what rhymes with chaos?

Inaugural Premier's Obituary Award

My Dearest Queensland, I have just returned from a weekend swimming in your resplendant blue waters at Stradbroke island, followed by two nights in the majestic sunshine coast hinterland, only to return to Brisbane and discover that Campbell 'I hate the arts so much you'd think they strangled my puppy' Newman has scrapped the Queensland Premier's Literary Awards. Bewilderingly, he has deigned to do this during The OFFICIAL YEAR OF READING. Did no one send him a memo? Perhaps they did, and he didn't read it. After all, he has publicly stated that he's 'not into studies and plans.' Not sure how he managed to get an engineering degree, if that's the case...

The money he's 'saving' is a paltry $224 000, an amount that is miniscule in terms of a state budget, but means a great deal to the arts. We are talking about BOOKS here! In the words of George R. R. Martin (via Tyrion Lannister): "The mind need books like a sword needs a whetstone." Newman, it would appear, is all too happy to have some very blunt swords at play.

"If I had to choose between Joffrey and Newman... Hrm. Is there a third option? Stabbing my eyes out with a fork perhaps?"

The loss of the Premier's Literary Award is a devastating blow to the QLD literary community, and if there's one thing I've learnt from a misspent youth reading too many fantasy novels, revenge is a cycle which always ends in joyous victory of good over evil with no sideline ramifications whatsoever. That's why I am, today, right now, announcing the Inaugural Premier's Obituary Award. Whoever can create the most amusing protest (of any kind) against this atrocity, or Mr. Newman in general, will receive:

  +   + 

+ ZEB AND THE GREAT RUCKUS (Um...it doesn't have a cover design yet...)

1 x copy of Reading Madame Bovary The last (ever!?) book to win the Premier's Fiction award

1 x signed copy of my first novel A Beginner's Guide to Dying in India

1 x signed copy of my forthcoming novel Zeb and The Great Ruckus (Due for release later this year).

20 x new release CDs from both major and indie labels. (From my other job as a music reviewer. Selection will depend on what the hell they give me).

All of this will be hand delivered by me. I'll even make you dinner if you like. (Although I am a terrible cook.)

Email your entries (photos/word docs/media files/whatever you’ve got) to jmdonellan(AT)gmail(DOT)com by June 30th. The winner will be decided on August 30th.

You should also sign this petition to have the award reinstated and check out the Queensland Literary awards, recently established by Krissy Keen and Matthew Condon.

 

A human writes about human rights.

OR: WHY I BASE MY VOTE EXCLUSIVELY ON A PARTY’S CIVIL RIGHTS POLICIES.

Congratulations QLD! Your new premier has a lucky elephant. So presumably everything is going to be just fine! (Not making this up he really does call it his lucky elephant.)

The economy is in permanent flux, that's the nature of the beast. Complaining about the economy being unstable is like complaining about water being wet, ice cream being fattening or commercial radio DJs being moronic neanderthals with all the musical and cultural knowledge of a intellectually impaired iguana with early onset dementia. That is simply their inherent condition. 

However, when a government brings in improvements to civil rights, an action, by the way, that can be achieved quickly and at very small cost to the state, then that action becomes very hard to repeal. Newman has made the claim he is going to overturn the civil union act. I'm going to go ahead and bet that he's done that merely to chase the hate vote. Overturning such a recently introduced law would be arduous and, more importantly, unnecessary now that's won this round of game of thrones. 

We need to recognise that the myriad changes that a government can bring in during their three year term in regards to employment, taxation and even infrastructure are of course all very important, but civil rights policy should trump ALL of these. Every. Single. Time. Governments and financial conditions come and go. But the rights of every citizen to be treated equal, to have access to uniform rights and privileges and to enjoy the multitudinous opportunities that being a member of this nation and this state should entitle you to, regardless of gender, race, sexual preference or religion, should be indelible and unassailable. 

People like to use the term 'rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic' I think a more apt metaphor for this situation would be arguing about the Apollo 11’s interior decoration whilst ignoring its trajectory.

"Hey Buzz, whaddya think, should we put the put the coffee table over by the drapes or near the ottoman? Whassat? Ah...I dunno just make a left at the stratosphere and head for the big white hunka rock I guess?"

GOVERNMENT INQUIRY INTO THE PROPOSED GAY MARRIAGE BILL please go and voice your opinion. 

 

 

 

 

Can you hate the artist but love their art?

