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.