tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2814155068717515232024-03-04T23:26:23.124-08:00Ben Pobjie's Wonderful World Of ObjectsIt's his internet: you just live hereBen Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.comBlogger500125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-16913348632227847202017-10-23T04:44:00.003-07:002017-10-23T04:44:38.255-07:00<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><blockquote class="”twitter-tweet”" data-lang="”en”">
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Dwayne, wrestling isn't real. It's time you knew. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D%3C/span"><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://t.co/3iqKjHfNAn" href="https://t.co/3iqKjHfNAn" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://t.co/3iqKjHfNAn</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">"></span><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://t.co/3iqKjHfNAn" href="https://t.co/3iqKjHfNAn" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://t.co/3iqKjHfNAn</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"></span></a></div>
— Ben Pobjie (</blockquote>
</span><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/benpobjie" href="http://twitter.com/benpobjie" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @benpobjie">@benpobjie</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">) <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D%3C/span"><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922240970032234496?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922240970032234496?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922240970032234496?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">">October 22, 2017</span></a></span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><script async="" charset="”utf-8" src="”//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”"></script></span><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><blockquote class="”twitter-tweet”" data-lang="”en”">
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😂 👏🏾 I like the dry wit<br />Correct, I do in fact know wrestling isn’t real. Thats why I said “have fun”. I also know, you can go fuck yourself.</div>
— Dwayne Johnson (</blockquote>
</span><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/TheRock" href="http://twitter.com/TheRock" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @TheRock">@TheRock</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">) <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D%3C/span"><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/TheRock/status/922243500841820161?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/TheRock/status/922243500841820161?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/TheRock/status/922243500841820161?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">">October 22, 2017</span></a></span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><script async="" charset="”utf-8" src="”//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”"></script></span><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><blockquote class="”twitter-tweet”" data-lang="”en”">
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My worst nightmare has come true. The Rock thinks I wanted to insult him. I am scum. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D%3C/span"><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://t.co/hlZ3oknRZm" href="https://t.co/hlZ3oknRZm" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://t.co/hlZ3oknRZm</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">"></span><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://t.co/hlZ3oknRZm" href="https://t.co/hlZ3oknRZm" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://t.co/hlZ3oknRZm</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"></span></a></div>
— Ben Pobjie (</blockquote>
</span><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/benpobjie" href="http://twitter.com/benpobjie" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @benpobjie">@benpobjie</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">) <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D%3C/span"><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922243829301878784?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922243829301878784?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922243829301878784?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">">October 22, 2017</span></a></span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><script async="" charset="”utf-8" src="”//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”"></script></span><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><blockquote class="”twitter-tweet”" data-lang="”en”">
<div dir="”ltr”" lang="”en”">
I'm playing a dangerous game hoping <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D%3C/span"><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/TheRock?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/TheRock?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/TheRock?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">"></span><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/TheRock" href="http://twitter.com/TheRock" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @TheRock">@TheRock</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"></span></a> gets my zany sense of humour and doesn't just have me killed.</div>
— Ben Pobjie (</blockquote>
</span><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/benpobjie" href="http://twitter.com/benpobjie" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @benpobjie">@benpobjie</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">) <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D%3C/span"><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922241179357286400?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922241179357286400?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922241179357286400?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">">October 22, 2017</span></a></span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><script async="" charset="”utf-8" src="”//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”"></script></span><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><blockquote class="”twitter-tweet”" data-lang="”en”">
<div dir="”ltr”" lang="”en”">
Haha I just hit you back. Yes, I not only got the zany but appreciated it as well. 🙌🏾</div>
— Dwayne Johnson (</blockquote>
</span><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/TheRock" href="http://twitter.com/TheRock" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @TheRock">@TheRock</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">) <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9D%3C/span"><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/TheRock/status/922243923736715264?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/TheRock/status/922243923736715264?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: white; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/TheRock/status/922243923736715264?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;">">October 22, 2017</span></a></span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><script async="" charset="”utf-8" src="”//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”"></script></span><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.063px;"><br /></span>
<div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="a3d3" name="a3d3" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<blockquote class="”twitter-tweet”" data-lang="”en”">
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Sir you are a gentleman and an artist.</div>
— Ben Pobjie (<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/benpobjie" href="http://twitter.com/benpobjie" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @benpobjie">@benpobjie</a>) <a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922244183301038080?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922244183301038080?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/benpobjie/status/922244183301038080?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a>">October 22, 2017</blockquote>
</div>
<br /><script async="" charset="”utf-8" src="”//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”"></script><div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="b415" name="b415" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
<blockquote class="”twitter-tweet”" data-lang="”en”">
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And there are so few of us left 👊🏾</div>
— Dwayne Johnson (<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/TheRock" href="http://twitter.com/TheRock" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @TheRock">@TheRock</a>) <a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/TheRock/status/922246220034256897?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/TheRock/status/922246220034256897?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/TheRock/status/922246220034256897?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a>">October 22, 2017</blockquote>
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have respect for the men and women who put their bodies in harms way for our entertainment and for their chosen careers.</div>
— Matthew C Maida (<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/Danefalco" href="http://twitter.com/Danefalco" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @Danefalco">@Danefalco</a>) <a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/Danefalco/status/922408193107652608?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/Danefalco/status/922408193107652608?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/Danefalco/status/922408193107652608?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a>">October 23, 2017</blockquote>
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<br /><script async="" charset="”utf-8" src="”//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”"></script><div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="3b1b" name="3b1b" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
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Shut Your Damn Mouth <br />😂💯<br />Rock on fire🔥</div>
— #BROKEN ASH∆N DEEP (<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/iamashandeep" href="http://twitter.com/iamashandeep" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @iamashandeep">@iamashandeep</a>) <a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/iamashandeep/status/922396866351738880?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/iamashandeep/status/922396866351738880?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/iamashandeep/status/922396866351738880?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a>">October 23, 2017</blockquote>
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What an attention whore! You are now the dumbest fuck on Twitter. You got your 15 seconds of fame. Great response <a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/TheRock?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/TheRock?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/TheRock?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a>"><a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/TheRock" href="http://twitter.com/TheRock" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @TheRock">@TheRock</a></div>
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made my morning.— Juan C. Torrico (<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/JuanTorrico" href="http://twitter.com/JuanTorrico" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @JuanTorrico">@JuanTorrico</a>) <a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/JuanTorrico/status/922394820781527042?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/JuanTorrico/status/922394820781527042?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/JuanTorrico/status/922394820781527042?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a>">October 23, 2017<br /><script async="" charset="”utf-8" src="”//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”"></script><div class="graf graf--p graf-after--p" id="cc58" name="cc58" style="--baseline-multiplier: 0.17; background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.84); font-family: medium-content-serif-font, Georgia, Cambria, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 21px; letter-spacing: -0.003em; line-height: 1.58; margin-top: 29px;">
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Not a chance this dummy would say that to Rock's face. ps — Who the FUCK is Ben Pobjie? <a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/WWE?src=hash&ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/WWE?src=hash&ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/hashtag/WWE?src=hash&ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a>">#WWE</div>
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<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/WWETLC?src=hash&ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/WWETLC?src=hash&ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/hashtag/WWETLC?src=hash&ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a>">#WWETLC— JT Amish (<a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="http://twitter.com/JTAmish" href="http://twitter.com/JTAmish" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank" title="Twitter profile for @JTAmish">@JTAmish</a>) <a class="markup--anchor markup--p-anchor" data-href="https://twitter.com/JTAmish/status/922394006998237184?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" href="https://twitter.com/JTAmish/status/922394006998237184?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw" rel="nofollow noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.54); background-color: transparent; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.68) 50%, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0) 50%); background-position: 0px 1.07em; background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: 2px 0.1em; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/JTAmish/status/922394006998237184?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw</a>">October 23, 2017<br /><script async="" charset="”utf-8" src="”//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”"></script>Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-54897481436221780342016-04-25T07:10:00.001-07:002016-04-25T07:10:21.576-07:00On ForgivenessI am not, as you may know, a fan of any religion, and the faith in which I was immersed in my youth, Christianity, is far from being my favourite. Frankly, I dislike Christianity and would as a rule prefer a world free from its intrusion.<br />
<br />
But finding the whole Christian malarkey rather on the nose doesn't mean I think there's nothing of value being preached in the churches. Of course, much of what IS good about Christianity is just universal morality, or borrowed from some older religion. But there is one core element of the faith that, though not necessarily unique to Christianity, always does seem to me to be a very distinctively Christian value, and that rare distinctively Christian value that all of us, whatever our spiritual disposition, would do well to practise more often.<br />
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That is forgiveness.<br />
<br />
If Jesus was a real dude, he was onto something with the forgiveness spiel. And if he wasn't a real dude, kudos to whoever put it into his mouth.<br />
<br />
Forgiveness, I think, is a pretty wonderful thing, and a thing that makes a better human being of the person who manages to inject a bit of it into their life.<br />
<br />
Talk of "Christian values" is rife in the world of today. Pious fundamentalists will tell us that the phrase means sexual propriety, exchanging bodily fluids with people of a pre-approved genital configuration and so forth. And if you take their scriptures at their word, they do have at least a skerrick of support for that - thank whatever deity you like that not many people do take their scriptures at their word.<br />
<br />
More secular types will speak of "Christian values" too - normally in the context of compassion and tolerance. In fact the term will be used as a stick to beat those who proclaim their own Christian belief but act without compassion and tolerance. And certainly there's more than a skerrick of scriptural support for those values, and anyone behaving without compassion towards their fellow man is probably not being very Christian in the strictest sense of the word. Although in other, more empirical senses of the word, they may be being very very Christian indeed.<br />
<br />
But even compassion and tolerance, as laudable as they are, are the "easy" part of "Christian values". Being nice to people? Treating others kindly? We all should do these things, but that's not news, is it?<br />
<br />
What's harder, and what is less likely to be promoted, either by the fundamentalists, or the Christian politicians, or the secularists berating the others for betraying their own values, is forgiveness.<br />
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"Love thy neighbour" is an easy matter. What's hard is "love thine enemy".<br />
<br />
When we talk of compassion, it's usually in the context of those we deem "Deserving". The people we see as having done no wrong, who have been mistreated or fallen on hard times through no fault of their own. We are eager to extend the hand of friendship to anyone we think has earned it. And so we should.<br />
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But so rarely are we called to extend that hand to those who don't deserve it. So rarely do we emphasise the importance of granting compassion to those who have done wrong, who have mistreated others, who have caused misery to others, who have hurt us.<br />
<br />
