?’ The producer asked.
He put a forkful of the eggs into his mouth. They were rich, fluffy and delicious. Must of used cream instead of milk in those… He thought to himself.
‘You really think so?’ The producer asked again.
‘Yeah…. Cream… Bacon’s really good too.’

To be honest he didn’t like the idea much. To be honest he didn’t like most ideas much. His usual default position to most things was ‘hate it’. But he had learnt from experience to not say this to someone who was buying him breakfast and waving potential cash in his face, especially when there was no one else buying him breakfast or waving potential cash in his face within a million light year radius.

Also, after eleven years of being immersed in comedy, his tastes had become very particular. What he found funny a lot of people found unfunny and vice versa. He was the guy in the cinema who would laugh loudly at all the wrong bits- say when one of the good guys got his head cut off- only to find out after the movie had ended that it hadn’t even been a comedy to begin with, it had been some kind of horror porn or celebrity snuff film.

He ate his breakfast and watched the producer’s mouth continue to make shapes, not hearing anything. Why did the producer choose him of all people to be the host for this particular show? It seemed incongruous. The comedian looked like suicide cult leader, hadn’t watched TV or read a newspaper in ten years and hardly ever had the money to catch taxis. Yet despite these hurdles and the bits of food visibly cascading down his pubic hair-like beard onto his lap, the producer must of thought,’That’s the guy alright.’ They shook hands and parted, the comedian quickly forgetting what had happened except that he had had a very satisfying second breakfast that day for some reason that had been free for some other reason.

Two months later he recieved a phonecall. The show had been picked up. He was going to be the host of a thing on one of those flashing box things he didn’t own.
‘I’m so excited. I really think this is going to be a great show.’ The producer said.
‘Yeah.’ he said.
‘Aren’t you excited about the show?’ The producer asked again.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
He didn’t give a fuck about the show, all he cared about was the 11 grand he’d be getting and how many house special breakfasts that would buy him.
‘So you’re excited?’ Asked the producer once more. Like an obscure religious cult, the TV industry depended on its participants being perpetually excited about something that might not be true.
‘Yeah, yeah… Bacon.’ Said the comedian.

The following week they went to the network headquarters for a meeting with the network heads. The office walls were all covered with gigantic pictures of the people who were on the TV shows the network made. Their giant faces smiled like they’d had a taser shoved into their spine, excited to be on that flashing box thing he didn’t own or watch, their huge grins like collapsing buildings, caving their faces in and crushing anyone within a certain radius.

They were ushered into the board room. The three network heads sat behind a desk, waiting. They all shook hands.
‘We are very excited to have you on board.’ said one.
‘Aren’t you excited to be a part of the show?’ said another.
‘Yeah.’ he said, thinking about 11 grand’s worth of house special breakfasts.
‘I mean where else do you see an ethnic host for a TV show?’ the network head continued.
‘Dunno.’ He replied.
Suddenly the comedian realised why he had been picked to host this show he wasn’t suited for. He was ethnic, and they probably just needed some tokens to appeal to the other tokens of his type. Not that he cared. As a 32 yr old creative autist with no backup option or financial stability, for 11 grand he would gladly tapdance on a beachball in blackface even if they’d never asked him to do so in the first place.
‘It’s so good to have ethnic host.’ The network heads all chanted.
‘I get it, i get it. I’m ethnic. It’s good.’
He hated the term ethnic. Wasn’t everyone ethnic? Wasn’t it all relative? Why was anyone who wasn’t caucasian considered ethnic and what did caucasian people not have that made them not ethnic? He didn’t even know what ethnic was. He didn’t speak the ancestral language or follow the customs. He just looked a certain way and people made assumptions about him. At heart he was just a Western pig in ethnic drag like so many other second generation non-caucasian ethnics. There was no race anymore, only a wider range of more easily accessible international cuisine options. He stood up and shook their outstretched hands.
‘Aren’t you excited?’ One asked again.
‘Yes, I’m excited and ethnic.’ he said.
He was excited to be ethnic for 11 grand.
There really was no business like show business, except for prostitution, which was pretty much the same thing only with less risk of catching a venereal disease.

