Few can believe that suffering, especially by others, is in vain. Anything that is disagreeable must surely have beneficial economic effects.

More bloody boats. Racing off Tranmere, as seen from Sandy Bay. December 2010.

Every summer in Hobart means boats, more boats, and MORE bloody boats. Honestly, we have boats coming out of our ears. There are too many boats and not enough sharks. I have long been an advocate of a Bill of Rights for Great White Sharks, including enshrining the right of one (1) boat – plus crew – per shark, per month.

This way, we could keep a check on this rapidly growing boat population, and improve the quality of life of our besieged Great White communities. Honestly, the way that people carry on when one has a simple nibble out of a surfboard, you can imagine what would happen if one did the full Quint to one of these airy fairy, lardy dardy, goody goody, namby pamby, hoity toity, wishy washy, not in my backyard, chardonnay-sipping, doing nothin' do gooders.

They would be calling the WAAAAAAH-mbulence quick smart and we would then have a violent and conceited revenge fantasy on our hands.

It is enough to make you sick.

Comments

Kris McCracken said…

None?!?

7 January 2011 at 09:44

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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