I have a conundrum, my dotcomrades. I recently read a post by one of my writing heroes that made me want to transform his body of work into a paper-mache sculpture of his own severed head. Frank Miller’s work has been an inspiration to me ever since I was a kid. His work on graphic novels like Sin City is nothing short of legendary. Miller was among the forefront of writers in the 1980s that convinced wider audiences that comic books weren’t solely a medium for brightly coloured, cliché-ridden characters. His work demonstrated that comics could be an excellent medium for communicating gritty, grisly stories. 

"You know what makes me mad? When people think I am a graphic novel adaptation of that quirky 90s sitcom 'Spin City.'"

However, around a week ago, Miller wrote this post discussing his opposition to the occupy movement. Fair enough, everyone’s got a right to their opinion. But he then proceeds to call them ‘louts’ ‘thieves’, ‘rapists’ and ‘pond scum’ and furthermore make the insane argument that because ‘America is at war with Islamicism’ then all other struggle is basically a waste of time. It’s one thing to disagree with a political movement, but to so hatefully vilify them and then start making insane Islamophobic connections is quite another. I mean, I'm strongly opposed to the values of the American Tea Party movement, but I'm not going to go around addressing them with awful and unjustified slurs. Particularly when they are weird and crazy enough to embarrass themselves on their own without needing my help. 

 

"Yeah! Cut funding to education! Who needs it?"

I now look at Miller's work with a feeling that I would describe as a combination of 'cute little puppies being shoved in a blender' and 'listening to Duck Sauce's Barbara Streisand on repeat for 36 hours.' Is it really possible to enjoy the output of an artist, which is an indubitably brilliant collection of work, whilst hating its creator who, according to recent evidence, is something of a fuckwit?

I’m reminded of a costume party I attended a few years ago when a Michael Jackson song came on the stereo and everyone proceeded to whoop and holler and dance around the living room until some girl ran towards the stereo yelling “NO! TURN THAT OFF! HE IS A PAEDOPHILE!” I have to be honest, she seemed a little crazy, and not only because of the Britney Spears costume she was wearing. A bunch of people turned to her and said, "Relax, it's just a song!" But maybe she had a point. Lately I feel like that girl dressed as Britney Spears. And not in a closet cross-dressing kind of way. 

There are plenty of other examples. Bill Murray, famous for both his extraordinary body of work and his idiosyncratic approach to the movie industry (he doesn’t have an agent, manager or email) has a record of domestic violence. Jack Kerouac was infamously racist, the Nobel prize winning author V.S. Naipul recently made some insanely sexist remarks and James Brown also had a history of domestic abuse. You can see him drunkenly-sort-of-half-denying-it-in-between-singing-his-own-songs-and-wearing weird-giant-yellow-glasses here:

  

I'm not able to separate the art from the artist. Every time someone puts on 'Papa's Got a Brand New Bag' a part of me lights up and wants to dance whilst my guilt complex simultaneously kicks into overdrive. I feel like I'm placing one hand on the world's largest diamond and the other in the hand of a rabid crocodile (crocodiles can get rabies, right?) What about you, residents of internetland? Can you happily sing along to Wonderwall despite the fact that Liam Gallagher is a pretentious, arrogant git? I'd love to hear your thoughts (just not the really weird ones, even I have my limits).

In conclusion: seriously Frank, what the fuck. 

 

Are piñatas encouraging children to indulge in animal cruelty?

The first time saw a piñata was at a friend’s birthday party in first grade. Truth be told he wasn’t really my friend at all. I only received an invitation because his mum felt sorry for the nerdy kid who sat in the library reading comic books at lunch time but I still got to eat a bunch of cake and fairy bread in exchange for a present that my parents paid for anyway so that’s a win in my book.

 

BEHOLD! THE DONKEY GOD!

I remember looking at that strange kaleidoscopically coloured psuedodonkey with a sense of childlike wonder (the sole kind of wonder I was able to employ at that stage). I thought to myself:

“Is this some pagan god being raised above our heads that we might worship it? Is all this elaborate feasting actually in celebration of this rainbow coloured donkey in the hope that he will bestow some magical burro blessings upon our assembly?

What if God finds out??? He might get angry and take away all my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys and give them to the Archangels to play with! I bet Gabriel can’t even do Donatello’s voice right at all!”   

                                               

 

"And verily Donatello doth wield the mighty longstick of justice, smiting down his heathen enemies and gazing disapprovingly at those who work upon the Sabbath day."

 

As I watched that colourful idol being raised high above our heads, I ignored the mounting desire to fall on my knees in supplication. This was fortunate because if I had gotten grass stains on my only pair of Good Pants mum would have given me a scolding from which no donkey deity in existence could possibly save me.