(To be continued…)


1233982_10152163855613437_6924619531658482709_nThis is Nick Sun’s facebook profile pic (this is what i actually look like)


Catherine Nakamuli’s (I don’t know if this is real or not)

(Also I didn’t intentionally make my image bigger than Catherine’s, that’s just how it came out and i cant be fucked and don’t know how to fix it. Also I have a greater facebook spiritual power than her so thats why its bigger i think thats how it works)

Catherine Nakamuli – Hello

Nick Sun-  Who are you? are you a spam bot? are you real? Oops sorry you are real- i have been harassed a lot by scam bots lately

CN – Am real person like other people use see

NS- haha who knows anymore on social media

CN- Where do you leave now

NS- I’m not leaving anywhere at the moment, I’m here.

CN- Ok

NS- New zealand

CN- Ok how is Zealand

NS- New

CN- Ok that’s good

Am also leave in Uganda

NS- whats taht like?

CN- In uganda we have interested things you can see or you do. We have river nile rafting.

It’s Africa country with a good climate. Many people especially tourists from different always come and they enjoy

NS- ah sounds nice but im broke

CN- Sorry

NS- I accept your apology

CN- But I think you will not be broke always

NS- one hopes

CN- I think you wanted to come

NS- Who doesn’t want to come?

CN- Ok that’s good

So you can go there and enjoy

How old are you

NS- 45

CN- But you don’t look 45

NS- I go hunting lego a lot

CN- Am 25

Are you

Are you working

NS- nope dont have a job

CN- Your studying

NS- Nope

just doing nothing, its great

love being a good for nothing doing nothing

CN- Ok

But I see you work as information

NS- Yes I am information

CN- Ok

Are you single

NS- I am in an open relationship with many men and women

CN- Ok

When are you getting married

Or do you wish to marry?

NS- Marriage is a dead institution and i dont believe in it

CN- Ok

That’s means you enjoy

You can send me message

NS- i have been just then

CN- You have been?

NS- i am a godless heathen

nothing is real

except for uncertainty

and illusion

are you too a shadow

sleepwalking in the dark

looking for the light switch?

CN- OK enjoy




(Next time i will attempt to lead them on for longer till they get to the bit where they ask for my bank details or something)




‘It’s a… It’s a TV’ The doctor said puzzled, cradling the newborn object in his arms. On the TV screen was a picture of a baby crying. No one could tell if it was a boy or a girl because the reception was lousy. It’s cries were very piercing so the nurse turned it to the cooking channel. Everyone was glad because watching a crying baby on a TV that had just come out of a woman’s uterus had made everyone feel weird. On the cooking show they were making french toast. The french toast looked delicious. Everyone was hungry now. The nurses wrapped the TV baby in blankets and wiped the blood and amniotic fluid from off the screen and put it in the mother’s arms. She tried to cuddle it tenderly, but the sharp edges and it’s hard rectangular shape made this difficult.
‘What are you going to name it?’ asked one of the nurses.
‘Uhh I’m not sure… I don’t know what it is…’ the mother replied.
‘It’s bad luck not to name a baby. The longer a baby remains without a name the higher chance that a spirit will take possession of it.’
‘Umm well I’m not sure if this is a baby is it? Seems more like a TV to me.’ The Doctor said.
‘I guess you’re right.’ Said the nurse.
‘I’m hungry. Do they have any fuckin French toast in the cafeteria?’ The doctor said, moving towards the door.
‘Excuse me!’ The new mother said to him as he was almost out of the room.
‘Yes? What? You want some french toast too?’
‘Aren’t you going to sever the umbilical chord?’
‘What? God no! That might be it’s power cable or something. If I cut that, who knows what I’m liable for. Not taking that chance, oh no, nooo way.’
‘Can I switch it off? Or will that kill it?’
‘Lady, I’m a doctor, not a television repairman.’ The doctor shrugged as he left the room. The two nurses followed after him.
‘Do you want some French toast too?’ the other one asked.

The new mother sat there staring at the TV not knowing what to do. Every so often she turned it back to the baby. It was doing okay. But how was she going to breast feed it? She stuck her naked breast up against the tv screen uselessly. The baby saw and reached for it. It was futile. It burst into tears, unable to get the prize that lay so close.
‘Sorry love.’ The mother apologised, turning the volume down all the way guiltily.
‘I just don’t know what to do.’
She watched the baby cry soundlessly.
She twiddled it’s knobs and adjusted the picture a bit. It seemed to respond.
‘Well at least I know how to cuddle you now.’ She twiddled the knobs a bit more and it giggled.
‘Let’s watch some nature documentaries yeah?’
She changed the channel to some nature documentaries about exotic amazon frogs.

