Cover illustration by Warren Popelier
'BEST WE FORGET'___________Dave Schwan's take on the ANZAC myth
'TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS'_______________A Story by Bobby Wildside
'A DARK SIDE TO THE MOON' ___________________Wildside takes a bus
'THIS LITTLE PIGGY'____Munky Harris gets dirty with Donald Rumsfeld
FEZ Sez ______________________Circusmouse is just not laidback at all
'FULLY COCKED' _______________________Mej D samples some schlong
'TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS'_______________A Story by Bobby Wildside
'A DARK SIDE TO THE MOON' ___________________Wildside takes a bus
'THIS LITTLE PIGGY'____Munky Harris gets dirty with Donald Rumsfeld
FEZ Sez ______________________Circusmouse is just not laidback at all
'FULLY COCKED' _______________________Mej D samples some schlong
********************************************************************************************
Contributors
Zed, Bobby Wildside, Circusmouse, Munky Harris, Dave Schwan, Mej D
Speaking to a friend recently, the subject of the Anzac and Aussie Diggers came up. He said he believed that any man who went to war was a hero. I can only assume that he includes the Taliban and Al-Qaeda fighters who are shooting at our soldiers as I write.
His attitude and similar views held by others have always bothered me. A soldier is trained and sent to war to kill and is often awarded a medal or other trinket and called a hero. If I kill a man, for reasons more important to me than war, I would be branded a murderer and imprisoned.
Now, as patriotic Australians, we are called upon to celebrate the spirit of the Anzac - the bronzed Aussie larrikin, smoke on lip, rifle in hand, always ready with a smart remark - to wallow in his glory as he marches off to war. Someone else's war, but a war nonetheless. As I wrote that last description I could not help but compare our idealised view of the Ultimate Australian Male with the developing Nazi myth of the Aryan Superman. Look at posters and banners from both conflicts, and the potent male imagery is very similar indeed.
So what is wrong with us? Why must we look to the worst that humanity has to offer, the killer, and be expected to adore and remember him? Some would say that we remember the sacrifice, the mate-ship, things that drove naive young farm boys to lie about their age in order to join the Great Adventure. How heroic did the young drover feel as he drowned in the mud with a lungful of mustard gas, and what kind of hero throws mustard gas at people any way?
I understand that people felt, thought and acted differently back in the day. War was seen as the Grand Adventure, and people really believed they fought for Queen and Country. Australia, as a young nation, possibly feeling guilt over its convict past, had little concept of saying "No", and needed a brave and powerful new figurehead. It was fed the Anzac myth.
Today, rather than simply swallowing whatever we are told, I believe we should think about the relevance of the Anzac to a modern, multicultural Australia. Since the days of WWI, this is a very different country, and to many of us the relevance of the Anzac is lost. To some immigrants, the soldier or policeman represent authority and fear, death and disappearance, martial law and executions and are not symbols to be honoured.
The bottom line is that the Anzac is a myth. A fantasy generated for propaganda and nationalistic purposes at a time when role models were lacking and we were different creatures from today, unsure of our place in the world, and incapable of the thought processes regarding the freedoms that today we now value so highly.
*His attitude and similar views held by others have always bothered me. A soldier is trained and sent to war to kill and is often awarded a medal or other trinket and called a hero. If I kill a man, for reasons more important to me than war, I would be branded a murderer and imprisoned.
Now, as patriotic Australians, we are called upon to celebrate the spirit of the Anzac - the bronzed Aussie larrikin, smoke on lip, rifle in hand, always ready with a smart remark - to wallow in his glory as he marches off to war. Someone else's war, but a war nonetheless. As I wrote that last description I could not help but compare our idealised view of the Ultimate Australian Male with the developing Nazi myth of the Aryan Superman. Look at posters and banners from both conflicts, and the potent male imagery is very similar indeed.
So what is wrong with us? Why must we look to the worst that humanity has to offer, the killer, and be expected to adore and remember him? Some would say that we remember the sacrifice, the mate-ship, things that drove naive young farm boys to lie about their age in order to join the Great Adventure. How heroic did the young drover feel as he drowned in the mud with a lungful of mustard gas, and what kind of hero throws mustard gas at people any way?
I understand that people felt, thought and acted differently back in the day. War was seen as the Grand Adventure, and people really believed they fought for Queen and Country. Australia, as a young nation, possibly feeling guilt over its convict past, had little concept of saying "No", and needed a brave and powerful new figurehead. It was fed the Anzac myth.
Today, rather than simply swallowing whatever we are told, I believe we should think about the relevance of the Anzac to a modern, multicultural Australia. Since the days of WWI, this is a very different country, and to many of us the relevance of the Anzac is lost. To some immigrants, the soldier or policeman represent authority and fear, death and disappearance, martial law and executions and are not symbols to be honoured.
