Look homie, I don't dance, all I do is this.It's the same two step, with a little twist.

Hello, and welcome once again to the internet. I have emerged from my hibernation and return once more to feed on the fatty parts of live salmon. For reasons kept secret even unto me, I ceased all forms of electronic communication for a period of around 3 weeks. I had a great time, travelled the land, solved some mysteries. Now it's back to gettin' laid and gettin' paid, which as you well know, is my motto.


The above photo was taken in a roadhouse in Alaska. Each one of those photos celebrates some gory conquest or other. Good to take pride in it all, I say.

Gosh, what to say. With any luck, I'll be getting my first wage from USyd tomorrow. This will be taxable income. That's right, I'll finally be able to stroll my neighbourhood with me head held high, knowing that I helped pave the streets. I'll tip my hat to the local authorities, and they'll nod politely in reply, knowing the complex symbiotic relationship we share, I the taxpayer and they the employee of the Commonwealth, and as such, my employee. I'll write irate letters to my local newspaper on the state of the local library, incensed that my hard-earned tax money is being spent on low-quality WWII history books. I'll tune into Today Tonight of an evening, and share the outrage over what taxpayers money is being spent on. Those words, which would once only haltingly escape my lips, will now be my pitchfork, my flaming brand, my rusty axe in the angry mob that is the tabloid media. I'm giddy with as-yet undirected rage at a government that has done nothing but coddle me like the only child of an agrophobic widow, and allowed me to suck on its delicious teat well past adolesence.

In other, more coherent news, my big-arsed paper has been accepted for publication in Trans IT, which gives me a huge chubby. I'd go on about the chubby, but I've been chided for being vulgar recently, and it smarts. This is great, because I'd only submitted the revised version a bit over a month ago, and these things generally take quite a bit of time. One of the reviewers is really quite thorough, and has picked up tiny little typographical things deep in dreary depths of the appendices, things that actually require one to know what is going on. So three cheers for him, Huzzah!

With this sudden and most needed flush of cash, I'm buying a speargun. This is great news. It will be a giant seething cannon, embuing the me the title `dashing scourge of the reef', giving me +2 to masculinity and a bonus to saving throws versus homoerotic cantrips. The purchase is a delicate thing. I, like many other boys, like fancy toys. And the cunning corporate machine that controls the world and reads my mind using devilish space rays knows this, and makes fancy toys with big price tags. Like little crumbs of stale bread that lead the pidgeon into the grasp of the hungry hobo, the price tags on a rack full of such fancy toys draws me gradually along until I'm contemplating spending at least twice that which I have signed written oaths I wouldn't. And there is always one at the end, with a price tag so absurd it makes the rest, which are simply extortionate, seem reasonable. Especially for the discerning consumer such as myself.

Well, I've managed to say both a lot and very little. I'm going with the former.

I think I might have inhaled you.

A photo from my Alaska trip of yesteryear, when both I and this glacier were young and beautiful. Which reminds me, I am developing a shock of grey hair. This is very disturbing. Some months ago, I noticed what I beleived to be a freak hair, pale as the driven snow and altogether out of place on my ravishingly hirsute scalp. Ever vain, I plucked it out while giving an exaggerated high-eyebrow grimace in the mirror. That takes care of that, I said, possibly also briskly wiping my hands together in the process for added dramatic effect, or, considering that I was alone in the bathroom at the time, for added creepy effect. Then just the other day, as I was admiring my fine head plumage in the mirror, I see ol' whitey is back, and he's brought about 5 of his mates. It's hardly time to bring out the purple rinse, but troubling nonetheless. It's a bit rough to start getting grey when I've only one chest hair to my name.

May I say that pop77-40 gives me a giant swaying boner. Speaking of which, a career plan currently under consideration is to gain 6-8 inches in the trouser using an extended course of natural supplements and bovine growth hormones ordered over the internets, and attempt to break into the niche market of monster cock videos. That would be awesome.

My extended absence from your internet has been mostly due to me working like a 14 year old illegal immigrant at a massage parlour, helping Mike with his undergrad thesis. We've been at uni till 3am every night since Sunday, and getting in somewhere around 10-12 in the morning. This leaves my mind a desolate ghetto for entertaining you vultures. However, Mike bought me a 4kg bucket of Musashi PROTEIN POWDER. This also is awesome.

xo.

Get out of here, you disgust me.

Due to popular demand and also nagging, I return. Coo-ee, what to report to the discerning purveyors of words on the internets? Contact me via PO box 99 in your capital city.

I flew down from BrisVegas to Sydney on the weakend, completing what shall be known in future generations as one of the most successful visit to a domestic university undertaken by me, simply by elimination. I had a brillo time, and met a smashing bunch of chaps. We quaffed lashings of ginger beer, and ate great hunks of fresh bread. I leart a lot of things, some of which were about QIT (as us in the "BIZ" call it). It's hard knowing a fat lot of nothing about a topic, especially after being top dog in another area (mostly due to a lack of other dogs). Nevertheless, I shall pursue it with a youthful vigour, until I am withered like the coherence of this paragraph, and indeed myself at this point in time and juncture.