CHAPTER 349953

Mary had been watching Pop Idol when it had happened. Lightning. Striking the television aerial of her trailer and surging down into her combined sitting room/kitchen/bedroom. It was a trailer after all. A cold blue aura permeated over everything in the small cabin. Low hums and crackling air. Then… A hand, followed by an arm of blue television static reached out from the screen and started… And then out of the television set, She couldn’t believe it was happening at the time. She thought perhaps she had been struck by lightning too and was having some kind of hallucinatory seizure. But it felt good so she just sat there and let it do it to her. It had after all, been a while. Like as in, never. And wherever that weird blue static hand came from, it knew how to do the job. She lay back in her dappled brown fuzzy setee moaning with pleasure. Staring up at the Jesus on the crucifix that hung crooked on the wall. But her head was tilted up so that when she stared at it, it looked like it was hanging crooked and upside down. That’s when the fear kicked in. Is this the work of the devil? She asked herself silently.
‘Jesus Christ in heaven, please forgive me.’ She prayed as she lay there, in simultaneous fear and pleasure. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She wanted to look down at it but she was afraid of what she might see. And secretly, she was afraid that if she tried to look, it might stop. She had been so lonely for such a long time. She bit her lip till the skin broke, and grimacing, forced her head downwards and squeezed her eyes open.
It was no devil.
It was a luminous blue being with webs of television static flickering over it’s glowing surface. Going down on her like an expert. It’s flawlessness was so absolute it made perfection look like the 45 year old tweaker who lived a few trailers down from her. The being stopped mid-lick with it’s tongue of vibrating fuzz and looked up and straight into her, it’s cool, blue gaze penetrating her soul to the core and incinerating all the hate and sadness and evil that had accumalated inside of her over the years. And as it spread it’s wings wide and mounted her, enclosing her in a canopy of fizzing blue feathers, she knew then in her heart that this was no devil.
This was an angel. An elevated being that had come down to this dirty earth with a divine purpose. To do her. In multiple positions all night long. It’s long, thick staff felt warm and cold, solid and immaterial at the same time, gently breaking her hymen with great care. And then… It rode her to ruin. Down a highway of pleasure to the break of dawn. As the first shafts of light streaked over the horizon and in through the dusty windows of her trailer, she was brought to a spirit wrenching climax. The air hummed and thrummed, filling with the sound of a thousand digital monks chanting. She came, convulsing as if she had been electrocuted, features twisted in what could of easily been mistaken as either agony or ecstasy, crying out from a place so deep all moments that had led up to this one were obliterated, her face shoved deep into the settees dirty cushions, smelling traces of expired flatulence, eyeballing a clump of multicoloured lint that had accumulated there over the years.
And she knew in her heart that after this night, and till the end of time, she was and would always be, a bride of god.

When she came to, she opened her eyes to see the Angel gingerly putting it’s blue robes of flickering static back on.
‘Will I see you again?’ She asked hopefully.
It declined to answer, clearing it’s voice loudly and somewhat awkwardly while avoiding eye contact.
‘You’re not coming back are you?’ She asked plaintively.
It turned it’s back on her, gingerly running it’s hands through it’s fizzing quicksilver locks.
‘You just came here and used me and now you ain’t coming back now are you?’ She said, tears sliding down her cheeks.
The angel turned and shrugged irresolutely.
‘That’s okay. I understand.’ She said plaintively.
‘Probably wouldn’t work out anyway. Me being just a fat lonely… I don’t know what I am… And you… a weird magical… Glowing freak being thing and all…’
The Angel nodded and gently walked up to her and kissed her on the forehead gently. A crackle of static surged down through her cranium and all the way through her body. She felt like jacuzzi bubbles were streaming through her core and her sadness was no more.
‘Well better to of loved and lost then not loved at all right?’ she said instantly perky and smiling. The angel nodded and then gently placing one foot into the television set that was still buzzing, and then the other, slowly slid back into that fuzzy void, waving and smiling at her as he disappeared. The television jolted and American Idol returned to the screen.
She lay back down on her bed not knowing what to do. She would of sworn it was a weird dream had it not been for her bloodied hymen that lay seeping into the settee cushions and a strange fizzing glow that emanated from deep within her belly.