The bottom line is that the Anzac is a myth. A fantasy generated for propaganda and nationalistic purposes at a time when role models were lacking and we were different creatures from today, unsure of our place in the world, and incapable of the thought processes regarding the freedoms that today we now value so highly.
"Morning Tony, " came the voice from the half-open vehicle window, clouds of breath condensing in the damp, still morning.
"Hello, mate. Place in the corner, that's still free. That'll be five-fifty, Clive. Have a good one," replied Tony. Up went the barrier, the car coasting over to the dimly-lit spot in the corner of the overspill car park.
There had been no break in the weather for about a month now, the sky was a thick, leaden grey, and the damp and cold seemed to cling to everything. If you stood still for long enough, you could feel the cold seeping up from the paving stones and through the soles of your shoes.
Tony had worked as the car park attendant in the overspill car park at Brampton rail station for 25 years now. Everybody who used the open air car park knew him by his first name, and he was universally liked by all the puffing, running commuters.
Mostly, all that he saw of them was a blur of doors and mirrors as he lifted the barrier with a hasty "Good Morning", as they rushed past him, struggling to get the 8:15 into the city.
But Tony had more on his mind lately. His wife for 30 years, June, had been suffering from cancer for the past three years, bravely battling against the condition. In recent months, her health had deteriorated markedly. The couple had few extended family members and kept themselves to themselves. He and June had tried for kids, but medical complications meant it was never to be. The next best thing for the loving couple was the companionship of their faithful dog, Zak, a roguish border collie, with a devilish glint in his eye.
Tony leant back in the chair of his tiny parking attendant hut, avoiding the spiders' webs which had built up in the corners over the passing years. He poured himself a tea from his Bob the Builder vacuum flask and added one brown sugar lump. As usual, the water was lukewarm and tasted not so much like tea, as like some kind of plasticky medicine. He turned to the newspaper, gently shaking his head at today's stories. Ministers cheating on their expenses, more young soldiers slaughtered in Afghanistan, child gangs roaming the streets. Surely, there was some good news somewhere on this planet of ours, he pondered to himself.
He folded up the paper and took out his binoculars. The mist was clearing now, as the sun mustered its strength on this particularly desolate winter's day.
Training his vision on to the big oak at the end of the car park, he could see the nesting box, with the female chaffinch swooping backwards and forwards, tidbits in her mouth for her young. Tony had built the nesting box before wintertime, and it gave him a warm glow inside to think how such a small act of kindness could provide a home to these tiny creatures.
"Beep, beep," came the sound of a car horn, abruptly jolting Tony from his reverie. "Tony. Open up, mate." It was the local vet, Greg MacInnes. Greg often popped down during the week for a chat with Tony. He'd come over today to keep an eye on the badger sett at the end of the car park. Tony was worried about the badgers, because of the big high rise going up next to the car park.
"Everything is okay, Tony," Greg yelled out, backside sticking up in the air, his head down near the badger sett. "they're doing fine, pal. Mind you, good job you keep an eye on them. See the Hammers went down again, mate?!!" Greg laughed.
Tony exaggeratedly rolled his eyes in mocking disbelief. "Next season, you watch, we'll be back. If you lot hadn't fouled Zaccarihou, we would have been home and dry," he said.
"So, how long have you got to go now, down here, Tone. Can't be long?" Greg asked.
Tony had recently announced his retirement and many in the town were sad to see such a polite and humble guy set to leave, probably to be replaced with some gum-chewing teenage lobotomy.
"I'm off next Friday, Greg. June's not doing so well. The cancer's taken a turn for the worse, I just need to be with her now. I'm really worried about her, Greg. Really worried," Tony said.
"Mate, just wish you all the best. It must be heartbreaking. June's a strong old bird, she'll pull through, you'll see. You'll be having a leaving do though, won't you? You know, before you head off into the deep blue yonder," Greg asked.
"Don't know, mate. You know I don't like any fuss. I'll have a couple with you down the pub, and anyone else who'd like to come down. You know, everyone's welcome."
Tony was busy bagging up the morning's money.
"How much did the car park take today?" Greg asked.
"$2000," Tony replied, looking around at the car parking spaces, which had all been fully taken. He noticed there was a small robin that had made its nest next to an old, beaten-up Volvo in the corner. Over the years, Tony had turned his hand to landscaping the car park, putting a pond at one end, nurturing the wildlife and planting many beds of beautiful summer flowers that brought a much-needed splash of purples, reds and yellows, and many birds and butterflies, to this very drab and colourless part of town.
"See you next week for that beer then, mate," Greg said, packing up his gear.
Tony was done for the day. He locked up the attendant's hut, slipped out of his blue overalls, and headed off to the bus stop for the ride home.
"Hi, my love," June said, as Tony opened the front door that night, Zak bounding towards him, tail wagging furiously.
"How have you been today, gorgeous?" Tony asked, a hint of panic in his voice. June didn't look at all well. The cancer was draining the life out of her, Tony thought, beads of perspiration gathering upon his weathered forehead.