For the most part, we prefer to condemn than to forgive, and we have convinced ourselves that this is not only easier and more satisfying, but that it is right. Those who do wrong deserve condemnation, and we will pour what they deserve upon their heads as much as we can. After all, how can we correct bad behaviour, we confidently ask ourselves, if we do not turn our backs on those who behave badly and make it clear: you are not welcome here.<br />
<br />
And I am no different to anyone else: this is my instinct too. This is what I do more often than not.<br />
<br />
But I don't want to. I want to try harder, and be better. I want to make the effort to forgive. I don't want to seethe with hate and anger, even when it's entirely justified. I want forgiveness to become a part of my doomed atheist soul.<br />
<br />
Forgiveness is a thing of inestimable value, precisely because it is not restricted to those who deserve it. It is a thing of sublime beauty, not because it is just, but because it is generous.<br />
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Forgiveness, real forgiveness, means looking at someone who has done you wrong, and saying I will not hate you.<br />
<br />
It means seeing a human being hurt another human being, and saying we need not hold onto that hurt forever.<br />
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It means seeing atrocity, and saying even the worst in humanity does not have to poison the best.<br />
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It means recognising that for even the most corrupt and depraved among us, the sins we commit are not the totality of ourselves, and that every person ever born was more than just their worst deeds.<br />
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It means saying redemption is real, and possible, and important, and nobody is beyond it.<br />
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It means knowing that the human animal is complex and messy, and nothing it thinks or says or does is so simple we can place each other in neat categories of good and evil: the reasons that we do right or wrong are not so amenable to easy identification that we should find our judgments infallible.<br />
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It means, more than anything, declaring that you will never deny the humanity of a fellow traveller in this life, even at those times when they may try to deny yours.<br />
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I want to embrace forgiveness. I don't want to deny room in my heart for sympathy or pity, even when I'm looking at someone who my gut says deserves none of either. I don't want to hate people even when they hate me, and I don't want to bay for vengeance against anyone, no matter how much they deserve retribution, or how little they deserve compassion.<br />
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I want to forgive people. Not to excuse actions or abandon values, but to grant the recognition of our shared humanity to everyone, even those - <i>especially </i>those - who have done everything to merit the revocation of that recognition.<br />
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And I want you to as well. But if you don't, I'll forgive you.Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-82207846134502654412016-03-06T01:31:00.001-08:002016-03-06T01:31:29.561-08:00MKR Recap: The Choux On The Other FootTonight, Redemption Round continues to redeem contestants, although not literally. Or figuratively. After Nev and Kell achieved a score of 71 and demonstrated their own low standards by reacting as if this was good, it's time for Sarah and Monique, who you might remember as the policewomen who were on the show in the first instant restaurant round back in the late 70s.<br />
<br />
Voiceover Man tells us that Monique and Sarah are "out to prove that cops can cook", because apparently we all assumed they couldn't. You know how people are always going around talking in hushed whispers about how bad at cooking the police are? Remember all those old comedy sketches - we thought them hilarious at the time - about police officers making food badly?<br />
<br />
For entree, they're making pea and ham soup, so it seems like they've already given up. At the supermarket the ladies make a joke about the term "calling for backup". It seems to go down well, so they make it another twenty times.<br />
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Main is rabbit pie. Manu is looking forward to it, being under the impression it is going to be made by someone good. Pete warns that "you don't want a dry pie", but really we don't need to know about his personal life.<br />
<br />
The cops get home and Axel F starts playing, because they're cops. They did this the first time Monique and Sarah cooked and it was tired and annoying then. Sarah begins shelling the peas by hand, which is an astonishing waste of everyone's time. Monique is kneading dough. She says "there is nothing from a packet in this dish" but she is lying: the flour was from a packet. Just goes to show you can't trust cops.<br />
<br />
It is now time to de-bone the rabbit, which is not as much fun as it sounds. Frankly there's a lot of cooking stuff going on at this stage of the episode and it's extremely boring. If there's anything worse than watching people cook on TV, I've not heard of it. My Kitchen Rules has yet to figure out that its strength lies in ignoring cooking almost completely.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the cops are saying they're out to show that "cops are ordinary people", but I bet it won't work. Not after the Wood Royal Commission.<br />
<br />
Here come the other teams, walking down the street, awkwardly reading their scripted lines and speculating on how long it will take Lauren to say something bitchy. Alex and Gareth are making police jokes, and they are very very bad police jokes. "Do we have to commit a crime to get fed tonight?" What the hell does that even mean? Lauren joins in with, "I hope we don't get prison food", which is even stupider because Sarah and Monique are police officers, not prison guards. If the guests can't even get the demarcation of duties in the justice system right, they don't deserve food, frankly.<br />
<br />
The judges arrive to the strains of The Cruel Sea's "Better Get A Lawyer", because the show's music editor is getting fired tomorrow and is trying to bring everyone down with him. Lauren reveals that both she and Carmine are aroused by Manu's hair and we all vomit in our mouths.<br />
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The menu is written in invisible ink, requiring special lights to read, as a reference to the fact that - wait for it - Sarah and Monique are cops, and also to the fact that traditionally cops like to make simple tasks difficult to people.<br />
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Entree is served, and the table erupts with outrage at the fact that the pea and ham soup is more of a puree than a soup, because the table is occupied by people who care about that sort of thing. "I'm already angry and I haven't even tasted it," says Lisa. Well that just makes you an idiot, Lisa.<br />
<br />
Pete is unimpressed by entree. He struggles to find any of that "beautiful pea flavour", having overlooked the fact that peas don't have a beautiful flavour, they taste like peas. Manu thinks the soup has been destroyed by blitzing it, which is Monique's mistake: she assumed that since everyone at the table has the mental age of a small child, they'd want some baby food.<br />
<br />
The pea and ham soup, which is actually pumpkin soup, but isn't actually a soup anyway, is deeply disappointing. Luckily, there is some redemption in the fact that Paige is sexually attracted to the bread roll. Lauren claims she could've made a better pea and ham soup, but this is untrue, as is the claim that Lauren can do anything better than anyone.<br />
<br />
In the kitchen there is trouble, as the cops have driven recklessly into Problematic Pastry Valley, where many an aspiring pastry-maker has come a cropper in the past. In the dining room, it's been 90 minutes since entree and the diners are going delirious with hunger. Paige thinks she's a train robber. Kell claims that she is in a police station. Everyone is writing hallucinatory confessions in invisible ink. Dancing around a pig's head is imminent. Meanwhile in the kitchen Monique and Sarah have no idea what's going on and there's no room in the oven for the chips.<br />
<br />
The cops are in a panic, not realising that they have guns and can easily gain high scores via threats of violence. The guests are becoming impatient. Lauren makes her dissatisfaction known by waving her hands bizarrely in the air. The guests discuss the fact that they want their pies to be completely enclosed, because that is a thought that has just naturally occurred to them and was no way fed to them by producers in the knowledge that the pies are pot pies.<br />
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Main is served, in an atmosphere of dread and oppression. "It's not a pie!" Lauren screams in the studio, and pretty hypocritically - she's not much of a pie herself.<br />
<br />
Pete notes that the cops could've gone the simple route, but they pushed themselves, illustrating an important life lesson: never push yourself. But in a shock twist, he loves the pie-which-is-not-really-a-pie. The guests like it a lot less. Rosie has found a bone. "I've got a little bone too," says Nev, misunderstanding what the conversation is about. Nobody can understand why Monique and Sarah have placed a small circle of pastry on top of pie filling a bowl. Lauren can't stop waggling her hands around.<br />
<br />
In fact, although the guests are disappointed with the food, their hatred of Lauren might be overcoming that. Paige notes that "if there was grass, and a snake in it..." and doesn't finish her thought. I think she's saying she wants Lauren to be bitten by a snake. And so say all of us.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile in the kitchen we are told that "cops never give up", although modern-day policy on high speed chases seems to be contraindicative of this. Monique and Sarah are filling their profiteroles.<br />
<br />
Back in the dining room Nev is saying "duck's nuts", while Lauren waves her arms like a muppet and Lisa attempts to subtly make clear just how much she wants to bring Manu to climax.<br />
<br />
Dessert is served. The only criticism that Manu has is that the custard wasn't cooked long enough, and that Lisa is more aggressive than he would like in a woman. Pete loves the dessert, but it should yet again be made clear that Pete is an insane paleo person and doesn't actually know what desserts should taste like.<br />
<br />
The guests eat, and Carmine and Lauren whisper bitchy comments to each other, as is the routine on these occasions. Everyone enjoys the profiteroles, except Lauren, who waves her hands and says a bunch of stupid crap and claims her custard is better the Monique and Sarah's custard and in general just refuses to shut her mouth.<br />
<br />
Scoring time, and the guests are not kind to the cops, even though they know if they give low scores they'll probably have some crack planted on them pretty soon. From the guest teams Monique and Sarah get only 22, or a "Double Dee", as it's known in the MKR business.<br />
<br />
The judges are a little more generous because they know what they're talking about, and Monique and Sarah end up with 62, which is a terrible score but probably better than at least two of the pathetically inept teams still to cook.<br />
<br />
Next, Hazel and Lisa, who will cook something that Lauren will bitch about.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgczd3Js_Hh1HABFpeeWPDSpc-xKfkAVh4rvkxrKRyjVN0qRPQ02-aKimD7H9wXTuSOt7JHGf4OMKUKsCVmrC-U68GkLb0etGLgwgqVrxUuuiw5rOAeTd80sQV7h9lu2HGiRnWU8KBHWDg1/s1600/guneggs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgczd3Js_Hh1HABFpeeWPDSpc-xKfkAVh4rvkxrKRyjVN0qRPQ02-aKimD7H9wXTuSOt7JHGf4OMKUKsCVmrC-U68GkLb0etGLgwgqVrxUuuiw5rOAeTd80sQV7h9lu2HGiRnWU8KBHWDg1/s320/guneggs.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>Monique and Sarah take their police-themed evening too far</b></div>
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<br />Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-42878959257689795032016-01-26T03:29:00.003-08:002016-01-26T03:29:52.310-08:00On Australia DayDespite my general loathing of patriotism, I quite like Australia Day. It's not the kind of thing I like to participate in, but I like the fact it's there. Because for all the great and mighty flaws of this country, there's a lot to like about it. For all the deeply objectionable and repellent aspects of Australian culture, there's much in it to love and admire. And for all the times I despair at the ignorance and malice of the Australian people, there is also courage and kindness and integrity displayed by them every day.<br />
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So Australia Day, I think, is a pretty good idea. In fact, it's a lot like Christmas: a welcome holiday, a good excuse for getting together with loved ones, and an opportunity to reflect on what's important to us.<br />
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Funnily enough, it's also exactly like Christmas in that holding it on January 26 isn't really right.<br />
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This isn't because I think Australia Day is a celebration of an invasion. I don't think the Australians celebrating on January 26 are celebrating invasion. That's the whole problem: we're celebrating the good, the positive, the things we love about our country - but we're doing it on a day that has nothing to do with any of those. We're not celebrating an invasion, but we're celebrating on the anniversary of an invasion, and that seems, to put it mildly, a bit odd.<br />
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January 26 doesn't fit the bill for a national day in any respect. It doesn't mark a moment of discovery, or of great achievement, and it certainly isn't the date of any national act of creation. Australia, the modern country, didn't begin on January 26, 1788: what happened on that day was the establishment of an imperial penal outpost on land that quite clearly did not belong to the people doing the establishing. The people who lived here didn't want the colonisers here, and most of the colonisers didn't want to be here either. It was an invasion, and one that not even the invaders would have taken much pride in.<br />
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Frankly, there is just no reason for us to feel a passionate connection to the current date of Australia Day. That it was an important moment in Australian history is beyond doubt: that it was a great leap forward for humanity, or an achievement to revere, is an absurd suggestion. So even if you have no personal objection to Australia Day being celebrated on January 26, you can't seriously have any deep and abiding affection for it.<br />
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And what that means is that the only people who truly feel strongly about the date are those who are opposed to it. Those who recognise that it's the anniversary of an invasion that kicked off a shameful history, and think that's an inappropriate date on which to celebrate the best in our nation. Those who see it as a day on which to reflect on the wrongs of the past and how they may be avoided in the future, rather than throw a party. And most importantly, those who are made to feel, by the choice of date, that they are being excluded, that by placing the national celebration on a day of sadness Australia is telling them that their people, their heritage and their culture are less Australian than the rest of us.<br />
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So if you're a non-indigenous Australian, with no particular attachment to January 26, why would you want to make your fellow Australians feel that way? Why would you not want Australia Day to be more inclusive, a more genuinely all-embracing recognition of our country's best qualities? Why would you prefer to continue the divisiveness and make every Australia Day more combative than celebratory? Why do you care so much about that particular date that you'd rather keep fighting than just pick a date everyone can accept?<br />
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There's just no reason. The debate over the date of Australia Day is one between those who feel passionately about the issue, and those who are arguing out of pure pigheadedness.<br />
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I like Australia Day, but while it's on January 26, it'll never be the real Australia Day that we should have.<br />
<br />Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-73581227578203982262015-12-22T16:51:00.001-08:002015-12-22T16:51:22.119-08:00Ham WarsWhat happens when you combine the year's two biggest entertainment juggernauts, and also you have far too much time on your hands?<br />
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This or something I guess.<br />
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<br />Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-20939153514422350192015-12-17T06:36:00.004-08:002015-12-17T06:36:59.728-08:00On ChristmasIt's that time of year again! This is of course a phrase that will be correct no matter when it is uttered, but on this occasion I am referring to the Christmas period, a season of joy and festivity and people taking unconventional attitudes and thinking it makes them better than you.<br />
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Christmas comes around once every year, if you're a Christian of respectable stock, so you might think you're pretty well clued in on all the facts of the Yule. But think again, because I am about to blow your mind with some<br />
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CHRISTMAS FACTS!<br />
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<b>Let's get going, Big Guy!</b></div>