Last night, three years ago, a bunch of us played spin the bottle in an alleyway with a bottle of black sambucca stolen from a nearby bar. It was my turn. As I watched the bottle spin, I realised I was finally making up for what I had missed out in highschool. And university. And every year of my life up until the age of 22…


… I was a ‘late bloomer’ in the ‘biological reproductive act’/’complex pscyho/spiritual/emotional phenomenon commonly referred to by the problematic and grossly inadequate term, ‘love”, department – possibly due to my insistence during courtships rituals on referring to the sexual act as the ‘biological reproductive act’ and love as the “complex psycho/spiritual/emotional phenomenon commonly referred to by the problematic and grossly inadequate term ‘love’- which tended to destroy the romance, or as i called it, ‘Quasi delusional mental state caused by idealised wish-fulfillment misrepresentations in the capitalist-driven mass media.’
The main reason for my late flowering was that between the ages of 14- 22 i never left my room, because I couldn’t find my shoes and it was very difficult to meet a mutual personal space coinhabitant in my room, other than myself, my hand and my varied arsenal of whacky character voices.
22 years I endured this desert, chasing mirages that evaporated upon the horizon. 22 long years of enforced monkhood finally brought to a brutal end one night in an Edinburgh broom closet, under the calm management of a Swedish single mother and nurse, ten years my senior. ‘Are you really a virgin?’ Maria asked as she consensually raped me, and after a few misguided strokes, she responded to her own question with, ‘Oh. I see.’. My rancid cherry was not so much popped more than squished, a rotten, foetid odour released into the air as the monkey on my back fell to the floor, dead and glad, both it’s hands curled into a double thumbs up sign upon it’s final exhalation. I kicked it’s tired corpse into a bloody pulp all night, trying to drain Maria’s oasis of all the water i had never drunk, even attempting at one point to crawl up inside of her womb to eat cake and hide from all the bad things until the time came to begin again.
Oh the horror.
The horror.


The bottle came slowly to a stop, pointing directly to my gay friend.
‘Hmmm.’ I said.
‘Well are you gonna kiss me or are you gonna be a faggot about it?’ he asked.
As my tongue systematically explored his firm male mouth with all the detachment of a scientist mapping the terrain of an alien world, i involuntarily reminisced about the only other time i had ever had my otherwise extreme, alpha-warrior, hetero-masculine gender identity seriously challenged, the memory breaking into conciousness in the form of the following poem:


Age 25, dumped
first true love denied
my dog had just died
Love like a knife
plunging in whispering,
‘I love you.’
pulled out again and
you aren’t sure
which was worse?
Knife in? knife out?
(Knife out definitely)

Bad times.

Poly-drug binge
to help lift the weight
bad shrooms, bad pills,
bad times
Instead of being high,
Trapped in a sad hell
can’t stop crying
inhaling nitrous oxide till
Out of body experience
talking to entities
who called themselves,
‘The Architects’:
Who were living parts
of the same superstructure
they were building:
a hyper-dimensional haunted house
with wall’s full of poltergeists
perpetually renovating

Shit was fucked up yo.

And then:
images of me as a female
flood my mind.
Fear, panic, terror.

Next day im down.
but female me
still inside
won’t go away.
Can’t stop thinking
‘Am I a girl? Do I need a sex change?’
on a loop
fear, panic, terror.

At the time
doing a writing internship
for the Channel 10 show,‘Good News Week’
In a little office on a laptop
tapping away one liners about
topical forgettable stuff who cares
all the while
‘Am I a girl? Do I need a sex change?’
on a loop

In the boardroom
reviewing jokes
‘What about this one? What about that one?’
Not there. Thinking,
‘Am I girl? Do I need a sex change?’
on a loop.

Final day of shoot,
binge eating at catering table
The head writer tells me, I’m a cunt
Word got back
I said the
show was boring
truth sucks sometimes
Staring at him tell me im not welcome back
Staring at him calling me a cunt,
but can’t hear his words
‘Am I girl? Do I need a sex change?’
on a loop.