"Not too bad, Tony. It's just these damn headaches. And I've been so thirsty today. I can't seem to drink enough," she said.
"Don't worry," Tony replied. "We'll be okay soon. You'll see."
"Why do you keep saying that?" June asked. "It infuriates me. What do you mean? You're packing up at the car park on Friday. How will we manage for money then?"
Tony looked her straight in the eye, cupping her hand with both of his: "It's all taken care of, beautiful, just get some rest. Now what would you like for tea, darling?"
Bringggggggggg. Tony fumbled around in the 4am darkness to silence the alarm clock. It was his last day at work, 25 years at the car park would end at 3pm today. But he had no intention of going in on this particular morning. June was still sleeping soundly beside him, while Zak snore at the foot of the bed, his paws involuntarily twitching in his slumbers.
"June, June, wake up, sweetheart," Tony whispered in the dark.
"What on earth has gotten into you?" she said.
Tony was already out of bed, pulling his jeans on, and leading Zak out for his morning wee in the back yard. "June, listen, this is very, very important....you must get up, we've got a big day ahead of us."
Meanwhile, down at the car park, the vehicles were building up at the barrier. It was pouring with rain and the air was thick with the smell of petrol fumes. It was gone eight by now, but there was still no sign of Tony. Many commuters, knowing this was Tony's final day at work, had leaving presents on the back seats of their cars. And everybody had turned up hoping to say at least a fond farewell to the man who had given so generously to the community, with his charity runs, volunteer work and personal donations to childrens charities.
"Hope he's not ill," said the florist, Monty, to his wife, as he looked across the road at the increasing chaos. "What's Tone's number again? I'm going to ring him. He hasn't missed a day in all the time I've known him. Something's got to have gone wrong. Hope June's not taken a turn for the worse."
And then the local council parks and amenities officer, George Tanner, arrived, under his arm a neatly-wrapped box, containing a single gold carriage clock, in honour of Tony's 25 years of service. Tanner pulled his car to a halt, observing the mass of vehicles waiting for the parking attendant. It was a confused scene, as cars struggled to escape from the queue, with others parking on nearby verges and turning the rain-sodden patches of grass into thick, gloopy mud. Horns beeped and engines revved. But the question on everybody's lips was: "Where was Tony?"
But Tony never showed that day and the car park remained very much closed.
Back at the council offices, George Tanner was taking a call from the Brampton rail station manager, Sheila Dyer. And she was most definitely not happy.
"No, no, of course we aren't incompetent. You know 'why' it wasn't open today, don't you?" Tanner said.
"What are you talking about, Tanner?" Dyer said. "It's your responsibility to keep that car park open. All I've had today is people chewing my ear off, because they couldn't get a park. We've got to have that place open for tomorrow. Can you do that, surely it's not too hard, even for a man like you to understand?" she said.
"Hey, no need to be like that!" insisted Tanner. "It's your job to advertise for a parking attendant. You must have known Tony was retiring this week, anyway?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Dyer screamed down the phone. "That's a free car park site. It's never had an attendant, or have you gone stark raving mad?" she scoffed.
Tanner let the phone fall to the floor, vaguely aware of a high-pitched Dyer ranting into the mouthpiece. He was open-mouthed, staring out of the window and on to the rush-hour traffic on the highway several stories below.
Flexing his toes into the sand and sipping at a Sauvignon Blanc, Tony felt the radiant sun soaking into every fibre of his careworn body. Just another few hours and then off to pick up June from the private clinic, where the cancer treatment had successfully put the disease in remission.
A cool breeze had picked up in the early afternoon, bellowing through Tony's newspaper and lifting the day's news lightly into the air, separating the pages, and blowing them down the beach.
*"Hello, mate. Place in the corner, that's still free. That'll be five-fifty, Clive. Have a good one," replied Tony. Up went the barrier, the car coasting over to the dimly-lit spot in the corner of the overspill car park.
There had been no break in the weather for about a month now, the sky was a thick, leaden grey, and the damp and cold seemed to cling to everything. If you stood still for long enough, you could feel the cold seeping up from the paving stones and through the soles of your shoes.
Tony had worked as the car park attendant in the overspill car park at Brampton rail station for 25 years now. Everybody who used the open air car park knew him by his first name, and he was universally liked by all the puffing, running commuters.
Mostly, all that he saw of them was a blur of doors and mirrors as he lifted the barrier with a hasty "Good Morning", as they rushed past him, struggling to get the 8:15 into the city.
But Tony had more on his mind lately. His wife for 30 years, June, had been suffering from cancer for the past three years, bravely battling against the condition. In recent months, her health had deteriorated markedly. The couple had few extended family members and kept themselves to themselves. He and June had tried for kids, but medical complications meant it was never to be. The next best thing for the loving couple was the companionship of their faithful dog, Zak, a roguish border collie, with a devilish glint in his eye.