I stared at its colourful hide, resplendent in the summer sun. Its bright, vacant eyes seemed to stare omnisciently out at the world beneath it. It was a few moments before I noticed that the birthday boy (who had a nasty habit of ‘doing the ups’ with a frequency altogether far too high for a seven year old boy) had raised his stick threateningly toward the Donkey god.

I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound escaped my lips (although this may have been predominately attributed to the fact that my mouth was currently occupied with the act of furiously masticating on a piece of chocolate cake, two freddo frogs and a caramel button). My wide young eyes watched in horror as the Donkey God’s hide ruptured and split. It would be many years later that I would learn the word ‘deicide’, which is unfortunate really because that was perhaps the only moment in my existence that screaming ‘DEICIDE!’ would ever be applicable.

 

 

But lo! What wonder spilled forth from the hide of the Donkey God? Verily and forsooth, it was a torrential rain of all the sweets and splendours that all the wide heavens could ever seek to contain! Vile, smelly Lucas basked in a shower of freddo frogs, lollipops and hard candies. What a marvellous marriage of violence and confectionary!

What strange abhorrent wonder had I beheld? My mind reeled with the possibilities and implications. Would all animals yield similar bounty? Was all mammalian life on earth secretly a walking receptacle for copious amounts of candy? Perhaps my very own cat was proudly prowling around my house concealing a gut filled with more delicious delights than a halloween trick or treat sack? It was only a week later, after some unfortunate and highly unsuccessful experimentation involving a large stick and my grandfather’s prize jersey cow, that I was dutifully informed that piñatas were not real animals, and that the inside of a cow was really just a collection of muscles, stomachs and intestines.

 

                         

      
       Note to 7 year old self: Jersey cows do not 

contain Jersey caramels. 

 

“Gross!” I yelled. “Thank god we don’t have to ever eat that!” My mother placed my dinner of steak and veggies before me, opened her mouth as if to speak, then simply smiled and sunk her teeth into the first bite of juicy red rump.

 

Jerks vs. the internet

 Good morrow to you Sirs and Madams!

If you are reading this, then you are clearly the owner of 1 x internet. Congratulations! You now have access to an incredible information network featuring 231 million pictures of cats and a tumblr site that documents Buffy outfits! Not only this but the magic of the internet allows to connect and communicate with your fellow humans conveniently and instantly.

 

Any further questions?

    Can I comment on someone else's

        ideas and opinions?

 

Most certainly!

 Can I, in turn, share my own carefully formulated

opinions based on verified information from

a variety of reputable sources?

Be my guest!

 Can I go onto a missing person's report and whine

to the police service about legal semantics thereby impeding

the search for a missing person who may well be in grave danger?

 

Well, erm, I mean...I guess you could...

but why would-

GREAT! Brb.

A few days ago a friend posted this missing person notice, alerting the community to the fact that a 17 year old man had gone missing. Now, I have to admit that I was previously unaware that under QLD state law a 17 year old is classified as an adult. However, unlike one particularly insensitive facebook user I did not respond to this new information by posting "since when has a person under 18 been classed as an adult...this is a child missing........not a MAN!!!!!!!!" Colour me prudish, but this strikes me as being about as rude as vociferously criticising the floral arrangements at your grandma's funeral.

Oh fuck seriously? Pink and mauve held by

a cute white teddy?!?! Grandma would just DIE of embarrassment!

You know, if she wasn't already dead...

The notice wall quickly degenerated into a series of arguments about the law in question (COUPLED WITH AN OBSCENELY EXCESSIVE USE OF CAPS AND EXCLAMATION MARKS!!!!!) followed by rebukes and rebuttals. What those posting failed to remember is that the missing person (boy, man, whatever the hell tickles your Sid and Nancy) is an actual human who is possibly in serious danger and unquestionably has a family currently undergoing severe emotional distress. The problem with the internet is that users forget that despite the physical distance and lack of eye contact, bad breath and body odour that occurs during conversations, these are actual people who deserve to be treated with the respect that this particular DNA sequence is supposed to accord an organism.

For instance; reading this post you might be fooled into thinking that it was composed by some manner of incomprehensibly brilliant and witty blogging program. However, the author of this article is in fact a human with emotions, desires, a bad credit rating and a weird rash on my upper left thigh that I should probably see a doctor about.