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FACT 1: The word "Christmas" comes from combining "Christ", the name of our saviour, with "mass", meaning "weight". Originally, Christmas was the one day a year when Jesus would visit the temple to be weighed. If he had put on weight, there would be wild rejoicing, but if he had lost weight, the emperor would have the people whipped for not feeding the Messiah properly.</div>
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FACT 2: Christmas was illegal in Australia until 1952, when Prime Minister Robert Menzies had a vision of Fred Astaire singing Here Comes Santa Claus after eating an entire bag of magic mushrooms.</div>
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<b>Wow!</b></div>
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FACT 3: Although We Wish You A Merry Christmas is generally considered one of the most beloved of Christmas songs, Christmas is never actually referred to in the lyrics.</div>
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FACT 4: JK Rowling has confirmed, via Twitter, that Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is gay.</div>
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FACT 5: Turkey only became the traditional Christmas meal after the extinction of the Plum Cactus.</div>
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<b>I'd sure never have guessed THAT!</b></div>
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FACT 6: Although we celebrate Christmas in December, archaeological evidence indicates that the first Christmas celebrations took place in April, and that the holiday was known at that time as "Easter".</div>
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FACT 7: Different cultures have many different versions of Santa Claus, some far removed from the jolly fat man in red we know so well. For example, in Finland, Santa is depicted as a jolly fat man in vermilion, while the Turkish Santa Claus, though jolly on the outside, has a seething reservoir of repressed rage. In the Cook Islands, children are brought Christmas presents by a mysterious spirit called "Steven Asquith", who sets fire to anyone who sees him and will leave retirement home leaflets in the stockings of those who give him cookies. But all of those pale in comparison to the Brazilian Santa, who doesn't give presents at all, but comes down the chimney on Christmas Eve to stage illegal dog fights in the homes of obedient children.</div>
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<b>That's amazing!</b></div>
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FACT 8: Charles Dickens's classic Christmas tale "A Christmas Carol" was originally titled "The Fun Ghosts Who Gave Mr Spengler A Right Old Case Of The Willies". Dickens was forced to change the title after being informed that the word "Willies" was illegal, and in doing so he also changed the book's plot, from the story of Bilby Spengler, a clinically depressed barber who learns some difficult lessons after getting a ghost pregnant, to the story we know and love today.</div>
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FACT 9: The Christmas tree is not part of the biblical story of the nativity, but comes from an incident later in Jesus's life, when the Christ-child won a hundred dollars in a local breakfast radio contest by eating an entire pine tree on air.</div>
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FACT 10: Advent calendars kill more than sixty thousand people every year.</div>
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<b>Facts!</b></div>
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Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-91346806856998886462015-12-14T01:05:00.001-08:002015-12-14T01:05:06.609-08:00On ShameOne of the funniest things about having depression - and there are lots of very funny things about it, if we're being honest - is the way you keep hearing about the importance of "fighting the stigma". It's hilarious because so many people are scurrying around, wittering on about "stigma" as if that's the greatest challenge, as if we who suffer from depression are horribly beleaguered by other people's opinions of the illness. If only, we are led to believe, we could just <i>change attitudes in society, </i>it would be so much easier. We got to get rid of the stigma.<br />
<br />
We're told this as if the media, the internet, the very world itself isn't utterly saturated with people starting conversations and exploding myths and shattering taboos and endlessly, unstoppably combating STIGMA at every turn. Reducing the stigma of depression is one of the twenty-first century's greatest growth industries: you'll certainly get a lot more praise for fighting depression's stigma than you'll ever get for, say, treating people who actually have depression. The noblest thing you can do with regard to depression, apparently, is to <i>talk about it</i>, because not enough people <i>talk about it</i>, and we won't ever slay the Depression Dragon until we can make sure there's not a single person left alive who doesn't <i>talk about it</i> every day of their goddamn lives.<br />
<br />
But more than the Big Lie that We Don't Talk Enough About Depression, the insistence that we attack STIGMA is hilarious, because it assumes the stigma is an external thing. We bloviate about stigma as if any social approbation could possibly exceed the stigma that comes from within, as if it's even possible to worry about outdated attitudes to mental illness in the community when your mind is consumed with the unquenchable shame devouring you from the inside out.<br />
<br />
Keep talking about stigma, as if stigma is a well-meaning idiot telling you to cheer up because they don't understand what's going on in your brain.<br />
<br />
Keep talking and ignoring the stigma that is hearing your children cry because they're terrified by the outbursts of their father's broken mind. Keep talking because you don't know what stigma actually is, because you aren't sitting up in the middle of the night, staring into darkness and wondering how much damage you've done the kids this time, how many times as they grow up they'll remember the times their father lost control of his misery, how much their adulthood will be consumed by the lingering residue of a father's selfish self-destruction.<br />
<br />
Keep talking as if there is anything in society's misunderstanding of depression that can possibly compare to the knowledge that you're ruining your partner's life because you can't help yourself, that every time you rush to the edge of the abyss to look longingly at oblivion you're killing a little more of the happiness of the people you love. Keep talking as if the real STIGMA isn't the guilt that you've caused yourself by forcing your own nightmare onto the shoulders of people who never did anything to deserve the burden.<br />
<br />
Keep talking, and discussing, and conversing, and flaunting your overwhelming compassion, as if that famous STIGMA is anything like the humiliation of having the police come to your house, and threaten to pepper spray you, and take you away in handcuffs, for your own protection. And living the rest of your life knowing you so completely lack the most basic capacity for living as a functional human being that your own family has no choice but to treat you as either a helpless child or a dangerous animal, so beyond reason that talking to you isn't even an option: the only solutions available are pills and restraints.<br />
<br />
I don't want to hear any more about stigma, because I don't care about stigma. The rest of the world can call me crazy, the rest of the world can call me a crybaby, the rest of the world can roll its eyes and say it's sick of my whining - and the rest of the world will do exactly that, and the ones who claimed to be the most understanding will be the first to tell me they're sick of it.<br />
<br />
And the rest of the world can do that all as long as it likes, because I'm so ashamed and disgusted with myself that there is no stigma the world can inflict that is worse than the stigma I've grown inside myself. And all your efforts to combat the stigma will naturally achieve their main aim of making you proud of yourself, but they won't do a thing for me. Because I'm broken, and I know I'm broken, and I know my brokenness has hurt the people I care about time and time again, and I let that happen. I know that because of my depression, I'll always define myself by my reliable tendency to let people down. I know that my depression has poisoned my life and the lives of all around me, and I'll probably do it all over again, and worse, sooner rather than later.<br />
<br />
So if you want to write a thinkpiece or a cute webcomic or a pithy tweet about the best way to rid myself of THAT stigma, go for it. But if all you've got is the same mindless trash about stigma and conversations and honesty, then feel free to keep it to yourself. We've talked too much about it already.Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-70315640853212346612015-11-16T03:43:00.002-08:002015-11-16T03:43:14.949-08:00On ReligionI have some thoughts about religion. They are just thoughts, and I believe they are reasonably good thoughts, or I would not be writing them down. But they are still just thoughts, and I don't want them to be attacks, or even defences - if they are not expressed as well as I hope, I apologise in advance. It's not easy to find the right words, it's not easy to be the person one wishes to be at the best of times - anyone who says otherwise is lying to you. But the reason I write these thoughts down is not to campaign or argue or call anyone or anything out - I'm writing them down because it's frustrating to keep them inside, and I'm writing them down because it makes it clearer to me what they actually are.<br />
<br />
I am not a fan of religions. I don't think there's any good reason to believe their stories, and I don't often think very kindly of their impact on the real world.<br />
<br />
But that real world is one I live in, and it's a world full of religion, and full of religious people, and I know a lot of those religious people, and no matter how nuts I might think their various religions are, it'd be incredibly foolish of me to place their religious beliefs ahead of who they are, what they do, the imprint they leave on the world.<br />
<br />
And the fact is mostly they're good, and they're kind, and even when they're not all that good or kind they're usually just ordinary blundering humans like we all are. And they surely think my total lack of belief in any gods is as mad or madder than I think their beliefs are.<br />
<br />
So I can't follow any line of argument that says the way to judge a person's character is to ask them which holy book they invest their faith in. Even if there are bits of that holy book that horrify you.<br />
<br />
But what I do believe, and I've gradually come to this belief over a lifetime of observation, is that a person's religion is not a club they join, it's a belief - or an identity - they carry inside themselves, and every religious person is committed to their own, often intensely personal, version of the faith.<br />
<br />
In other words, you can never assume that you know what someone believes because they give their religion the same name as someone else whose beliefs you've looked into.<br />
<br />
You could ask Fred Nile what a Christian is, and listen to all he has to say, and accept that what he told you was true, and the next time you met someone who called himself a Christian you would be almost totally wrong about what he believed.<br />
<br />
Sometimes that argument is put in terms of "who's the REAL Christian?" Is Fred Nile the true Christian, or was Pastor Fred Phelps, or is Father Bob McGuire, Mother Teresa, Ann Coulter, Tim Costello, Kanye West?<br />
<br />
Who among them follows the true Christianity?<br />
<br />
Maybe they all do. We speak of "extremists", "militants" and "moderates", as if everyone under the same religious label is following the same religion, and the only difference between them is how strong their belief is.<br />
<br />
But what if that's not the difference? What if the difference is that they're not members of the same religion in the first place? What if Fred Nile and Father Bob McGuire are both passionate, devout, committed Christians, but they are devout in two different faiths that happen to share a name?<br />
<br />
This is actually not that difficult for we westerners to grasp, because we're quite used to thinking of Christianity in terms of different denominations. We don't expect a Catholic to think the same way as a Methodist, or an Anglican to think the same way as a Baptist, on everything, because we already have different names for the different sects. So it's not a huge leap to think of different Christians as belonging to different religions, or to put it another way, to different "versions" of religion.<br />
<br />
Here in the west we don't have that same understanding of Islam: we're used to thinking of it as a monolith, and we tend to swallow the message that Islam is a religion with strict uniformity of belief.<br />
<br />
And so when "extremists" tell us that they are being good Muslims by killing, and "moderates" tell us that Islam is a religion of peace, we who are not Muslims feel we need to make a choice of who to believe. So we see a passage from the Koran that seems to suggest killing is justified and we say aha! Islam must be a religion of violence. Then we see another passage from the Koran that seems to suggest killing is forbidden, and we say aha! Islam must be a religion of peace.<br />
<br />
We get nowhere, because the reality is: Islam isn't A religion at all; Islam, like Christianity, is a whole bunch of religions, and some of them are so far apart from each other that they're barely even cousins.<br />
<br />
I know Muslims. You probably do too. I know for a fact they don't belong to a religion that endorses terror and murder - I'm sure I would have noticed if they were going around doing that sort of thing.<br />
<br />
And when I see people doing horrific things and claiming their religion endorses it, yes, I believe them. To think that the violence of the world is due only to religion would be absurd: to think religion is not involved at all would be just as absurd.<br />
<br />
So who's the true Muslim?<br />
<br />
Frankly, how should I know? I don't believe in their god, so I'm hardly in a position to opine on who he's smiling on. And it doesn't much matter to me.<br />
<br />
But more importantly, I don't believe they're worshipping the same god at all. You can give your god the same name as someone else's god, and you can give the name of the religion based on that god the same name as someone else's religion, but saying that a god who wants you to slaughter and destroy is also a god who wants you to commit your life to love and generosity is, to my mind, ridiculous.<br />
<br />
If I said, I believe in the god Bob, who wants me to shoot everyone I see in the face; and you said, I believe in the god Alf, who wants me to help the poor and extend the hand of friendship to all people; it's fairly obvious we are talking about two TOTALLY different gods.<br />
<br />
Why would we think any different, just because the two gods had the same name?<br />
<br />
This is why I'm troubled by talk of "moderates" and "extremists". It seems easy to alienate a person by telling them their faith is "moderate", because they believe in peace and acceptance. I know Muslims whose commitment to Islam is fierce and full-blooded, and completely compatible with a love of diversity, equality and freedom.<br />
<br />
In short, the "moderates" do not differ from the "extremists" by the intensity of their belief, but by the very nature of their faith. And we who are not religious do not get anywhere useful by seeing Islam as a single religion in which believers are distinguished by greater or lesser commitment.<br />
<br />
Instead, it's worth recognising that Islam, the religion practised by the Muslims we know and and love and live among and value as friends and colleagues, quite simply is not the same thing as Islam, the religion practised by the Muslims who gun down innocents and blow themselves up and behead their enemies.<br />
<br />
You'll often see the repetition of a line that goes something like, "ISIS represents all Muslims the way the Westboro Baptist Church represents all Christians". It's true, but not because there is a neat line we can draw between "true" Christians and Muslims, and "false" Christians and Muslims. It's simply because knowing whose religion shares the name of another's tells us nothing about what their beliefs are, and how their beliefs influence their behaviour.<br />
<br />
That a person's religion could be so hateful and diseased that it would inspire murder is a horrible thing. But I can tell if a religion is hateful by the way the person who follows it behaves. Likewise, if you want to know what any person's faith is like, don't ask them what it's called: get to know them - what they believe will be illuminated by the person they are.<br />
<br />
In summary: I remain no fan of religions. I am saddened by the horrors done in their names. But if we allow ourselves to be fooled into thinking good people are not good people, just because of what their religion is called, rather than what their religion IS, we can only worsen divisions, and forget who our friends are.<br />
<br />Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-85235950943723211022015-11-09T17:54:00.003-08:002015-11-09T17:57:46.276-08:00The Hard QuestionsUS Presidential candidate and political WAGAB (Wives And Girlfriends And Brothers) Jeb Bush - seen here informing the press of the ideal size for a sandwich - has made headlines with a bold claim.<br />
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'Hell yeah I would!' the up-and-coming Bush replied to the question of whether he would, given the chance, <a href="http://edition.cnn.com/2015/11/09/politics/jeb-bush-kill-baby-hitler/index.html" target="_blank">go back in time and kill Baby Hitler</a> (by which the interviewer meant, Hitler when he was a baby, as opposed to an infant version of Hitler who ruled a nation of babies with an iron fist).<br />
<br />