Tony leant back in the chair of his tiny parking attendant hut, avoiding the spiders' webs which had built up in the corners over the passing years. He poured himself a tea from his Bob the Builder vacuum flask and added one brown sugar lump. As usual, the water was lukewarm and tasted not so much like tea, as like some kind of plasticky medicine. He turned to the newspaper, gently shaking his head at today's stories. Ministers cheating on their expenses, more young soldiers slaughtered in Afghanistan, child gangs roaming the streets. Surely, there was some good news somewhere on this planet of ours, he pondered to himself.
He folded up the paper and took out his binoculars. The mist was clearing now, as the sun mustered its strength on this particularly desolate winter's day.
Training his vision on to the big oak at the end of the car park, he could see the nesting box, with the female chaffinch swooping backwards and forwards, tidbits in her mouth for her young. Tony had built the nesting box before wintertime, and it gave him a warm glow inside to think how such a small act of kindness could provide a home to these tiny creatures.
"Beep, beep," came the sound of a car horn, abruptly jolting Tony from his reverie. "Tony. Open up, mate." It was the local vet, Greg MacInnes. Greg often popped down during the week for a chat with Tony. He'd come over today to keep an eye on the badger sett at the end of the car park. Tony was worried about the badgers, because of the big high rise going up next to the car park.
"Everything is okay, Tony," Greg yelled out, backside sticking up in the air, his head down near the badger sett. "they're doing fine, pal. Mind you, good job you keep an eye on them. See the Hammers went down again, mate?!!" Greg laughed.
Tony exaggeratedly rolled his eyes in mocking disbelief. "Next season, you watch, we'll be back. If you lot hadn't fouled Zaccarihou, we would have been home and dry," he said.
"So, how long have you got to go now, down here, Tone. Can't be long?" Greg asked.
Tony had recently announced his retirement and many in the town were sad to see such a polite and humble guy set to leave, probably to be replaced with some gum-chewing teenage lobotomy.
"I'm off next Friday, Greg. June's not doing so well. The cancer's taken a turn for the worse, I just need to be with her now. I'm really worried about her, Greg. Really worried," Tony said.
"Mate, just wish you all the best. It must be heartbreaking. June's a strong old bird, she'll pull through, you'll see. You'll be having a leaving do though, won't you? You know, before you head off into the deep blue yonder," Greg asked.
"Don't know, mate. You know I don't like any fuss. I'll have a couple with you down the pub, and anyone else who'd like to come down. You know, everyone's welcome."
Tony was busy bagging up the morning's money.
"How much did the car park take today?" Greg asked.
"$2000," Tony replied, looking around at the car parking spaces, which had all been fully taken. He noticed there was a small robin that had made its nest next to an old, beaten-up Volvo in the corner. Over the years, Tony had turned his hand to landscaping the car park, putting a pond at one end, nurturing the wildlife and planting many beds of beautiful summer flowers that brought a much-needed splash of purples, reds and yellows, and many birds and butterflies, to this very drab and colourless part of town.
"See you next week for that beer then, mate," Greg said, packing up his gear.
Tony was done for the day. He locked up the attendant's hut, slipped out of his blue overalls, and headed off to the bus stop for the ride home.
"Hi, my love," June said, as Tony opened the front door that night, Zak bounding towards him, tail wagging furiously.
"How have you been today, gorgeous?" Tony asked, a hint of panic in his voice. June didn't look at all well. The cancer was draining the life out of her, Tony thought, beads of perspiration gathering upon his weathered forehead.
"Not too bad, Tony. It's just these damn headaches. And I've been so thirsty today. I can't seem to drink enough," she said.
"Don't worry," Tony replied. "We'll be okay soon. You'll see."
"Why do you keep saying that?" June asked. "It infuriates me. What do you mean? You're packing up at the car park on Friday. How will we manage for money then?"
Tony looked her straight in the eye, cupping her hand with both of his: "It's all taken care of, beautiful, just get some rest. Now what would you like for tea, darling?"
Bringggggggggg. Tony fumbled around in the 4am darkness to silence the alarm clock. It was his last day at work, 25 years at the car park would end at 3pm today. But he had no intention of going in on this particular morning. June was still sleeping soundly beside him, while Zak snore at the foot of the bed, his paws involuntarily twitching in his slumbers.
"June, June, wake up, sweetheart," Tony whispered in the dark.
"What on earth has gotten into you?" she said.
Tony was already out of bed, pulling his jeans on, and leading Zak out for his morning wee in the back yard. "June, listen, this is very, very important....you must get up, we've got a big day ahead of us."
Meanwhile, down at the car park, the vehicles were building up at the barrier. It was pouring with rain and the air was thick with the smell of petrol fumes. It was gone eight by now, but there was still no sign of Tony. Many commuters, knowing this was Tony's final day at work, had leaving presents on the back seats of their cars. And everybody had turned up hoping to say at least a fond farewell to the man who had given so generously to the community, with his charity runs, volunteer work and personal donations to childrens charities.