Walk home.
Must do something.
Call my lesbian friend,
‘Jen… Hi I need you to dress me up as a girl.’
‘Sure.’ She says.
Open door Understanding hug relief.
It’s the secrecy of shame
that kills us in the end,
not the urge.
underwear, bra, stockings, wig,
dress, make up,

I laugh.
staring at a dude in a dress
with make up on his face,
accepting his Anima,
‘Am I girl? Do I need a sex change?’
No and no.
Very glad, it would’ve been
So inconvenient.

I laugh.
Staring at a dude in a dress
with make up on his face
In the wake of first heartbreak
attempting to become
his own replacement girlfriend
by cutting out the middlewoman

It would never of worked out.
loop ends

Our lips parted. ‘Definitely not gay.’ I told the man i had just kissed.(Ed note: sorry gay fans)
‘Are you reverse coming out to me? Really, at a time like this?’ He asked.
The game continued.

At the time, I was seeing this girl. She was a wild one. She’d begun talking to one of her female acquaintances in hushed tones. The game wore on and people began to leave. Soon it was just the three of us left, watching an empty black sambucca bottle come spinning slowly to a stop and pointing into the neutral space between us.
‘(Long pause)So… Like do you wanna have a threesome tonight?’ the wild one asked me.
‘Uhh…’ I replied…


… I wasn’t too sure. Other than that time when i masturbated wearing fingerpuppets, the only other threesome i’d ever been involved in had happened at this party in London, when an English hipster and a Motley Crue T-shirt wearing Rock Chic, who hadn’t met each other up until they began to fuck on the spare mattress four feet away from where a Maltese-Australian Plumber and I attempted to sleep on some couches.
I remember thinking as I pretended to sleep, ‘Maybe they are just dry humping.’ But then i heard squelches and after some preliminary detective work, I concluded that it couldn’t be the sound of dry humping because there was definitely some moisture involved.
Suddenly the plumber awoke, roused from his drunken slumber by the sounds of the biological reproductive act taking place nearby. He sat up, saw what was happening and loudly announced, ‘I’ll have a piece of that.’ then got up and joined in, causing the hipster to immediately disengage, jump up into a defensive wingchun stance and say,
‘What the fuck? What the fuck?’
A dissagreement took place.
‘When i have a threesome, it’s me and two girl’s, not me, a girl and some other dude.’ Said the hipster.
‘Chillout mate, sharin’s carin’s bro.’ the plumber actually said.
‘Ridiculous.’ the hipster grumbled, gathering his things and preparing for a premature ejection.
I stood up from the couch, grabbed my coat and made my way to the exit.
‘Hey guys, i can pretend to sleep while two people fuck, but I can’t pretend to sleep while two people fuck and another one argues, it makes me feel like a pervert with a very obscure fetish. But have fun and enjoy!’
‘Can you believe this?’ Asked the English hipster, turning to me for support as he dressed.
‘Well i guess the moral of the story is maybe next time don’t fuck in front of strangers, cause one of them might try and join in.’ I said.
‘I guess it’s just another story to tell the grandkids.’ He replied.
I pictured him as an old, no longer hip, hipster, putting his grandkids on his knee and traumatising them with the innappropriate type of bedtime stories they never asked for.
‘I don’t think your grandkids need to hear about this, and if this is the sort of stuff you plan to tell your grandkids, i dont think you should be a grandfather.’