The reason this is an important question is simply that presidential elections are, as former president Michael Douglas said, entirely about character. And when you're trying to determine a man's character, it's vital to know just how committed he is to his convictions. It's all very easy to SAY that you're anti-Nazis, but are you willing to LIVE that principle? Do you have the integrity to follow through, to actually jump in that Delorean, head back to the late 1800s, and blow that infant's brains out? And if you don't, why the HELL should anyone vote for you?<br />
<br />
But let's not pretend that killing baby Hitler is all you need from an aspiring commander-in-chief. There are plenty of other complex moral dilemmas that a president needs to be ready to tackle. Here are some other questions the American press might want to throw at the hopefuls.<br />
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1. Would you travel back in time and abort Foetus Hitler?<br />
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2. Would you travel back in time and trap Sperm Hitler in a condom?<br />
<br />
3. Would you travel back in time and give Hitler's dad a vasectomy?<br />
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4. Would you travel back in time and make Hitler's mum fall in love with you instead of Hitler's dad, even knowing that it was possible your son would turn out to be Hitler anyway?<br />
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5. Would you travel back in time and kill baby Stalin?<br />
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6. Would you travel back in time and kill adult Stalin?<br />
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7. What if he had a gun?<br />
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8. Would you travel back in time and prevent the evolution of mammals, thus saving the world from every bad person ever?<br />
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9. Would you travel back in time and kill Martin Scorsese? Why/why not?<br />
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10. Would you travel back in time, if you knew that a side-effect of time travel was that you would become incapable of killing babies?<br />
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11. Would you shoot Saddam Hussein in the head, even though he's already dead?<br />
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12. Would you shoot Bashar Al-Assad in the head, if you knew the bullet would pass through his head and hit the Pope?<br />
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13. Would you go back in time to kill the baby Pope?<br />
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14. Would you go back in time to kill yourself to prevent yourself going back in time to kill the baby Pope?<br />
<br />
15. Would you go back in time to kill Vincent van Gogh, if you suspected he was doing some pretty bad stuff when he wasn't busy painting?<br />
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16. Would you go back in time to kill Bill Cosby?<br />
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17. Would you go back in time to destroy the tapes of Bill Cosby's instrumental jazz-funk album, Badfoot Brown and the Bunions Bradford Funeral Marching Band?<br />
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18. Would you go back in time to kill baby Kyle Sandilands?<br />
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19. Don't you think Kyle Sandilands looks a bit like a giant baby anyway?<br />
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20. Would you feel bad if you went back in time and killed baby Kyle Sandilands and then found out you hadn't gone back in time at all and you'd just killed adult Kyle Sandilands because you thought he was a giant baby?<br />
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21. Would you go back in time and kill the giant baby from Honey I Blew Up The Kid?<br />
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22. Would you go back in time and kill the guy who invented hunger?<br />
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23. Would you go back in time and kill climate change?<br />
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24. Would you go back in time and kill Ronald McDonald?<br />
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25. Would you go back in time to kill all the other presidental candidates as babies? If not why not?<br />
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26. Would you go back in time to kill all the other presidential candidates as five-year-olds who are in the middle of singing the Alphabet?<br />
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27. Would you go back in time to kill five-year-old Hitler in the middle of singing the Alphabet, bearing in mind he'd be singing it in German?<br />
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28. Would you go back in time to kill baby Pol Pot?<br />
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29. Would you go back in time to kill baby Vlad the Impaler?<br />
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30. Would you go back in time to kill baby Ike Turner?<br />
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31. If there was a train speeding toward a fork in the track, and on one track there is your mother, and on the other track is a schoolbus full of children you've never met, and you can pull a lever to switch the train onto the other track, but if you don't pull the lever the train hits your mother, but your mother is currently pregnant with baby Hitler, but she is seriously considering an abortion, but she also has strong Catholic beliefs that still exert a pull on her so it's not certain, but on the other hand the schoolbus contains Baby Gandhi, but you just read a biography of Gandhi that paints him in a less flattering light, BUT also you have no arms, so to pull the lever you have to travel back in time and save yourself from the train accident that took your arms off, but doing that would cause the train to hit a pram containing baby Nelson Mandela, which member of your workplace would you eat first on a lifeboat?Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-23987563431970785212015-11-03T03:04:00.003-08:002015-11-03T03:04:49.625-08:00SELFISHNESSIdeally, suicide would not be so frequent a topic of my thoughts. It's an exhausting thing to think about: wondering whether you should, wondering what would happen if you did, and much, much worse - wondering why your friends have.<br />
<br />
The fact that I am unlikely to go more than a few days without reflecting deeply on the logistics and advisability of self-destruction is something I've come to accept as part of the normal round. Much of my thinking is quite detached in nature: I'm just thinking about suicide, not thinking ABOUT suicide...if you get me.<br />
<br />
And even on those occasions when I'm actually considering it, I don't think I ever will. Partly this is cowardice. Partly it's FOMO - I just want to see what's going to happen. Partly it's a sort of fear of hurting my family that in my more optimistic moments I could call selflessness.<br />
<br />
Because of course suicide is terribly selfish. This is well-known. Putting your own petty desire for oblivion ahead of the happiness of your loved ones? Ugh, who wants to be THAT guy?<br />
<br />
It's true - killing yourself is not a nice thing to do to those people who don't want you to kill yourself. At my very very lowest, it may have been my ability to stay dimly aware of that fact that saved me - convinced as I have been that my family would be better off without me, the knowledge that at least in the short term they'd be pretty upset has held me back.<br />
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Because I don't want to be seen as selfish. Which is, in itself, a selfish reason to not do something, but if my particular kind of selfishness happens to produce the same outcome as genuine selflessness, I guess that's a win.<br />
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Of course, when I'm dead I won't know whether people are calling me selfish or not, so I'm still not sure why it matters to me. Maybe I subconsciously fear the existence of an afterlife.<br />
<br />
But even if I am quite the selfish fellow, at least I am not as selfish as people who tell me not to commit suicide. Because God, THOSE people...<br />
<br />
Why do you want me to stay alive? Because you'd miss me? You'd be sad? Perhaps you could stop thinking about yourself for a minute.<br />
<br />
Maybe you could think about this: I suffer depression and anxiety - days when absolutely everything seems pointless, when I can't see any glimmer of hope anywhere and I'm positive that everything I do fails and everyone I care about hates me. Nights when an invisible boulder sits on my chest, an invisible rope tightens around my neck and an invisible adviser whispers to me that I'm going to die right here and right now.<br />
<br />
Other times...things are OK. Some days I'm happy. Some days I can see the good things I have and the good things I do. Some days I can believe I have friends, even. Some nights I go to bed smiling and without a breathless fight or flight response urging me to throw myself onto the rocks.<br />
<br />
But every day and night I get through feeling fine, I know the next subterranean low and the next blind panic is that little bit closer. One of the most important things to remember when you're suffering is that it will pass, things will get better. But any honest appraisal of reality will illustrate that it works just as well in reverse: when I'm feeling good, "this too will pass".<br />
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So if I've got to live my life like this, knowing I'm going to be pummelled by this over and over and over again, for no good reason, for however many decades I've got ahead...how selfish are you to tell me I have to endure?<br />
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It's not like an assessment of the world I live in gives me much external cause to rejoice in the value of life. This is a stupid, cruel, vicious world in which suffering is the rule and joy is the exception, and I'm unable either to ignore the nightmare that is humanity, or to do anything to improve it. There is murder and torture and tragedy filling the world to the brim every day, and it seems a hell of a lot more delusional to think there's cause for hope than to abandon it.<br />
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So, if a desire to leave this world is understandable...and if I, personally, spend most of my life either in pain or in the anticipation of pain...where does anyone get the idea that suicide is not a reasonable response to circumstances?<br />
<br />
To quit my life now would be selfish. To tell me that I mustn't is surely at least AS selfish.<br />
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Not that I will. I'm still a coward, after all.Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-32855711307647392772015-10-29T10:06:00.002-07:002015-10-29T10:06:51.498-07:00What's the point?Why don't you blog more often, Ben?<br />
<br />
It's a good question: is it because I'm too busy? Is it because I'm too lazy? Is it because I forgot my password?<br />
<br />
No...it's just because I get discouraged when I see other bloggers hit heights of analysis that I know I can't reach.<br />
<br />
The fact is that when I blog, I want to reach for the stars. I want to climb to the top of the ladder. As a blogger I aspire to absolute excellence, and I can't help but wonder, what's the point, when I see a blog post like <a href="http://blogs.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/timblair/index.php/dailytelegraph/comments/transitioning/" target="_blank">this one by Tim Blair</a>.<br />
<br />
Yes, that post, titled "Transitioning" (and the perfection of that title alone is enough to make this a great example to show students in a How to Blog Better class) is so good, so pithy, wise and comprehensive in its summary of contemporary societal challenges and the drawing together of the many disparate threads of community concern and political consciousness, that there just seems very little point in a neophyte blogger like me even trying to improve his work - no matter how good I get, I'll never be "Transitioning by Tim Blair good". To illustrate my point, I quote:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: #f8f8f5; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.8px;">Clementine Ford appears to be growing a </span><a href="https://twitter.com/clementine_ford/status/659331957642280960" style="background-color: #f8f8f5; box-sizing: content-box; color: #164b81; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 16.8px; text-decoration: none;">moustache</a><span style="background-color: #f8f8f5; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.8px;">.</span></blockquote>
And that says it all, really, doesn't it?<br />
<br />
Like Alexander, I weep - not because there are no more worlds to conquer, but because that which I sought to conquer belongs to another. Time, perhaps, to give up blogging and simply expend my energies on paying homage to the man who clearly is, was and will be ever more my master: Tim "Women With Moustaches" Blair.Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-84990534894599415522015-06-27T09:17:00.000-07:002015-06-27T09:17:37.108-07:00Diary of an ABC Producer<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>(Note: This was originally published on Junkee: I'm putting it up here after Junkee saw fit to remove it from their site)</i></span></div>
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<b style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">25<sup>th</sup> June, 2015</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">9am:
Arrive at work. All staff gather in onsite mosque for daily Pledge of
Allegiance. Reaffirming our commitment to the Prophet always energises one for
the day ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">9.15am:
Go through emails. Several from concerned Australians asking polite and
reasonable questions about ensuring their tax dollars are spent efficiently and
wisely. Forward these to all staff with obscene commentary. Look up senders’
personal details and pass on to ABC’s Punishment Division. Also one email from
Malcolm Turnbull. Photoshop his head onto nude model, send to all staff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">10am:
Pray to Allah for the strength to smite the infidels no matter where I may find
them and no matter how much they might want to keep Australians safe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">10.30am:
Bump into Tony Jones in corridor. Have a good laugh about the last meeting of
our cell. Help him carry some bags of fertiliser to his car.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">11am:
Pray to Allah for the strength to not let Gerard Henderson have his own show.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">11.30am:
We have received a memo from managing director Mark Scott, reads as follows:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As-salamu alaykum,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">All ABC staff are
reminded that tomorrow morning is the Weakening Borders Workshop in the larger
tearoom. Attendance is voluntary, but attending is likely to enhance all
employees’ ability to translate their broadcasting skills into real results in
making the borders of our country more porous. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It has also come
to my attention that some employees have been coming to work without their
flags. Please be notified that it is a condition of employment with the
national broadcaster that while on the premises we all wear ISIS flags, or
ISIS-branded caps or bandannas, as a measure of solidarity and our commitment
to the principle of public broadcasting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Finally,
congratulations to all involved with this week’s episode of Q&A, which
brought us closer than ever to our target of 50 percent of safe seats being
occupied by jihadists by 2021. Well done everyone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Wa’l-salaam,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mark Scott,
Managing Director<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">12pm:
Pray to Allah for the strength to write unfair questions for Leigh Sales to ask
Joe Hockey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">12.30pm:
Production meeting for Lateline. Brainstorm ways in which we can more
creatively obscure good news about the government’s agenda for repairing the
budget.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">1.15pm:
Long phone call with Bill Shorten. He pitches new proposal for inserting
subliminal socialist propaganda into Giggle and Hoot. I’m excited about the
idea, tell him I’ll lobby hard for its inclusion. The same technique worked
well on Play School – 60 percent of Play School viewers now become lesbians. Bill
tells me he has new orders from Damascus – the imams wish us to repeat Please
Like Me more often to sap the country’s moral fibre. We agreed to meet early
next week to discuss plans for new Chaser series Pissing On Anzac Graves, as devised
at last ALP Conference.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">2pm:
Pray to Allah for the strength to promote unnatural lifestyles to young people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">2.30pm:
An awkward meeting. I had Wil Anderson come in to go over the outline for
episode one of our new reality show Jihad Idol. We were pondering whether the
beheading skills segment would work better with mannequins or watermelons, but
we kept getting interrupted by the noise from next door. Grand Mufti Scott was
in the next office tearing strips off Jon Faine – apparently Jon conducted an entire
interview with Julie Bishop this morning without mentioning her internalised
misogyny. Rookie mistake – it’s not like Jon doesn’t know the ABC Charter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">3pm:
Rehearsals with Zaky Mallah for his upcoming guest stint hosting The Weekly.