"Hope he's not ill," said the florist, Monty, to his wife, as he looked across the road at the increasing chaos. "What's Tone's number again? I'm going to ring him. He hasn't missed a day in all the time I've known him. Something's got to have gone wrong. Hope June's not taken a turn for the worse."
And then the local council parks and amenities officer, George Tanner, arrived, under his arm a neatly-wrapped box, containing a single gold carriage clock, in honour of Tony's 25 years of service. Tanner pulled his car to a halt, observing the mass of vehicles waiting for the parking attendant. It was a confused scene, as cars struggled to escape from the queue, with others parking on nearby verges and turning the rain-sodden patches of grass into thick, gloopy mud. Horns beeped and engines revved. But the question on everybody's lips was: "Where was Tony?"
But Tony never showed that day and the car park remained very much closed.
Back at the council offices, George Tanner was taking a call from the Brampton rail station manager, Sheila Dyer. And she was most definitely not happy.
"No, no, of course we aren't incompetent. You know 'why' it wasn't open today, don't you?" Tanner said.
"What are you talking about, Tanner?" Dyer said. "It's your responsibility to keep that car park open. All I've had today is people chewing my ear off, because they couldn't get a park. We've got to have that place open for tomorrow. Can you do that, surely it's not too hard, even for a man like you to understand?" she said.
"Hey, no need to be like that!" insisted Tanner. "It's your job to advertise for a parking attendant. You must have known Tony was retiring this week, anyway?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Dyer screamed down the phone. "That's a free car park site. It's never had an attendant, or have you gone stark raving mad?" she scoffed.
Tanner let the phone fall to the floor, vaguely aware of a high-pitched Dyer ranting into the mouthpiece. He was open-mouthed, staring out of the window and on to the rush-hour traffic on the highway several stories below.
Flexing his toes into the sand and sipping at a Sauvignon Blanc, Tony felt the radiant sun soaking into every fibre of his careworn body. Just another few hours and then off to pick up June from the private clinic, where the cancer treatment had successfully put the disease in remission.
A cool breeze had picked up in the early afternoon, bellowing through Tony's newspaper and lifting the day's news lightly into the air, separating the pages, and blowing them down the beach.
It's amazing the things you hear on the Sunbus. I jumped on the No.8 down Mulgrave Road last week, ending up sitting behind two old boys having a dig at each other.
Taking a seat behind them, I could hear they were arguing over some spoof SBS doco, which made out the '69 Apollo Moon mission was filmed in a studio by Kubrick, with the help of the CIA and a whole bunch of President Nixon's henchmen.
Then one of the old men punched the other square on the chin. "Of course it's all a myth, you silly old fool," one shouted at the other. "It never bloody happened. Get that into your thick skull, why don't you."
The bus stopped and the one who took the beating stood in the bus aisle yelling "Don't believe him. Of course they put men on the Moon."
And there I was, thinking it was common knowledge the Moon landings were fake. Spend a little time looking over the footage and you'll see, like I did, that all the shadows are wrong, there are stars in the wrong places and crosshairs in the camera that simply shouldn't be there.
They're even touching up the old footage right now as we speak, so you'll never be able to tell how dodgy all that original film really was.
The US had to convince the world of its superiority during the Cold War. The Apollo mission had to succeed at all costs and with the US losing in Vietnam and the Soviets initially winning the Space Race, Nixon ordered the military and the best filmmakers in the business to rig up the Moon walk.
In 1969, the technology didn't exist: computers, TV and the media were still in their infancy. Remember those shots you saw live on TV? It was impossible to watch even some footage of national sporting events live, let alone from 93,000,000 miles away. Engines were simple, microchips virtually unknown. With all this in mind, and with no time to spare on a rare and remarkable moment in mankind's history, US astronauts choose to symbolise the event by collecting a couple of test-tubes of rock samples in just two hours. That was it. Later missions saw them play golf, yes, that's right. Golf. First thing you'd think to do, isn't it? Take a putter and ball to the Moon!
I got off the bus. I thought about the old man walking away, raising his fist at the doubter still sitting on the No.8.
Perhaps he was so upset, not because of the punch he took to the chin, but because his beliefs had been questioned. The threat of myth hung heavy over all he had heard and seen for the past 40 years.
Perhaps it was like telling a child that Santa no longer existed.
Taking a seat behind them, I could hear they were arguing over some spoof SBS doco, which made out the '69 Apollo Moon mission was filmed in a studio by Kubrick, with the help of the CIA and a whole bunch of President Nixon's henchmen.
Then one of the old men punched the other square on the chin. "Of course it's all a myth, you silly old fool," one shouted at the other. "It never bloody happened. Get that into your thick skull, why don't you."
The bus stopped and the one who took the beating stood in the bus aisle yelling "Don't believe him. Of course they put men on the Moon."