Touched down in Syd, was graciously picked up by Mike, and headed down to Gold's gym off Oxford St to pump that which is lesser pumped in that vicinity. Had a lovely dinner with the Uni crew in Glebe, and was serenaded indirectly by Belly Dancers. I was sure they'd do it for free in my case, but I slipped a twenty into one fine lass' pants elastic just to be sure, and topped it off with a reassuring wink slash leer. However, as we reclined and indulged in the delights of the navel, mere decimeters away my dear Pommy friend Pete was hosting a bbq. The bold amongst us headed up to Pete's at a later hour, to find Pete both drunk and hilarious. Two things of note occured on this fateful eve:

• Dan, an aggressive drunk, decided to try and break my finger off, and damn near succeeded. He severely sprained my finger, and it's only just become usable now. I am going to use this as majority factor for the lack of an update, although this grants me but a short reprieve, being the kind of excuse that only works once.
  
• Pete got his end wet. He rang me several times the following day to discuss this, and wanted to get drunk again to celebrate it. He kept saying "I AM AWESOME". Though I would've loved to celebrate such an auspicious event, I didn't feel like getting blotto on Sunday evening.
  

Anyway, I'm back in Sydney on a mysterious mission for an unspecified amount of time. Such a simple lack of organization gives me an air of intrigue that sends Jimmy Bond green with envy and also scurvy. Au revoir, suckers!

Excited as Big Kev in an Australian flag shirt shop

Ahem. Well, despite having nothing to say, and yet a picture to say it with, welcome to my comfy corner of the internets. I compose this Homerian epic within the comfort of an airconditioned building, far from the flesh filled frenzy rife with melanomas mere meters away in the cloisters of the Great Court. If I should happen to leave this frigid oasis, I will suddenly don a complete body suit of sweat beneath my garments, culminating in a crescendo of salty coolant on my balls.

Well, I delivered PART I of my gripping series of seminars here at UQ yesterday. It went well, including a blackboard derivation of some basic results.

Also, I've just found out that I got a postdoc scholarship from Usyd. They only hand out one of these per year, and last year it went to an EE student, so we were thinking that it would be highly unlikely that I would get it. How about that! I'm not sure how this affects EVERYTHING, but it sure will be nice to GET PAID and not have to answer to NO BITCH. I have 140 bucks in my wallet right now, that represents all my wealth in the world. Last night I bought a two dollar raffle ticket because I was partly drunk, and was kicking myself for it this morning.

Anyway poojabbers, I've got some more sweating to do. xo!

How's that chicken fried sand coming along?

"I've just realised the absurdity of shaking hands when we've slept together for the last two nights." - Choco via SMS.

Choco just happened to be in town, "on business", on Wed and Thursday night. On Wed, we headed into the valley, and were forced to smuggle Bundy Rum about the place, much to our chagrin. The only other notable thing that occured is that Chris happened to have what he claimed to be THE GREATEST KEBAB EVER IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. We then shared a bed at his hotel, or to be more hilariously ambiguous, we slept together. I had the common courtesy of sleeping fully clothed, socks and all, whereas Chris felt sufficiently comfortable to be mostly naked. Yet the homoeroticism had barely even begun. After meeting up at the UQ gym the following evening, we had the rare honour of showering together, having a romantic dinner together (including a BYO 1125ml bottle of Jimmy Beam), lounging around in the frigid cold pool, polishing of said bottle, and sharing a bed once more.

I'm not in bloody Kansas anymore, if I ever was at all. The subtle differences between our two fair cities seem mild at first, but slowly the facts accumulate, and I realize that I'm surrounded by beasts more akin to titan space fog than to gentle souls as you and I, dear succulent reader. For example, the common pronunciation of the suburb of Indooroopilly is as nonsensical as the name itself. More terrifying by far is the bus service. If you should be so bold as to attempt to hand the bus driver money when buying a ticket, he will shrink away in sheer revulsion while your fellow passengers wail and writhe around on the floor. Instead, you need to put your money on this bland little tray next to the ticket machine. This is not written anywhere.

Last weekend Wen was up, and we hired a car on Sunday and drove up the Sunshine coast. We got marginally funburned but otherwise had a good time. Wen took me out to dinner at a swanky place in the city, but on the way there we were sharing a bus shelter in the rain with a bunch of homeless kids who were sniffing paint and calling us yuppies, which had the hair on the back of my neck at attention...

Two things to peruse when you get a chance. Flying spaghetti monsterism, and mrhands. Mrhands is really, really nasty, and I feel bad about it exposing your gentle eyes and curious minds to it already. It involves a large stallion, and the guy apparently died a few days later. Needless to say, not at all work safe.