He’s a natural on camera, but a little concerned that his approach is a little
too low-key. Advised him to watch some tapes of Charlie Pickering to learn how
to really sell the idea of global caliphate with conviction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">4pm:
Pray to Allah for the strength to wear sandals at all times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">4.15pm:
Finish editing fake Scott Morrison sex tape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">4.30pm:
Call ISIS headquarters to find out how many operatives entered the country as a
direct result of this week’s Four Corners. Eight hundred! A good week! I ask if
they need me to find them all jobs, but they’ve already started work at Crikey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">5pm:
Pack up, although the day’s not over yet. When I get home will be doing prep
for tomorrow’s first script meeting for new sitcom, At Home With Tony.
Production team still unsure whether it should be kittens or bunnies whose
necks Tony breaks in opening scene. Planning to suggest a compromise of
ducklings. Also have to nut out question of whether Tony should wear Speedos in
every scene, or alternate with SS uniform. I’m excited about the project – it
looks like a winner, Insha’Allah.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">10.30pm:
Bed. Thank Allah for another day being on the Right Side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-11098461352292309612015-06-09T03:53:00.000-07:002015-06-09T03:53:40.497-07:00Masterchef Recap: Small Things Amuse Small Minds "It's important for me to try to do as well as I can," says Matthew, finally having grasped the concept of competition. He is at Masterchef headquarters seeking immunity with Jessica and Jacqui. Shannon says today is the day an immunity pin is given away, but we have little evidence for the proposition that Shannon knows anything about anything.<br />
<br />
Round One of the immunity challenge is about plating up, that delicate art that doesn't actually matter to anyone. Jessica considers plating up a strength, or in other words, she considers making food taste good a weakness.<br />
<br />
"We're looking for a plate of food that we can eat with our eyes," says George, and knowing his table manners, he probably means it literally. The contestants only have four minutes, which is an incredibly short amount of time to put things on a plate.<br />
<br />
Jessica is getting flustered because her beef is on the wrong side of the plate, proof of the terrible toll that pressure and a background in feng shui can take on the mind. With only a few seconds left, all three contestants are striving as hard as they can to put things on a plate. Disaster strikes Jacqui, who has put some things on a plate, but failed to put some other things on a plate. Shame rains upon her family like napalm.<br />
<br />
The four minutes are up. George shows the contestants how he would have plated up. Rose finds this incredibly thrilling, but then she would. After this astonishingly dull interlude, which proves that yes indeed, George is capable of putting things on plates, the judges tell Jacqui that her plating is terrible and she should feel very bad about herself. Matthew's plating is outstanding, but he's forgotten the crispy onions, like some kind of idiot. The tension is unbearable: will Matthew do the honourable thing and hurl himself off a bridge, rather than letting his family live as pariahs forever more?<br />
<br />
Jessica wins the challenge, despite choosing the wrong plate, because the non-existent sin of wrong plate choice is less egregious than the non-existent sin of non-onion placement. And so she will cook off for immunity against...<br />
<br />
Nick Holloway!<br />
<br />
Yes! THE Nick Holloway! The Nick Holloway who made his name as a cooker of food for people, and who has made numerous meals that have been eaten in various places. Nick Holloway is one of those legendary chefs who are so famous that they actually pass through the barrier of fame and return to complete obscurity, which is why you've never heard of him.<br />
<br />
Jessica must choose between small ingredients - quail eggs, baby carrots, human zygotes and so forth - or big ingredients, like ostrich eggs, rib-eye steak, and Matt Preston. Jessica chooses the small table, because her forte is leaving people unsatisfied.<br />
<br />
Up on the balcony, all the female spectators are giggling coquettishly at Nick's witty quips and incongruously-coloured beard. Nick is definitely the most gusset-dampening guest chef of the season so far, and likely to remain so till Stephanie Alexander shows up.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile Jessica is deconstructing her quail as an act of violence against notions of decency.<br />
<br />
Nick is teaching the balcony about pairing up proteins with the things they would eat. Rose is learning a lot, but to be honest it seems a bit advanced for her. Nick is cooking his grapes on a spectrum, to demonstrate the life-cycle of a grape. He is educational as well as sexy.<br />
<br />
Rose continues to comment on proceedings as if we don't know exactly what she's like.<br />
<br />
Jessica is getting flustered, and with good reason - she's burnt her carrots, and the look of disappointment in Shannon's eyes could make strong men weep. She can get more carrots, but there are no more mandarins, and as any gourmand knows, a baby carrot without mandarin juice might as well be a decomposing mouse head. Luckily, Nick pops around in an act of classic self-sabotage and gives Jessica one of his mandarins. "This is what cooking is all about," he says, incorrectly.<br />
<br />
Time is up. Jessica is happy. Nick knows he's put his heart and soul, and bits of his beard, into the dish.<br />
<br />
The judges eat. Jessica's dish is delicious, despite having carrots and pumpkin in it. There is a certain amount of disagreement between Matt and his tiny friends, though - Mr Preston agrees it's a delicious dish, but believes it could theoretically have been better, had it not been for the Fall of Man.<br />
<br />
Nick's dish comes out. Gary suggests it might be Jessica's dish, because producers have noticed that we all know the judges always know whose dish they're tasting. Nick's dish looks like a small basket of weeds, but apparently it tastes excellent - he's got the happy knack of not overpowering the quail, which is difficult when you consider how small and feeble quails are.<br />
<br />
"Who's taken those teeny tiny ingredients to make the biggest impression?" says Gary, in a tribute to the skills of the Masterchef writing staff. He seems to think it was Jessica - he's given her ten out of ten, which I find difficult to believe. George scores her nine, which probably would've sounded more impressive if Gary hadn't already given her ten - he sounds kind of mean now. Matt also gives her nine out of ten - Jessica looks more and more like the Gough Whitlam of Masterchef. Not physically.<br />
<br />
Twenty-eight out of thirty. Is it enough to win? Has Nick's focus on arousing the women on the balcony cost him?<br />
<br />
No! Amazingly, Gary also gives Nick ten out of ten! Gary is so drunk! George gives him a nine. OH EM GEE it is so close! Does meaningless semi-competitive cooking get more tense? Matt gives Nick...<br />
<br />
Ten! Oh dear Jessica has lost! It almost seems unfair given Nick doesn't really care one way or another, but on the other hand seeing Jessica's disappointment is extremely entertaining. So the real winner...is us.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow: Italians!<br />
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<b>Nick and Jessica locked in mortal combat</b></div>
<br />Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-53678736101909444222015-06-08T03:52:00.000-07:002015-06-08T03:52:38.464-07:00Masterchef Recap: Copping A VealPreviously, on Masterchef Australia...<br />
<br />
Ashleigh screwed over "two of her closest friends", pitching her, Anna and Billie into a pressure test which the narrator tells us will "push them right to the edge", thus disappointingly spoiling the episode by revealing that they won't be going <i>over</i> the edge.<br />
<br />
As tonight's episode begins, Ashleigh is stricken with overwhelming guilt, her voice cracking with emotion, or possibly just cracking with whatever it is that makes her voice crack every time she speaks.<br />
<br />
"We didn't think we'd see you three standing together in an elimination," says Gary, who has short term memory loss and so doesn't remember how they were put into this elimination just yesterday.<br />
<br />
"You're not competing against the person next to you," says George, "you're competing to win this competition." Presumably Ten is running a phone-in contest to see who can correctly identify what this means. It's amazing that seven seasons in, Masterchef is still pushing itself to reach new heights of incomprehensibility.<br />
<br />
We could spend hours pondering the question of how one competes to win a competition without competing against the other competitors in the competition, but no time, we have to move on to a man with a beard called Marcus Wareing who, in theory, we have heard of. He demands the three losers cook veal - "My Veal", he adds portentously, implying it was cut from his own body. The dish has all kinds of disgusting bits in it, so it's real haute cuisine.<br />
<br />
The dish has three types of veal in it, but Billie is starting with the loin - I hear that's always the way with her. The key with cutting up veal is to cut off the bits you don't want and keep the bits you do want. Fascinating.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile Ashleigh is struggling to butcher her meat, because she's unfortunately been given a piece of veal that isn't an ice-cream cake, so she's way out of her depth.<br />
<br />
Marcus suggests they all step up the pace, in an unnecessarily rude way. Billie is already onto her kidney. "Removing the fat from the kidney is what cooking is all about!" Billie exclaims, because she is a psychopath. "What cooking is all about" for Billie also apparently involves "getting your hands dirty", which should raise some red flags for the state health inspector.<br />
<br />
After a quick ad break featuring a family who contract diarrhoea while living in a disastrously all-white house, Anna explains the premise of the pressure test, and then realises she's been wasting her time banging away at the kidney fat when she only needed a small amount to sous vide or something I don't know all the stuff about kidneys and fat and sous vide is very boring and really not worth paying much attention to - it's just cooking crap. Slightly more interesting is a montage wherein Anna reveals that she is a student who likes to cook, information that really helps our understanding of why she goes around cooking all the time.<br />
<br />
Marcus thinks Billie is doing the best of the three cooks, probably because he's been listening to the commentary.<br />
<br />
Ashleigh has struggle with her confidence for as long as she can remember, a revelation which is illustrated by a photograph of her patting a kangaroo. Cooking has made her more confident, but her confidence has really been shaken today by the shock news that some foods aren't dessert.<br />
<br />
"You've got this Anna," calls a liar from the balcony.<br />
<br />
Billie is moving on to the tuile, which is a thin wafer placed on dishes to let the diner know that you're pretentious enough to add pointless garbage all over the plate.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile Ashleigh is suffering a nervous breakdown, tipping a gallon of dishwater into a pot of pumpkin soup for reasons unknown. She's crying all over her tuile and getting them soggy. She's also crying in her to-camera pieces, so probably she's the one who loses.<br />
<br />
"You're looking good, Ash!" calls a voice from the balcony, probably the voice of the liar from earlier. "You've got this, Ash!" several others shout, in cruelly satirical fashion. "You can do this," Marcus chimes in, joining the taunting. "All these people are rooting for you," he adds, which if true is really unfair on Billie and Anna, especially considering it's Ashleigh's fault they're here in the first place.<br />
<br />
Anna has problems of her own though: she's overwhelmed by the size of her bench. Not Masterchef material surely.<br />
<br />
Billie is flying - she's got her loin out of the brine and can therefore concentrate on cooking.<br />
<br />
This is a good time to note that a veal kidney is a VERY unpleasant looking object.<br />
<br />
Ashleigh is feeling slightly better because "it's nearly over" - suicidal ideation is a common consequence of Masterchef participation. "It's like she's a new person," Georgia says, obliquely hinting at substance abuse. Meanwhile Amy keeps asking Anna questions, having never heard the aphorism, "when on the Masterchef balcony, shut up you wanker". Sara is delivering culinary lectures as if she's some kind of expert, it's very distasteful.<br />
<br />
With fifteen minutes to go, Anna doesn't have time to put her kidney in the oven, which is a common problem for modern women who try to "have it all". In contrast, Billie seems to have everything under control, so either Masterchef is playing a big joke on us, or it's going to be between Anna's poor time management and Ashleigh's disintegrating mind for the elimination.<br />
<br />
Anna's kidney is completely undercooked. She can't serve raw kidney, but on the other hand she <i>shouldn't</i> serve kidney at all - nobody should. So maybe this challenge was like a trick question, where the winner is the person who realises there shouldn't be any kidney in it.<br />
<br />
Anna has burnt her crackling due to focusing too much on her raw kidney. Ironic, in a way. In another way, not ironic at all.<br />
<br />
Time is nearly up and Billie is forced to plate up without a glaze, like some kind of prehistoric cave beast. Meanwhile Ashleigh's hope has disappeared, but she can take heart from the fact Anna is a complete mess.<br />