And there I was, thinking it was common knowledge the Moon landings were fake. Spend a little time looking over the footage and you'll see, like I did, that all the shadows are wrong, there are stars in the wrong places and crosshairs in the camera that simply shouldn't be there.
They're even touching up the old footage right now as we speak, so you'll never be able to tell how dodgy all that original film really was.
The US had to convince the world of its superiority during the Cold War. The Apollo mission had to succeed at all costs and with the US losing in Vietnam and the Soviets initially winning the Space Race, Nixon ordered the military and the best filmmakers in the business to rig up the Moon walk.
In 1969, the technology didn't exist: computers, TV and the media were still in their infancy. Remember those shots you saw live on TV? It was impossible to watch even some footage of national sporting events live, let alone from 93,000,000 miles away. Engines were simple, microchips virtually unknown. With all this in mind, and with no time to spare on a rare and remarkable moment in mankind's history, US astronauts choose to symbolise the event by collecting a couple of test-tubes of rock samples in just two hours. That was it. Later missions saw them play golf, yes, that's right. Golf. First thing you'd think to do, isn't it? Take a putter and ball to the Moon!
I got off the bus. I thought about the old man walking away, raising his fist at the doubter still sitting on the No.8.
Perhaps he was so upset, not because of the punch he took to the chin, but because his beliefs had been questioned. The threat of myth hung heavy over all he had heard and seen for the past 40 years.
Perhaps it was like telling a child that Santa no longer existed.
*
Grab the hankies, bolt the latch, stick the kids in the deep freeze, because Swine Flu is coming to get us. Or is it?
The propaganda machine has been in full swing, threatening populations with the prospect of millions of deaths across the globe, when, so far, fewer than 450 people have died, many of whom were elderly and frail or had previous medical complications.
Now, don't get me wrong; there's no harm preparing for a possible flu outbreak. But what the hell is going on with the global media right now? The scenario playing out reminds me of the Nazi propaganda machine in WWII.
FEZ readers familiar with WWII history will know of The Big Lie, a propaganda tool used by Adolf Hitler in his 1925 autobiography 'Mein Kampf'. In this, he propounded the idea that a lie so "colossal" has the power to distort the truth so much that no one would ever believe it to be a lie. And, not to be left on the sidelines, his minister of propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, added that: "If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it". Perhaps that's exactly what's going on. We are all being told one, big, fat lie. There's no balance or restraint being handed out over the counter by government or media outlets at the moment.
Keep on spinning the bullshit and people end up falling for it. Ain't that right Donald. That's Donald Rumsfeld to you and me, the former US defence secretary, and one-time chairman and still a shareholder in the drugs company, Gilead Sciences, which punts out the Tamiflu drug used to treat Swine Flu.
Rumsfeld, if you can't recall, was the man who led the world to war against Iraq in 2001 on the pretext the country harboured weapons of mass destruction - which it didn't. Now that's a man you can trust.
In 2005, the value of Rummy's shares in Gilead Sciences took a massive boost, rising from US$3m to US$17m during the Avian Flu scare. Surprisingly, the Gilead shareholder refuses to comment on his recent financial dealings with the drugs company after a lawyer told him to keep his mouth shut.
But we do know that he trousered a nice little package when the US defence HQ, the Pentagon, bundled US$39m of Tamiflu to US troops, many of whom are still stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan. Is this all making sense yet? Swine Flu - it's a myth - there's a big club out there profiting handsomely and, guess what, we ain't in it.
The propaganda machine has been in full swing, threatening populations with the prospect of millions of deaths across the globe, when, so far, fewer than 450 people have died, many of whom were elderly and frail or had previous medical complications.
Now, don't get me wrong; there's no harm preparing for a possible flu outbreak. But what the hell is going on with the global media right now? The scenario playing out reminds me of the Nazi propaganda machine in WWII.
FEZ readers familiar with WWII history will know of The Big Lie, a propaganda tool used by Adolf Hitler in his 1925 autobiography 'Mein Kampf'. In this, he propounded the idea that a lie so "colossal" has the power to distort the truth so much that no one would ever believe it to be a lie. And, not to be left on the sidelines, his minister of propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, added that: "If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it". Perhaps that's exactly what's going on. We are all being told one, big, fat lie. There's no balance or restraint being handed out over the counter by government or media outlets at the moment.
Keep on spinning the bullshit and people end up falling for it. Ain't that right Donald. That's Donald Rumsfeld to you and me, the former US defence secretary, and one-time chairman and still a shareholder in the drugs company, Gilead Sciences, which punts out the Tamiflu drug used to treat Swine Flu.
Rumsfeld, if you can't recall, was the man who led the world to war against Iraq in 2001 on the pretext the country harboured weapons of mass destruction - which it didn't. Now that's a man you can trust.
In 2005, the value of Rummy's shares in Gilead Sciences took a massive boost, rising from US$3m to US$17m during the Avian Flu scare. Surprisingly, the Gilead shareholder refuses to comment on his recent financial dealings with the drugs company after a lawyer told him to keep his mouth shut.