‘So are you in or what?’ The wild one asked. ‘Sure.’ I slurred. Perhaps i could get some material out of this. We all went back to her sharehouse. She had a kitten that she kept in her room all day because it was still too small to wander the streets. As a result, her room smelt like a kitten toilet. I am allergic to cat byproducts in high concentrations and upon entering the room, I immediately began to produce copious amounts of mucus from all of my faceholes. I had no tissue paper. It was torture. In the end I used an old crumpled setlist of jokes, the mucus smearing the ink onto my face.
She lay a rust stained mattress on the floor and we all got naked and started kissing and making ‘MmmmMmmmm’ noises. Our mouths all had that dry, sweet, licorice, black sambucca drunk stink that cut the ambient smell of kitten piss and shit at an interesting angle. Then things progressed very suddenly and life became hard. Or not. I couldn’t get it up. I’d discovered at a very inappropriate time, during a very high pressure situation, that I didn’t feel so comfortable with putting it in someone I barely knew, or putting it in someone I knew, while someone I barely knew licked my balls. It went from ‘Hi’ to ‘Put it in’ to ‘Let me lick your balls’ way too quickly for my liking. There had to be at least a few more frames in between, to link each disparate point fluidly enough, for me to want to put it into someone that I didn’t know, who was licking my balls.
I tried to wake it up with whispered threats of physical violence but it was no use. Not only had I failed the societal expectations of my traditional gender role but two women as well, all at the same time. I wasn’t a man/traditional male gender stereotype.
The two female goddesses entwined around me like twin snakes around a flaccid staff, a failed caduceus. I kept trying to get hard so I could join in the show that i didnt want to be a part of and salvage what was left of my wounded masculinity, thinking that this was pretty much most men’s dreams, but I couldn’t be a part of this dream because 19 years ago, all these kids had called me fat in school all the time and made me hate my body and myself. I thought about building a time machine and going back in time to molest the children who had done this to me as revenge for what was happening now. Thinking about this, I managed to get a semi-erection, more from the vengeance aspect of the fantasy then any latent paedophilic urges.
To be fair, aside from drunkeness and a lack of coordination, multi-tasking was never my strong point. It was hard to switch from one lady to the next, with one hand doing one thing and the other hand doing another thing somewhere else, rubbing and licking and stroking and kissing all while they themselves were doing a variety of things to my body. I found it difficult to concentrate. It was like trying to defecate at gunpoint while being forcefed neverending sushi train, on an actual train heading towards a cliff. It was exhausting and confusing. Input, output, input, output, output, input, input, input, output, output, input, repeat, reverse, reverse repeat etc…
In the end i was relegated to the role of towel boy. Nude, useless, thinking mostly bad thoughts while I watched them frig each other, occasionally patting them on the back, saying stuff like, ‘Good for you.’, ‘Good for you too.’ ‘You’re doing well.’ ‘I’m so proud of both of you.’ like some impotent, creepy cheersquad. They didn’t seem to take notice, they were occupied with other things.
I didn’t know what to do while they did it. ‘Perhaps I should bring them some half-time oranges.’ I thought. Instead I played dead, pretending to sleep next to them while they did things to each other. I felt pretty creepy laying there with my cat allergen puffy eyes closed and making snoring sounds but I was too drunk, too tired and too far away to go home. Finally they stopped. The other girl got her things and left the house without her shoes while the wild one snuggled up against me and we lay there listening to the sounds of the city waking up as the sick dawn trickled through the dirty windows and I stared at the ceiling with kitten allergen mucus dripping out of my joke-stained face wondering if what had just happened qualified as a threesome, or if it was just a twosome plus some other guy.
Either way, I realised I’d probably have to watch what had just happened again as i died, the grainy footage of a failed sex scene in my own low budget home porno biopic with not enough porno and not enough plot in it.
My cracked petals parted into a smile that bore the sweet scent of stolen liquor.



I was living with a cat on heat.

I was the closest thing she could find to a male of her species, so she would just sit and stare at me while mewling- a low, frustrated whining noise that sounded like a complaining child that wanted something that it couldn’t get, and that something was some hot cat dong jammed in her cat pussy.

Then it would raise its tail and present itself to me and wait, and when I didn’t respond, it would back into my shin, like a reversing truck waiting to be loaded full of fresh hot catdogs at the fresh hot catdog factory.

Occasionally it would turn it’s head to look up and meow at me as if to say,

‘Don’t you like what you see?’ and I would picture one of those sassy black women on Jerry springer who would move their head from side to side when they yelled at their man.

While on some level I was flattered by her attentions, it was mostly off-putting and I began to avoid the cat.

‘How come most of the females who are attracted to me are the ones I’m not attracted to?’ I wondered. Life wasn’t fair like they had told us it was supposed to be, back when our heads were soft and dumb.

My best efforts to avoid the cat were in vain. The more I pushed her away, the more she wanted a piece of me. It was the cat and string theory as demonstrated in real-life, but with a real cat as the cat and my hot fresh humandog as the string. She would sit by the closed door and mewl and scratch for hours on end, while I tried to write more hard-hitting comedy material to justify my pointless existence.