<br />
Ashleigh has taken her onions too far. They refuse to talk to her. Anna has left it too late to do her nectarines properly. This is a really messed-up dish, isn't it.<br />
<br />
Time is up. Anna and Ashleigh both sob over how terrible they are at cooking gross stuff. Billie smiles serenely over how great she is.<br />
<br />
In the judging room, Marcus says all three women have been really courageous, demonstrating his low standards. Billie serves her veal first, and cries for no particular reason. Especially when it turns out her dish is delicious - the judges haven't tasted the other two but you can tell they already think they're crap.<br />
<br />
"Is that one of the hardest days you've ever had?" George asks Anna. Objection! Leading the witness. He questions Anna about her education and about why she'd cry over a stupid plate of food. It's because food is the only thing that makes her happy. This sounds like some kind of disorder, but the judges seem to think it's quite a good thing.<br />
<br />
Anna's dish doesn't look like Marcus's, but it doesn't disrespect it either, according to George, who doesn't know how to do words.<br />
<br />
"Do you still doubt yourself?" Matt asks Ashleigh, just before illustrating why she is right to. Marcus has never seen a cook dig as deep as Ashleigh did today, probably because all the cooks he work with are capable of staying calm under pressure and are competent enough to not need to "dig deep" to create something edible.<br />
<br />
Judging time. "Masterchef is a unique and liberating experience," says Gary, which is a bit weird. He may have been drinking. He talks for a while about limits and pushing and dreams and stuff, basically trying his best to get all three women to cry some more.<br />
<br />
Unsurprisingly, the best dish of the day is the one cooked by Billie, the one which was good. The other two dishes, which were not good, are not dish of the day. But which was the Anti-Dish, the Dish of the Beast?<br />
<br />
In a complete reversal from George's earlier assertion that they weren't competing against each other, someone now has to be eliminated. Anna failed to produce as many net litres of tears as Ashleigh, so she has to leave. She cries heavily, but it's a bit late now - she should have cried in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
As Anna leaves, all the other contestants also cry, because as always they are under the impression that losing contestants are murdered outside the kitchen. On the contrary though, Anna is, we are told, concentrating on her passion for food writing, and "staging pop-up dining events"; which could be a good thing, or could just mean she's breaking into people's houses and throwing stew on them.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow: time!<br />
<br />
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<b>Anna reacts emotionally to her elimination</b></div>
<br />Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-39057862715965638382015-05-19T03:53:00.004-07:002015-05-19T03:53:52.347-07:00Masterchef Recap: Who Came First?Immunity Day begins with George explaining to Billie, Matthew and Georgia that they were the top cooks in the invention test, but that was a couple of days ago, and that today is a different day. The three amateurs nod wisely, fully understanding the concept of today not being the same day as other days. This could be key.<div>
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Marco lifts a cloche to reveal an egg. One gets the feeling he's done this before. "Everyone can cook an egg," he murmurs threateningly, "but can they cook it well?" He tells a story from his boyhood, about the insane chef who asked for eggs he didn't want. "One piece of advice," he adds. "Don't crack under the pressure." The great thing about that sentence is that it is a joke about eggs. Pretty clever.</div>
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The first thing Billie does is get her egg on the boil. This is almost certainly a good move - she'll have an edge over any contestants who forget to cook their egg. Matthew had started wrapping asparagus in bacon, so he might have misunderstood the challenge.</div>
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Georgia is doing "everything I wouldn't normally do" - standing on her head, taking off her pants, shaving her friends' pubic hair while they sleep. She has placed her egg as far away from herself as possible, because she despises it. </div>
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Shannon tells the story of when Marco taught him how to crack an egg - Shannon was quite inexperienced when he began his apprenticeship. Marco never, however, taught him how to brush his hair.</div>
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"Push, push, push!" yells George, voicing this season's Official Masterchef Catchphrase and being no help to anybody whatsoever, because what on earth does "push" mean when you're cooking an egg?</div>
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Distracted by George's inane blather, Billie has undercooked her egg and it's all gone kablooie. But they only get one egg! What's she to do? Clearly she will have to try to lay a new one. We cut to an ad break - when we return we'll see how she's getting along.</div>
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"How long did you boil the egg for?" asks Gary.</div>
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"I don't know," says Billie.</div>
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"You don't KNOW?" spits Gary in the manner of someone talking to a convicted dogfight-runner. Gary and George advise Billie to not put her egg in the water until it's already boiling, which is great advice to get after it's too late.</div>
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Georgia has never felt this nervous about cracking an egg, but to be fair that's not a high bar to clear. She's testing her pan to see if it's hot enough. "It can't be not hot enough," she informs us, getting a little over-technical.</div>
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Meanwhile Matthew is poaching his egg, incurring the wrath of Kenyan government patrols. Gary is surprised at the way Matthew is poaching his egg - he considers it an abomination, but Matthew sticks to his perverted guns.</div>
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With just a few minutes to go, Matthew realises that he's pulled a classic Billie, and undercooked his egg. His egg white breaks. It's an unspeakable tragedy. His dish looks like a vandal has thrown an egg at someone's breakfast. Anyway, time's up, he'll have to deal with his horrible horrible flaws.</div>
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Billie serves up her egg. Marco can't see the egg. He eats some of the egg. He can't taste the egg. The egg has disappeared, as if rescued by a chicken liberationist front. Her dish is tasty, but not eggy. Her chances are not good.</div>
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Matthew's pathetic mess is next. The judges find his broken egg repellent and offensive. Marco thinks he went wrong at the start - pre-school, perhaps.</div>
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Georgia's fried egg looks dodgy, but at least you can see it and it's not dribbling down the sides of asparagus. Marco lectures her about pan temperature as if he's some kind of supervillain monologuing to a hostage. He then stares at her, and stares at her, and stares at her some more. "Why do you look so worried?" he asks, Joker-style. The fact is he doesn't know who Georgia is, or why he is wearing a white jacket, or what all the cameras are for.</div>
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Anyway Georgia's egg didn't revolt the judges' soul quite as much as the others, so she goes through to the immunity challenge. George holds up the immunity pin. It is unimpressive.</div>
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To win the immunity pin, Georgia will have to out-cook someone whose name, according to Matt, is something like "Joffpeddle". Nobody knows who he is. It's very doubtful that even the judges do.</div>
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Georgia's choice of pantry is "above ground or below". Above is things like beef, poultry, fruit, spices and so forth. Below is potatoes, seafood and cicadas. She chooses below due to her devotion to the nether realms. </div>
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Shannon gives Georgia some advice - cook what Marco would eat at home. But where will she find crushed cigarette butts and flakes of Marco's dead skin? Georgia, driven mad by ambition, begins chopping sweet potatoes with no particular aim in mind. Shannon calms her and tells her "less is more", in keeping with his official role as Giver of Pointless Advice.</div>
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Georgia is flustered to the point of thrombosis, but Shannon cunningly hypnotises her with his magical eyebrows, and she calms down enough to plan a seafood broth. </div>
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Meanwhile Joffpeddle says he's going to be "blanching marrons", so there's no point listening to him as he clearly doesn't speak English. Someone on the balcony asks what he's doing with his truffles, as if it's any of their damn business. He hurls truffles at them. The atmosphere is tense and violent.</div>
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The first thing Georgia needs to do is get her broth perfect. Shannon advises her to have a think about balance. But Georgia is beyond thinking. She is a being of pure broth-instinct. She adds in fennel, like a mad woman. </div>
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Joffpeddle is teaching the balcony about marrons. The main lesson seems to be that marrons are hideous monsters that you only eat to absorb their magical powers.</div>
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On the other side, Georgia isn't cooking her scallops, a brave move, although not in the context of what firefighters and police officers do every day. Who's the real hero here? She hopes the scallops will cook in the broth. Shannon has a really good feeling, but this is mainly because Joffpeddle is faffing around with salmon eggs like some kind of weird fish husbandry professor. Also his potato and leek soup isn't doing what he wants it to, ie turn into something better than potato and leek soup.</div>
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Time is up, and both competitors have put onto a plate things which could possibly be food, but it's pretty hard to be certain. Georgia looks at her dish and can't believe that she made it, before realising she's actually looking at the cover of Taste magazine.</div>
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The judges try Georgia's scallops and prawns, covered in her hot sexy broth. Marco says the broth is full of flavour. George thinks it tastes like the sea, which actually sounds disgusting. Gary has problems with the prawns, which is just typical.</div>
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Next is Joffpeddle's dish, which the judges pretend they don't know whose it is but it's pretty damn obvious. It's very good but Marco hates salmon roe. He is a roe-cist. Will his bigotry cost the professional chef the meaningless prestige of winning a Masterchef immunity challenge against an amateur?</div>
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Judging time. The judges are big fans of both dishes, but Georgia suffers from having an uncooked prawn and for not being a highly-paid professional chef, so big frigging surprise, Joffpeddle wins, despite Marco's vicious denunciation of salmon eggs as counter-revolutionary. It's always a shock when someone who does something for a living is better at it than someone who doesn't it, isn't it?</div>
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Tomorrow: running!</div>
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<b>Georgia reacting with astonishment to the contents of her egg</b></div>
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Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-12296191343551677642015-05-18T04:17:00.000-07:002015-05-18T04:17:07.112-07:00BREAKING: Joe Hockey admits wife has been giving interview answers without his knowledgeTreasurer Joe Hockey today stunned the Press Gallery by admitting that for some time, his wife has been providing his answers during interviews and press conferences without his knowledge.<br />
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Mr Hockey, who had come under fierce criticism for recent statements - including his speculation that the wives of government ministers Matthias Cormann and Josh Frydenberg may have "double-dipped" on paid parental leave schemes without informing their husbands - became emotional as he revealed that for the majority of the past year, his own wife had been living in his mouth and supplying all the words he spoke in public, unbeknownst to him.<br />
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"I can only apologise on her behalf," Mr Hockey sighed in a doorstop interview. "She hid her activities from me, and the fact is wives do sometimes keep things from their husbands. It's not uncommon for a man to be unaware of his wife's financial decisions or secret life inside her husband's mouth speaking on his behalf, and I'm afraid that's what's happened here."<br />
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It would appear that Mrs Hockey had engaged a contractor clandestinely to build a small alcove towards the back right corner of the Treasurer's mouth, from where she could manipulate his tongue and cause the emission of her own chosen words at any time she chose.<br />