Despite that fact that you can transmogrify into grandwarrior wizard Archimedes Lothorius on the internet, you still remain the same geeky human in real life. But if you are a jerk on the internet, you are still the same Jerky McJerkface with the face of a jerk when the computer shuts down. Here is a series of diagrams to demonstrate:

FIG 1

         VS        
           internet                                           real life

 FIG 2

       VS    
       internet                                              real life

 If you have any information about Matthew, contact the Queensland Police. If you want to rant and rave about legal semantics and generally be an insensitive arsehole why not try standing on the table of your local pub and talking in a LOUD VOICE!!!! and see how well that works out for you in the real world.

 

Why I Hate Pandas

WARNING: A functional sense of humour is required for optimal enjoyment of the following post. If you are reading this article and feel a sense of overwhelming rage consuming you as salty discharge pours forth from your eyeholes, it is possible that you are deficient in the normal human quantities of humour and/or irony. You may need to consult your physician and abstain from internet forums and youtube comments sections.

 

Dear the internet, I have a confession to make. I HATE PANDAS. I mean, you know, not hate in the sense that I HATE Pfizer or Donald Trump or whoever the hell invented the vocoder, but you, know...

Here's why.

Pandas are an endangered species. There are very few pandas currently living in the wild, and they are teetering on the brink of extinction. Pandas are in fact, the symbol of the WWF. By which I mean World Wildlife Fund not World Wrestling Federation, although if they were the symbol of that as well I would be highly amused. Obviously, as with any endangered species, there is a great deal of effort invested in trying to get them to reproduce. The problem is, however, that the average man panda has about as much interest in reproducing as a morbidly obese homosexual octogenarian with a nasty bout of syphilis.

   VS.

For starters, the man panda can't even figure out how to have sex in captivity until it has been shown panda porn. Yes. Panda porn. It has to watch recordings of its brethren doing the horizontal tango before it can finally figure out "ohhhhhhh so THAT'S where it goes."

 

Of course, once the panda has been sufficiently sexually educated, it is ready to breed some much needed panda progeny, right? WRONG. You see, the man panda is so goddamn choosy, that if it is sharing a sweet zoo pad with the last lady panda it will likely ever see, it frequently decides that she isn't up to scratch and refuses to 'hit that' (in the sexual sense, not the domestic violence sense). You know the phrase 'not if you were the last woman on earth?' The panda takes this to a whole nother level.

When this happens, zookeepers are forced to undertake a daring con, the likes of which the cast of hustle could only look upon in awe. The zoo keepers borrow a more attractive lady panda from another zoo, then parade her up and down behind the safety of a cage until man panda is randier than a college undergrad at a beer pong grand final. Then they put the man panda in a dark room with his originally intended mate, and, if all goes according to plan, the two of them do the kinds of things that Barry White is always crooning on about. Immediately after man panda performs an action that bad romance novels would describe as 'spilling his man juice in her sacred lady garden' he realises that he has been duped and flies into a fit of PANDA RAGE.

  THIS IS THE TERRIFYING FACE OF PANDA RAGE!!!!!!!!

 

Alright, that's quite enough about panda sexual habits. Let's move onto diet. We all know what pandas eat right? Pandas love bamboo. Just can't get enough of the old bamboo. Bamboo is to pandas what shrimp (australian translation= prawns) are to bubba gump right? Not...quite. A little known fact about pandas is that the lazy bastards are genetically built to eat meat, but are too lazy to hunt. Technically, they are carnivores, but unless an animal commits ritual suicide in front of them, they stick to their preferred brand of bamboo. What. The Fuck.

This is a species with no will to live. Let's give up on them and focus our attention to the millions of other endangered species on the planet that actually want to eat and procreate.

In next week's adventures: WHY I HATE PUPPIES AND SWEET OLD LADIES.

(Just kidding.)

Dear vending machine in the emergency ward at the Royal Brisbane hospital: I hate you.

Not only do you have the motherfucking nerve to charge $2.70 for a nestle crunch bar, but open insertion of my hard earned currency, you fail to deliver said exorbitantly priced confectionary. Not only this, but considering how long it took to get the clerical staff to admit my chronically ill progenitor I was correct in doubting  that their attention would be adequately focused on this new dilemma.