‘Go away cat! Wrong species!’ I would keep yelling at her, while trying to work out another insightful, truth-illuminating satire about jerking off.

‘I’m sorry cat! It’s not going to happen. Society would frown upon us. Besides, what would we tell our parents?’


I was sleeping on a futon at the time, and one morning I awoke to my alarm and opened my eyes to see the cat’s vagina 3 inches from my face.

There’s a very obvious joke here involving the multiple use of the word ‘Pussy’ but there have already been way too many references to cat genitalia in this piece, so if you want it bad enough, you will just have to write your own.

The point is that seeing a cat’s vagina while hearing your alarm clock ring as the first experience of your day puts a surreal spin on the remaining waking hours of that cycle. It’s impossible to move through your mundane daily routine without hearing alarm bells and seeing that image as mental wallpaper every time you close your eyes.

I just lay on the futon not moving, staring at it, not fully awake enough to process what it was, and when I finally did, I just lay there in denial, watching it’s tail slowly swish hypnotically from side to side like a pendulum, in what I thought it hoped was a seductive manner.

There was no doubt about it.

I was in.

Nothing happened mind you, but if I’d wanted it to, she’d of let me.

I stared at it and thought about the girl I’d recently broken up with. If only she could see me now. I stared at it and saw civilisations rise and fall in the blink of a second. I saw millions of planets floating in black space. I saw leaves falling from maple trees that lined an endless country road in the autumn. I saw the end of the human race. I saw a paramecium divide endlessly on a speck of dust floating in a boarded up room in Baltimore. I saw time was a circle. I saw boats in the Aegean sea rubbing up against the wooden slats of the wharves they were moored to.

I saw a cat’s vagina.

The more I stared at it, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, the more I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the animal.

Us humans take for granted our opposable thumbs which grant us many luxuries, one being the power of self-pleasure. This poor quadraped animal did not have this power. I kept picturing diagrams in my head demonstrating various ways a cat might be able to get itself off, but they were all rejected on grounds of implausibility. A cat couldn’t afford, let alone construct a low-positioned, wall-mounted dildo. I briefly contemplated bringing it off as an act of buddhist compassion more than perversion. I would have to wear gloves though, and then probably some kind of lube so the gloves wouldn’t chafe.

What would Buddha do?

In the end I just did what I had done to most of the women in my life up till that point: I pushed her away from me while apologising profusely.

‘I’m so sorry, but this just isn’t going to work out.’ I said.

‘It’s not me, it’s you’re a cat.’


A few days later I heard all this caterwauling on the balcony and went to the kitchen window to check out what was happening.

My cat and some Tomcat were fucking on the balcony.

I couldn’t help noticing that she was getting fucked good.

I stood at the window with my hands on my hip and a smile of satisfaction on my lips, watching them fuck good like a proud parent watching his children fuck good. I decided to do the washing up while watching them fuck so as to be productive.

While I watched them fuck, I thought about how straight forward non-human animal courtship rituals were as opposed to human courtship rituals. If you were a female cat and you wanted a fuck, you would just throw off a scent and whine and mewl and keep pushing your cat vagina into various animal’s faces until you got to the right species. If that female cat was a female human and acted like that, she would be called a slut or something and be ostracised.

And if you were a male cat and you wanted a fuck, you would just go to where the female cat was who you knew wanted a fuck, cause you could smell it in her scent and then you would just jump on board the cat fuck train and ride it all the way into the white, sticky sunset.

Instead because I was a human, I had to go out to clubs and wait for a female to start dancing near to me with that look on her face like she was ignoring me, but also inviting me to talk to her, but not being obvious enough to allay the tremendous self doubt at my core that destroyed my confidence and then I’d have to be all charming and funny and not nervous at all and then get their number and then work up the courage to call them after waiting the correct time period that both parties knew they were waiting and then go on a date with them but say that it wasn’t a date, so there would be no pressure or expectations in case it got awkward if the non-date date didn’t work out, and be all presentable and funny and comfortable and appeal to all sorts of standards and criterias and variables in her head enough for her to let me access her non-cat vagina which she wouldn’t shove in my face the first thing in the morning, but instead have me work up to it and really earn the right to access it, if she allowed me to…

It was enough to make man want to fuck a cat.

I watched them fuck through the window wistfully, washing the dishes, wishing I was the male cat so my romantic life would be a lot simpler and active.