But we do know that he trousered a nice little package when the US defence HQ, the Pentagon, bundled US$39m of Tamiflu to US troops, many of whom are still stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan. Is this all making sense yet? Swine Flu - it's a myth - there's a big club out there profiting handsomely and, guess what, we ain't in it.
*
by Circusmouse
As regular readers of FEZ will know, our office, FEZ Central, is based in Cairns and this odd little place is home to one of the most perplexing myths of modern Australia. For those that don't know, Cairns is a tourist town, in the far north of the state of Queensland, surrounded by spectacular natural beauty. There are many wonders created by Mother Earth in the area, only to be spoiled by the non-indigenous aberration of "the laidback tropical lifestyle" and its latest interpretation. It's very possible that years ago Cairns had an atmosphere and way of living that reflected the relaxed nature of its inhabitants, but research into the town's history does throw up a reputation for random violence and social disobedience that continues to have some relevance today.
It's easy to imagine, though, a slower pace that enabled locals to enjoy what nature has provided around them. Take a stroll around the Cairns CBD and your imagination evaporates. There is nothing laidback or relaxed about Cairns, as the council and local businesses chase a diminishing tourist dollar. This is further compounded by a community which has grown with an influx of people from all around Australia and the world. These new arrivals (of which I am one), have brought with them their own expectations, many of which go unfulfilled. These days, nature is just not exciting enough and boredom leads to frustration, and that leads to anti-social behaviour that maintains Cairns' unsavoury reputation as a haven for bogans, drop outs and New Zealanders.
The "laidback tropical lifestyle" has become an excuse for laziness and slackness, and anyone who trots it out in conversation is just covering up for something the haven't done, but were supposed to do. "Relaxed" now means "I can't be bothered", "casual tropical" is now accepted as looking like you've spent the night sleeping in a wheelie bin, or wearing next to nothing at all, which is good if you can carry it off, but if you have a bigger belly than Migaloo or a shockingly awful tattoo that some drunken schoolkid scribbled on you, you shouldn't be allowed out of the house.
Listen, people, you don't have to explain your character flaws by telling me "This is Cairns, mate" - I know where the fuck I am!
It's easy to imagine, though, a slower pace that enabled locals to enjoy what nature has provided around them. Take a stroll around the Cairns CBD and your imagination evaporates. There is nothing laidback or relaxed about Cairns, as the council and local businesses chase a diminishing tourist dollar. This is further compounded by a community which has grown with an influx of people from all around Australia and the world. These new arrivals (of which I am one), have brought with them their own expectations, many of which go unfulfilled. These days, nature is just not exciting enough and boredom leads to frustration, and that leads to anti-social behaviour that maintains Cairns' unsavoury reputation as a haven for bogans, drop outs and New Zealanders.
The "laidback tropical lifestyle" has become an excuse for laziness and slackness, and anyone who trots it out in conversation is just covering up for something the haven't done, but were supposed to do. "Relaxed" now means "I can't be bothered", "casual tropical" is now accepted as looking like you've spent the night sleeping in a wheelie bin, or wearing next to nothing at all, which is good if you can carry it off, but if you have a bigger belly than Migaloo or a shockingly awful tattoo that some drunken schoolkid scribbled on you, you shouldn't be allowed out of the house.
Listen, people, you don't have to explain your character flaws by telling me "This is Cairns, mate" - I know where the fuck I am!
*
For centuries, straights, teens and gays have asked that "notorious" question - does the size of one's "cock" really matter?
Well, guys, it's time you learned the truth behind that age-old question.
The girls at FEZ polled more than 1000 guys around town (don't ask how!). And then we talked among ourselves to get the female perspective. And now we're going to dispel some of those myths and reveal the truth.
First of, we hate to disappoint you well-hung guys, but the girls say a gigantic boner is an asset only if you are planning to be a porn star. Seriously chaps, a 12-incher just hurts.
Text books tell us an average erect penis is between 5 and 7.5 inches (for those of you who want to measure, start from the pubic bone and go to the tip - when you're erect) and 1-2 inches in width. (And, just so you know, both size and width vary according to temperature, so don't go swimming in a cold pool if you're trying to impress the ladies!)
Men need to know a bit more about the female body; much as you may think you know it all! We hate to tell you, and we know you don't want to hear about it, but fellas need to know something non-sexual (sorry) about women's beavers. It's important, so listen up.
The truth is pussy walls close around whatever is inserted, regardless of size. Those walls will snugly hold a tampon or stretch giving birth to a 10lb baby. (Now can you understand the saying that women are flexible??)
Stop worrying about size. The size of your knob contributes nothing to a girl's pleasure. It's not what you have, but how you use it. Remember that - so no more excuses!
According to the FEZ survey, 99 per cent of men always have an orgasm during sex, while only 40 per cent of women do. This proves men should worry less about pecker size and spend more time searching for ways to make women cum.