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It's believed that Mrs Hockey's actions are responsible for many of her husband's most controversial statements of late, including: the assertion that accessing an employer's PPL scheme and the government's scheme at the same time was "fraud"; the claim that he had never said that it was fraud; and his agreement to appear on the Today Show with Karl Stefanovic.<br />
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When asked whether Mrs Hockey was also to blame for past gaffes such as references to "leaners and lifters" or his claim that poor people don't drive cars, Mr Hockey said he would have to check his records, but noted that "certainly my wife seems to have a penchant for saying incredibly stupid things that an experienced and professional politician certainly wouldn't say". He implied she may also have rigged some kind of apparatus that caused him to smoke cigars and dance in his office at the time of last year's Budget, but replied "No comment" when asked whether that entire Budget was delivered by Mrs Hockey.<br />
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At time of writing, comment was being sought from Social Services Minister Scott Morrison as to whether Mrs Hockey had gained access to his mouth when he declared that accessing two parental leave schemes was a "rort" but that people who did it were not "rorters"; and from Prime Minister Abbott regarding his entire life.<br />
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<br />Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-91762350773975942612015-05-18T03:51:00.001-07:002015-05-18T03:51:20.839-07:00Masterchef Recap: Marco's Lambs To The SlaughterMarco Week. It is one of the world's foremost religious holidays, a time when people of culinary faith everywhere join together to worship and adore Marco Pierre White, one of the food industry's foremost psychopaths. This great enigma of the kitchen, who year by year grows more mysterious and less able to say with any certainty where or who he is, inspires powerful emotions in the breasts of aspiring chefs: fear, love, fear, nervousness, inspiration, anger, fear, shyness, hunger, fear, and terror.<br />
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Tonight is an elimination: Andrea, John and Jacqui cook off under Marco's watchful yet slightly confused eye to stay in the competition. But not only will they have to cook, they will have to butcher the saddle of lamb themselves as well, a challenge combining the two essential elements of Marco's own career: gourmet cooking and dismembering of corpses.<br />
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Early on Andrea runs into a problem: she has confused the lamb with her own thumb and cut deeply into the latter, a development so traumatic she suffers a soft-focus flashback. But ever the trooper, she carries on, reasoning that the lightheadedness that comes from blood loss can only help her cook in the true spirit of Marco.<br />
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Apparently it's a night for flashbacks: Jacqui now has one, remembering the gorgeous kids that she so eagerly abandoned to get on the show. It's terror of seeing them again that drives her tonight.<br />
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John is rushing. We know this because Marco is staring at him and saying, "John...you're rushing". He reminds John of what happened to the tortoise and the hare, a pretty bad analogy given that the hare's problem was its <i>failure </i>to rush. Nevertheless John says he wants to be a tortoise because if he doesn't Marco will definitely punch him, so he slows down.<br />
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Marco wanders over to tell Andrea not to rush either. It's quite difficult for the contestants, what with Marco constantly telling them not to rush and Gary constantly yelling about how little time there is left.<br />
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"I'm here to observe you, not to help you," Marco rumbles to Andrea in the manner of a man on the set of a snuff film. Andrea can't read Marco's stony, mad face: she thinks lack of expression is a good sign, but actually it's a sign that Marco has had a stroke.<br />
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Marco is taking off his glasses and putting them back on repeatedly, trying to remember what they are and why they're on his face.<br />
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"Do I smell something burning?" Marco asks, fearful that his time has come at last. But Marco is like Rasputin: he cannot be killed by conventional means, and he cures haemophilia.<br />
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Jacqui is taking her caramelised bones out of the oven, but it doesn't make her any more interesting. "Amazing what can be achieved with a bit of care and thought and love, isn't it?" says Marco, who now believes that he is actually a priest presiding over a wedding. Jacqui decides that Marco's cryptic pronouncements mean she should ignore the recipe, a move which pretty much always works on Masterchef.<br />
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Marco, now under the impression he is an obstetrician, walks up and down the room shouting, "Push! Push! Push!" The amateurs are chopping up their enormous lamb-and-glad-wrap dildos. Apparently you leave the glad wrap on while you cook lamb noisettes, which seems very wrong to me, but I am no famous crazy chef.<br />
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"I know I have to dig deep inside to create something as great as Marco," says John, his experiments in gene splicing proving frustrating. He flashes back to his life as a flight attendant, praying Masterchef will mean an end to his days of helping people.<br />
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Meanwhile Andrea's noisettes are bursting open due to rough handling, just like Marco's sous chef. Will this cost her? At least she's not as dumb as Jacqui, who forgot to tie up her noisettes with string, like the worst kind of moron. One of Jacqui's noisettes bursts open too. The carnage is horrific. It's like Saving Private Ryan. Noisettes are exploding everywhere, strong men are weeping, children scream for their mothers. It's a sobering reminder of the most important element in cooking: string.<br />
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The last thing John wants is crunchy artichokes, which I assume is some kind of underground fetish club slang. Marco is quizzing Jacqui about her artichokes. Jacqui took it for granted that they'd be cooked. Marco finds this "interesting", which is almost certainly his way of saying "I am going to gut you like a fish". Although it's equally plausible that he only even talks to the contestants so he can lean on their benches and have a rest, since any movement at all seems to take enormous effort.<br />
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John needs to push through and get these on a plate, and nobody can seriously argue that this is a valid goal at the moment. Andrea is feeling the pressure and cutting it fine with her mushrooms, unlike Marco, who took all his mushrooms hours ago.<br />
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"You haven't got a second to waste," Marco lies. With five minutes to go, the contestants are for the sixtieth time urged to "push", as if that means anything whatsoever.<br />
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"Read the recipe, read the recipe, read the recipe, read the recipe, read the recipe," Marco barks. Jacqui wonders idly if he is trying to tell her something. She's worrying the balcony with her failure to remove the fat from her noisettes, but she refuses to bow to conventional standards of beauty.<br />
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Reynold is concerned that Andrea isn't going to get her mushrooms out in time, but given Reynold is incapable of making any dish that doesn't include ice cream and salted caramel, don't know why anyone would ever listen to him.<br />
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John bursts into tears as he sees his partner's face floating before him and realises that ghosts are real.<br />
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Jacqui now realises her failure to trim her noisettes and that she has shamed her family. Emotions are running high for the three amateurs, who are rightly disgusted with themselves.<br />
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Gary has no idea how they're going to go. He doesn't really even know who they are. He has not been paying attention to anything that's been happening since the auditions.<br />
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John plates up his noisettes first. They look good. Marco smiles at him erotically. John tells them how he left a job that he loves to pursue his dream of getting a job that he doesn't love. Marco thinks John doesn't like following recipes. Marco's fingers are crossed. Marco will consult the entrails of a boar and get back to John.<br />
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John has done a very good job. The judges can't stop talking about how white the artichokes are. It's kind of creepy. Marco thinks John has shown off who he is - a small round piece of meat in a brown sauce.<br />
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Next is Jacqui, with her fat-lined noisettes, one of which has burst. "Pressure's an amazing thing, isn't it?" Marco says, inviting her to his bed with his eyes. Jacqui loves to cook and wants to do more, which should be pretty easy because it's a free country and nobody is going to stop her from cooking if she wants to.<br />
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Matt thinks Jacqui's done a really good job. "Lamb loves garlic like a shark loves blood," he cries, which is a fairly sociopathic thing to say. The judges agree: she's done lots and lots of things wrong, but given their incredibly low expectations, she's done OK.<br />
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Andrea's turn. "It was amazing watching you today," says Marco, mentally carving her into thin strips. He pokes his noisette with his fingers, as close to foreplay as he ever gets.<br />
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Andrea's lamb is undercooked. Except Gary's bit. Gary is the favourite. Marco says he's "nitpicking" by noting that Andrea, an entrant in a cooking competition, has cooked badly. I guess he would rather we look at the big picture, like Andrea's posture and dress sense.<br />
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John's dish was the best. Andrea's was the worst. Which was saying something, because Jacqui's sucked. Andrea thanks the judges for an amazing experience, in the voice of someone who wishes she was at this moment walking into the sea. Marco tells Andrea again how much he loves watching her cook, and it is as always incredibly disturbing. There is a definite implication that Marco is going to follow Andrea home.<br />
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An epilogue informs us that Andrea is "exploring her food opportunities", so I guess she's basically given up. It says she hopes to stage pop-up dining events for charity, but that sounds a lot like something someone who has no plans would make up when a producer rang them up.<br />
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Tomorrow: an egg.<br />
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<b>Andrea learns her fate</b></div>
Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-62113721366974069052015-05-03T17:13:00.000-07:002015-05-03T17:13:14.523-07:00On The Revival Of Principle<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">For
as long as there have been politicians, the greatest problem society has
struggled with has been the question of how to attract outstanding candidates
to a life in politics. Given the moral and ethical compromises necessary to
build a successful political career, and the fundamentally corrupting nature of
power, how can we encourage talented, upright people of integrity to engage
with politics and thus change the system for the better?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So
it’s a slice of luck that the current golden age of political commitment has
come along to inspire a new generation of would-be statesmen and women. Where
once young people would look at their elected leaders and bemoan the way their
principles melted like ice in the sun once subjected to the realities of
democracy, now they can see the modern political breed and say to themselves,
if <i>I </i>enter politics, I’ll never have
to give up my firm commitment to torturing children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">That
was always a bit of a sticking point for talented youngsters seeking their way
in life. So many of them <i>wanted</i> to
devote themselves to public service, but were afraid that <i>realpolitik </i>would hold them back from expressing their deep moral
belief in the virtues of child torture. “If I stand for election,” they would
ponder, chewing their lips in trepidation, “electoral imperatives and
party-room manoeuvring may force me to water down, or even abandon, my
ambitions to torture large numbers of children, preferably foreign ones, in
island prisons.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">No
need to worry any more, MPs of the future! As the success of a generation of
red-hot parliamentary operators proves, principle and pragmatism CAN co-exist.
The days of an honest devotion to the practice of systemic child abuse being
incompatible with ultimate electoral triumph are over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">For
this we can probably thank the previous Labor government, and their willingness
to stand up for values. We all remember when Julia Gillard and Chris Bowen came
before the Australian people and said, “Enough is enough. No longer will this
government be guided by shabby expediency when it comes to deciding whether to
imprison innocent children in offshore camps with no regard to their safety.