I watched them fuck through the window, wondering how long I could watch them fuck before I was considered a pervert.

I moved out soon after.


A few months later, I visited my old house and the cat had just had two cute kittens. They had faces the size of thumbprints. Fucking Christ they were cute. They were climbing all over her with their new kitten energy that she barely tolerated. She had aged heaps, even though I had only been away for six months and she was still only 2 years old, but her cat titties drooped and she was all fat and tired and had that harassed mother in a shopping centre look about her.

We made eye contact and she gave me a look as if to say, ‘I’m over this.’ and then lay her head on the ground and sighed. Her clubbing days were over.

I watched the kitten’s climb over their mother’s inert body, splayed out in resignation on the floor, while reflecting on the inevitable passage of time that would eventually break us all.

Her days of pushing her vagina into strange men’s faces first thing in the morning were over.

It was time for the both of us to move on to the next stage of life.

I had missed the pussy pussy boat.



(I don’t know how to do links on wordpress so you will just have to cut and paste the following address to get to the review:

Michael Ward’s review of Nick Sun’s (FOR(YO(ME)O)EVA)x is one-sided, incomplete and lazy. Firstly, the twenty minute late start Ward mentions had nothing to do with Nick, but with the venue’s previous shows running over time. Secondly, Ward portrays Nick as some kind of chaotic anti-comedian with no jokes, when in actual fact, Ward seems to of conveniently forgotten the huge chunks of material Nick did about boat people, the idiocy of nationalism, the extended act out of ways to kill Tony Abbot, the relativity of suffering in the first vs. third world, the perils of aging, putting women/men in basements as an alternative to dating, the mindless worship of youth in the media, not to mention the call centre dialogues and the surrealist story about the dream Nick had on his 30th birthday exploring the theme of lost innocence. Ward goes on to say that he ‘gets it’ when he clearly does not. Sure, Nick has anti-comedic elements in his peformance, but they are mere dressage to the beating heart of Nick’s act which is basically jokes. Jokes that admittedly derail and wander off into different things but ultimately come back together again by the end. It is by no means a traditional show, but Ward mistakes stylistic choices for mere error. Ward mentions that Nick does not have a flow, when he does, it is simply non-traditional and on the off-beat, utilising rhythmic displacement to achieve an off-kilter rhythm which Ward may of noticed if he wasn’t so blinded by his innate critical prejudices. Ward also does not mention that the majority of the audience enjoyed the show and that it was a good gig (with several punters complimenting Nick post show). One cannot deny that something is of value just because it is not to his subjective taste, which judging from Ward’s other reviews are mostly the kind of inoffensive shows that pretentious yet conservative middle to upper-middle class phoney baloneys (that seem to infest Melbourne in abundance) like to see. Ward also neglects to mention that Nick may of prejudiced his review by saying during the gig that, ‘The Herald Sun is an awful right-wing, hate and fear mongering piece of Murdoch sponsored shit.’ (which it is) and that, ‘Any publication that offers Andrew Bolt a platform to spout his idiotic garbage should be used as nothing more than toilet paper and/or fuel for fire…’ A fire that Michael Ward may perhaps want to step into, out of guilt for writing for such a terrible waste of trees. He also neglects to mention that in a moment of spontaneity, Nick also said, ‘Now I’m not saying you are a cunt for writing for the Herald Sun… But you probably are.’ Which Nick admits in retrospect was perhaps an untoward thing to say to a critic and that this may of in some way negatively biased the review but have a sense of humour about it you fucking wanker.
After some background research, it was discovered that Michael Ward has written and produced for the following hilarious and comedically progressive programs:
– Spicks and specks
– RocKwiz
– Talkin’ Bout Your Generation
– You’re Skitting me
– Skithouse
– TV burp
– Newstopia
– Rove live
– The Footy Show

So judging from Ward’s very impressive CV of cutting edge hilarious television that he has written for, televisual socio-cultural artifacts that will live forever not just in the Australian psyche, but the global collective consciousness at large, it can be deduced that Michael Ward is a stupid piece of shit who doesn’t know jack about what he’s talking about and I hope you die motherfucker with the shrapnel scarred hands of a flashbacking 3rd-world refugee wrapped around your useless, pointless throat you cunt.