Subsequent to this thwarting of my attempt to gain endorphin inducing comfort food, I ventured to the hospital cafe in the hope of acquiring some delicious sustenance and time away from staring at the floor in the emergency ward listening to the anecdotes of speed freaks. (Sidenote: no one should ever bother with government sponsored 'kids, don't do drugs videos,' just show them a ten minute video of some toothless guy detailing his colourful medical history and all should be well.) Sadly however, the proprietors of the ingeniously named 'Nescafe cafe' had elected to provide their patrons with a selection of rave music to enjoy with their cardboard and sock flavoured food. I do not use the term 'rave music' erringly, I am an aficiando of electronic music, not some grandma who yells 'that's not music!' as soon as an 808 clap comes within earshot, and this was pill popping, foot stomping, reach for the lasers hands to the ceiling can't stop the feeling let's all get reeling RAVE music.

In a hospital cafe. At 2pm. Like this, only much, much worse:

 

I've often heard it said that vending machines kill more people every year than sharks. Is it not then time for us to massacre at least one malevolent machine in retribution? People are always worried about computers evolving artificial intelligence and beginning a skynet style war against humanity. I say that's looking in the wrong place. The vending machines of the world are already stealing from and killing our citizens. At the very least, should be not pit these two foes against one another in an en masse battle to the death?

  VS

THEY MUST BE STOPPED.

For those of you less inclined to the unsubtle but nonetheless irrefutably effective means of extreme violence, there is the option of placing a simple 'OUT OF ORDER' sign on any and all vending machines in your vicinity. Starved of their lifeblood (money) vending machines will assuredly be forced to move to other habitats in search of sustenance, until eventually resorting to cannibalism and devouring each other in a scene not unlike the finale of the Transformers movie, but with better acting.

 

 

100 Stories for QLD

Dearest humans of earth.

These are times, no question about it. We've had floods and cyclones and enough strange and near-apocalyptic weather that people are beginning to wonder if that terrible John Cusask movie 2012 wasn't actually a documentary filmed in the future.

 

The good news is that there is something you can do to make the world a better place. The first is to never see a goddam Roland Emmerich movie again, because let's face it the world is a dark enough place without his heinously melodramatic disaster porn.

The other thing you can do is buy and subsequently read 100 stories for QLD; an anthology that brings together writers from around the world in an anthology of short stories to raise money for the flood victims. My short story Stunt Kite is featured. It's about your weird neighbour. Yeah, you know the one. Those of you with functioning mathematical faculties will have determined that this means that there are 99 other stories by other writers, most of whom are talented, more successful and better looking than me.

Anyway the point is that instead of engaging in stereotypical writerly behaviour (alchoholic nihilistic hermeticism) we've come together to create this anthology of great stories and 100% of all proceeds will go to the flood victims. So you get a great collection of stories, the flood victims get a little bit of a helping hand, and I get an excuse to write a blog entry mocking Roland Emmerich. Everybody wins! The book is out March 8 and you should buy between 1 and 6 million copies, depending on your financial status. (Tony Abbott, I'm looking at you!)

Now let's all sing along with Bill Withers:

 

Interim parliament vows to keep Australia 'one nation under a groove'

In news that is bound to shock Australia and the world, long buried legislation has been uncovered that states that in the event of a hung parliament an interim foreign political body of an allied democratic nation must be installed.

The US government was last night asked to fulfill this role, but in a clerical error by civil servant Gary Wentworth who had been drinking coffee and watching red and blue lines incrementally increase for 12 hours, the US funk band 'parliament' was installed instead of the Obama led administration.

 

Wentworth was unavailable for comment and was last seen sucking his thumb and very slowly drawing red and blue lines on his arm muttering 'too close to call, too close to call...'

Bandleader George Clinton said he had been surprised by the call, but vowed that he and around a dozen of the best past and current members of parliament/funkadelic would endeavour to keep Australia 'one nation under a groove' until the new government had been installed. "I'll be bringing the funk, the whole funk and nothing but the funk." He added.

Bass player Bootsy Collins responded with a forty-three minute bass solo and a maniacal cackle. The band have stated that they will keep the nation distracted from the pressing question of who is in charge by the even more pressing question of whether to 'get on up' or 'get on down.'

BP: A disaster in cartoon form.

You know how for the past something many years, people have been yelling "Taxi!" Whenever someone spills a drink at a party? Remember the last time that was funny? Yeah, me neither. I'm proposing that from now on we substitute the term 'BP' for the act of spilling, for example:

"Man I can't believe I BP'd red wine all over my favourite

white shirt!"

"Did you hear how Alice BP'd tuna casserole all over the couch?"

"Yesterday James BP'd tequila all over my dog." 

Look, even Urban Dictionary even agrees with me.

Here's an example in cartoon, the best method of explanation for any subject ranging from urban slang to quantum mechanics.