The women at FEZ have a to-do list for guys to give their women a real good going over. Check it out.
(in no particular order)
1. Communicate/express your desires using your eyes.
2. Wet kisses all over, like we couldn't get enough of them.
3. Slow it down, softer is best.
4. Dip it in something sweet. It makes sucking much more enjoyable.
5. Be vulnerable sometimes. When you cum, imagine it's the last time it will happen.
6. Use ice when licking sensitive areas/parts.
7. Doing it in a place we could never imagine (but no cemeteries, please).
8. Try reverse cock-teasing. Make your partner feel the tip of your cock entering, then pull it out and rub it on the clit.
9. Harder, harder, HARDER!
*Well, guys, it's time you learned the truth behind that age-old question.
The girls at FEZ polled more than 1000 guys around town (don't ask how!). And then we talked among ourselves to get the female perspective. And now we're going to dispel some of those myths and reveal the truth.
First of, we hate to disappoint you well-hung guys, but the girls say a gigantic boner is an asset only if you are planning to be a porn star. Seriously chaps, a 12-incher just hurts.
Text books tell us an average erect penis is between 5 and 7.5 inches (for those of you who want to measure, start from the pubic bone and go to the tip - when you're erect) and 1-2 inches in width. (And, just so you know, both size and width vary according to temperature, so don't go swimming in a cold pool if you're trying to impress the ladies!)
Men need to know a bit more about the female body; much as you may think you know it all! We hate to tell you, and we know you don't want to hear about it, but fellas need to know something non-sexual (sorry) about women's beavers. It's important, so listen up.
The truth is pussy walls close around whatever is inserted, regardless of size. Those walls will snugly hold a tampon or stretch giving birth to a 10lb baby. (Now can you understand the saying that women are flexible??)
Stop worrying about size. The size of your knob contributes nothing to a girl's pleasure. It's not what you have, but how you use it. Remember that - so no more excuses!
According to the FEZ survey, 99 per cent of men always have an orgasm during sex, while only 40 per cent of women do. This proves men should worry less about pecker size and spend more time searching for ways to make women cum.
The women at FEZ have a to-do list for guys to give their women a real good going over. Check it out.
(in no particular order)
1. Communicate/express your desires using your eyes.
2. Wet kisses all over, like we couldn't get enough of them.
3. Slow it down, softer is best.
4. Dip it in something sweet. It makes sucking much more enjoyable.
5. Be vulnerable sometimes. When you cum, imagine it's the last time it will happen.
6. Use ice when licking sensitive areas/parts.
7. Doing it in a place we could never imagine (but no cemeteries, please).
8. Try reverse cock-teasing. Make your partner feel the tip of your cock entering, then pull it out and rub it on the clit.
9. Harder, harder, HARDER!
FEZ next month:
"REVENGE"
What a great theme! Tell us your greatest revenge story for your chance to win a prize.
Congrats to MEJ D for winning last month's prize.
Contributions to:-
fez@randompress.com.au
8 comments:
Hey, love the site. Just been reading the tips on exciting your partner. I told my partner to stick his penis in something sweet. He stuck his tool in a chocolate doughut and put it back in the packet. Should I throw the pack away?
Sophie, NY
Sophie,
The check list contains suggestions for men on how to get women feeling more 'orgasmic'. If throwing the pack away turns you on, then go for it!
Glad you like the site.
Look forward to hearing from you again.
There's a complete lack of moral outrage here!
Bruce Roxton's Halo,
We couldn't agree more. There is just not enough outrage about anything in Australia. It's hard to believe what people get away with. We fear that Australians not only rear sheep, but have, in fact, become sheep! We wonder, Bruce, was it all worth it?
Dear Fez,
I realise the Fully Cocked article was about cock size, but it touched briefly on the orgasm with some rather eroneous statistics. Of course 99% of men ejaculate. The very process is essential to procreation. As is the male's virility, represented by a strong and solid erection. On the other hand, the female orgasm is not necessary to further life. It is purely a moment of pleasure (that, it should be noted, can last much longer than the male version, and be repeated almost immediately). So, did nature intend it as a luxury? Perhaps it's compensation for the pain of childbirth? Anyway, something that you guys could follow up on in a further issue?
Dr. Wang,
Many thanks for the input. We wonder, what is your take on lesbianism? We're curious as to why an all female relationship still relies (heavily in some couples) on phallic devices for pleasure. There is a whole business of fake male genitalia sustained by women that have no interest in men. Surely one of the greatest pardoxes in the human race. Any comments on this?
Look forward to hearing from you.
I think you'll find, FEZ, that male genitalia has little to do with it. There is a plethora of 'toys' available, of all shapes and sizes. As the saying goes, "horses for courses". Take it from one that knows.
Dear Fez,
Size has absolutely nothing to do with it. It's where you stick. I love it up the ass.
Cindy.
Bundy
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