No, from now on it is the dictates of our conscience that will guide us in
regard to the facilitation of physical, mental and sexual abuse against people of
all ages from other countries who wish to improve their lives.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And
since then, well, almost every pollie from either major party has picked up
that ball and run with it. Of course there are some standouts when it comes to
leading by example, like Scott Morrison and Tony Abbott, but even those you
might have imagined would never sacrifice short-term political gain for freedom
of conscience, like Malcolm Turnbull or Wayne Swan, have embraced the new
paradigm of idealism.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So
to the younger generation, I say: don’t be afraid! If you want to help shape
the world from the corridors of power, don’t hold back for fear of having your
deeply-held beliefs compromised. Don’t think that just because you’re dependent
on broad public appeal for your position, you’ll be asked to give up fighting
for the right of your country to brutally destroy the lives of children. The
truth is, despite what the cynics tell you, you <i>can</i> make a difference, as long as you are steadfast in your
principles and never forget the reason you entered politics in the first place
– a sincere and honest desire to condemn children to live blighted lives bereft
of hope in far-flung hells on earth while suffering daily degradation, agony
and psychological trauma.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So
get out there, kids, and make <i>your</i>
dreams come true! And, obviously, stop other kids from doing the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-37084390504291522632015-03-30T02:35:00.002-07:002015-03-30T02:35:45.102-07:00HOW TO BE A GREAT COMEDY REVIEWERWould you like to be a comedy reviewer? Are you hoping to get paid for watching funny folk, and then telling the punters what their hard-earned cash should be spent on? Do you dream of your byline appearing in the Age, or Herald Sun, or one of those stupid websites or something, above some well-considered views on the art of performance and the nature of humour?<div>
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Luckily, as someone whose diverse activities involve both the art of comedy AND the art of criticism, and as someone who is generally very clever, I am uniquely well-placed to provide you with the essential tips that will help turn you into a skilled comedy-reviewing machine. Sit down and take notes, kids, it's my</div>
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2015 PERFECT GUIDE TO WRITING COMEDY REVIEWS</div>
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1. Remember to include as much detail as possible. Audiences don't like to be surprised, and comedians don't like to surprise them. Your job is to be absolutely explicit in telling potential ticket-buyers what they're in for. Most importantly, make sure that if you remember any good punchlines, you quote them verbatim - comedians love it when you do this, as it helps create a "buzz".</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrGD39J3jNnVXBulhQ7I-kkmUlBtz12EpkZiI3DucJGEBwyax6BJeBAlRum6T7BdE48Ha3T55B1TGIGK_ed68sC2A_NzV_hgP-FN-xxjd1C-seyn_8ce6DCdALWT0mVTNAIxxrsPexjBA/s1600/burnett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrGD39J3jNnVXBulhQ7I-kkmUlBtz12EpkZiI3DucJGEBwyax6BJeBAlRum6T7BdE48Ha3T55B1TGIGK_ed68sC2A_NzV_hgP-FN-xxjd1C-seyn_8ce6DCdALWT0mVTNAIxxrsPexjBA/s1600/burnett.jpg" height="320" width="219" /></a></div>
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2. Make helpful suggestions whenever possible. If you're sitting in the audience of a show, and you think of a really good joke the comedian COULD have made, or a subject you'd like them to talk about, slip that into the review. It will be good constructive criticism for the performer, and act as a good warning for the reader that this is a comic who has a tendency to not make the same jokes that the audience came up with while watching them. Knock off a star or two for any comedian who fails to make a joke that you thought of - they're clearly not quick thinkers. Plus it lets the reader know you're a pretty funny peep yourself!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeih7gZ_Noad0qz6AQU9HXkyHHiM0qdioxAi8TWmvbmzUU0F-9j5h0jBoeyLYlPsDn19Ge3Tlzz4mRbiIAxIuT7RF4YaqK39025CVFub54yfJdCdL9nKSOLyakBKPR_U-yxNwIvVIdNZEg/s1600/laugh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeih7gZ_Noad0qz6AQU9HXkyHHiM0qdioxAi8TWmvbmzUU0F-9j5h0jBoeyLYlPsDn19Ge3Tlzz4mRbiIAxIuT7RF4YaqK39025CVFub54yfJdCdL9nKSOLyakBKPR_U-yxNwIvVIdNZEg/s1600/laugh.jpg" /></a></div>
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3. Describe the venue. This is crucial: nothing kills a comedy show like a comedian who refuses to perform in a big enough room, or provide comfortable chairs. The audience will want to know exactly what the venue will be like, and will hold you responsible if you recommend a comedian with a bad room. Don't let them get away with this.</div>
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4. Use lots of clever comedy-related phrases. For example, saying something "is no laughing matter" is a great way of indicating: a) that you know that comedy and laughter are connected, and b) that the thing you're talking about is no laughing matter". You could also use "tears of a clown" when a comedian talks about sad things, or "tickle the funny bone", if you want to indicated that something is funny, but need a more interesting, skeletal way of conveying it. Also, try to work in the term "belly laughs" as often as possible: it will tip the reader off that you know what you're doing to a very strong degree.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGc0aYtSBBWLO9mvSVSHDxOn6ZkYQj-bNIPhNWhVza4qxuFbwFIMDg-vtshJYruOgK13zoTCJsIb2gV7anjnkhkcZZ3CnVJl9J5FbDILwynR-BX8F8FzNwT-B_9I0ouVa3TdUcsCjja-1/s1600/l&h.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGc0aYtSBBWLO9mvSVSHDxOn6ZkYQj-bNIPhNWhVza4qxuFbwFIMDg-vtshJYruOgK13zoTCJsIb2gV7anjnkhkcZZ3CnVJl9J5FbDILwynR-BX8F8FzNwT-B_9I0ouVa3TdUcsCjja-1/s1600/l&h.jpg" height="130" width="320" /></a></div>
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5. If a comedian is making jokes about things that, if they weren't making jokes about them, would normally be pretty serious, you should not only mention the fact, but really try to express, in the strongest possible terms, how surprising it is that this should happen. This will responsibly inform potential audience members that hey, here is a show where serious things in life will be discussed and don't be alarmed if this happens.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHu7bjbN8rxvdYjclQlFPNjq6unWUcGAzqbH9Mft4FO6_uLh2TyqwpNxgHnYmp2dnnDQYSLLb8uf6NAmpyHEAwhvNSWbPSlZhj4_r9YXQqALMX1gb4oXNgcwh1vPq-r30z1GOzknSe5j_w/s1600/comedian-quotes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHu7bjbN8rxvdYjclQlFPNjq6unWUcGAzqbH9Mft4FO6_uLh2TyqwpNxgHnYmp2dnnDQYSLLb8uf6NAmpyHEAwhvNSWbPSlZhj4_r9YXQqALMX1gb4oXNgcwh1vPq-r30z1GOzknSe5j_w/s1600/comedian-quotes.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
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6. Make careful note of how often the comedian says swearwords. Many people decide which comic to see based on how many times swearing happens, and a strict accounting will help them make wise decisions.</div>
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7. Tell us what the comedian looks like. Clothes, hair, smile, everything. Nobody enjoys going to a comedy show without knowing beforehand how attractive they'll find the comedian - it can lead to all sorts of awkward moments. This is especially important for nice-looking people who say things that aren't nice. If that kind of cognitive dissonance is likely to be triggered, people need fair warning. It should be noted that this is mainly for girls, although it can be applied to men sometimes, particularly if they're fat.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcVLl8h31gqYfgfjt5lrh0DjgqaSfJ7o8f2kNmyBnmNKjqmaSernyZRXfRxsFcn1CIY1BJLg-ybQyQpaEnw94ueaYUVRw5RY07_fiaAQZsgDYCXDiTUPY2DlTOpK0MxjE2ivQiMIxXc_WU/s1600/whoopi-goldberg-300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcVLl8h31gqYfgfjt5lrh0DjgqaSfJ7o8f2kNmyBnmNKjqmaSernyZRXfRxsFcn1CIY1BJLg-ybQyQpaEnw94ueaYUVRw5RY07_fiaAQZsgDYCXDiTUPY2DlTOpK0MxjE2ivQiMIxXc_WU/s1600/whoopi-goldberg-300.jpg" /></a></div>
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8. Remember that if you don't understand the jokes, it is never your fault. Make sure everyone reading your review knows how angry you are about this.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGn7RFpNyDOkGldUS8hNyYewIMiBUgB6Rfc-_UtJwh5w9fVViFrBnp7rrzprKV-VIRBj3VtTnjbmqQm-Vh3VZBJlvG8x11YawaW19_-79amUz7EZ-31ouikfUeit0FsD13AHlyDdkbe1H3/s1600/puppet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGn7RFpNyDOkGldUS8hNyYewIMiBUgB6Rfc-_UtJwh5w9fVViFrBnp7rrzprKV-VIRBj3VtTnjbmqQm-Vh3VZBJlvG8x11YawaW19_-79amUz7EZ-31ouikfUeit0FsD13AHlyDdkbe1H3/s1600/puppet.jpg" /></a></div>
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9. If you can think of any comedian who in any way resembles to the slightest extent the comedian you are seeing, mention the fact that they are extremely similar. If you can't think of anyone, pick one at random: it is almost impossible for a person to understand what a comedy show will be like without reference to something they've seen before.</div>
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Happy reviewing!</div>
Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-26416892766732572072015-02-26T09:35:00.003-08:002015-02-26T09:35:39.587-08:00It's not a bug, it's a featureIn a profession for which dishonesty is common currency, from a government to whom the big lie comes more naturally than the blue tie, there are few falsehoods more pernicious, malicious and grotesque than this: that what occurs to asylum seekers in detention is a cause for sorrow.<br />
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Assaults on detainees? Murders? Suicides? Children driven to madness and self-harm? Terribly unfortunate, they will tell you, a saddening byproduct of policies put in place for the greater good. The current government preens and boasts that there are fewer children in detention under them than under the previous regime - we are caring more for these youngsters, they proclaim, we are lessening their suffering through our efficiency, strength and compassion.<br />
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The idea is that what happens to these children - and moreover to their parents, their siblings, and anyone else caught up in the gears of the detention machine - is terrible but unavoidable as long as people insist on coming by boat, and the only way to stop it is to stop those boats. We do not abuse these children, the government gasps - heavens NO! In fact we work assiduously to <i>prevent</i> the abuse. By...stopping the boats, of course.<br />
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Except, of course, they do not. Oh yes, they try to stop the boats; they will strain every sinew and work from dawn to dusk in the interests of boat-stopping. And yes, if the boats don't come, the detention centres don't fill up, in the same way that a prison will be closed down if you shoot all the criminals.<br />
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But don't let yourself believe for one second that when people <i>do</i> come by boat, when they <i>do </i>end up in the centres, that what happens there is by chance and not by design. What you read about what happens in these hideous places is exactly what is supposed to happen: pain, fear and anguish amounting to mass torture. When you hear that people from far-off lands who tried to reach our shores are being beaten or raped, that those paid to protect them are brutalising them, that their sanity is slipping irretrievably away, that small children are giving up on life and wishing for death...<br />
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When you are made aware of all this, don't let yourself believe that any of it is, to the slightest degree, in opposition to the government's plans. In fact, nothing could be more convenient for them. If the Immigration Minister did not specifically plan for the facilities under his control to become playgrounds for child abusers, it certainly worked out beautifully for his stated aims.<br />
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This is the entire purpose of the detention centres: they are there to cause suffering. They are there to ruin lives. They are there to turn existence into a waking nightmare for all who are imprisoned. They are there, most of all, to inspire terror across the world. They are designed to make even the most desperate and miserable of our planet's inhabitants accept their lot. They are calculated to cause people who see their future as so bleak and hopeless, if they stay where they are, that they will risk their own and their families' lives in dreadful ocean journeys, to believe that bleak and hopeless future is still preferable to what will be done to them in an Australian detention centre.<br />
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The system was set up specifically to inform anyone thinking of hopping on a boat in an attempt to make a better life in Australia that what we will do to you and your children is so awful that giving up on a better life altogether is a preferable option.<br />
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That is the intention. That is what the government is doing. And assaults, abuse, suicide and murder fit the plan to perfection.<br />
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It's not a bug, it's a feature. And it seems to be working quite marvellously well.<br />
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Not working to save lives, of course. Not working to help people. Not working to increase the net happiness in the world, or reduce the net unhappiness, by even the most infinitesimal amount.<br />
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But working to stop the boats? Yes.<br />
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Working to ensure we don't have to worry about unruly foreigners scurrying around in our nice clean country without the proper paperwork? Absolutely.<br />
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Working to make sure that any refugees who die do so neatly and well out of sight, fading away in foreign lands without hope or relief or meeting their fate in perilous voyages to countries yet to inspire as much fear as Australia does, beyond the reach of photographers who can remind us of the uncomfortable facts of the world? Without a shadow of a doubt.<br />
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It works to keep people in their place. It works to save us the bother of caring for anyone different to ourselves. It works to cement the idea in the local populace that the government in well-fed, luxurious Australia has the right to tell people in less luxurious places - who want to try for a share of the riches that are ours by nothing more than dumb blind luck - that they are unfit to make any decisions about what risks might be worthwhile taking to improve their lot in life or build a future for their families.<br />
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Cruelty is government policy. Not secretly, but trumpeted from the rooftops as proof of our rulers' muscular competency. Not cruel to be kind, but cruel to be terrifying: so terrifying that eventually we won't have to actually inflict the cruelty; the knowledge of how cruel we are will be enough to keep everyone well away from us.<br />
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And the best part? There's nothing we can do about it. We can complain, we can protest, we can rage and we can harangue - and we should do all these things because they are the only things we can do. But we are outnumbered, and outgunned. Cruelty is popular and terror is beloved. At the next election one side might win, or the other might, but either way the ship of state will continue serenely on its current bearing, steadfast in the now-indisputable view that brutality is the only way to protect this country from whatever it is we were told we needed to be protected from, all those years ago.<br />
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Vicious, sadistic, unapologetic abuse of the innocent is now bipartisan, and for the foreseeable future, immovable and untouchable as the foundational principle of strong government. So ingrained is it that we'll be complimentary of the man or woman who wears a sad face while they torture. We'll appreciate the leader who we believe abuses out of a fear of polls rather than a native hatred. We'll be grateful for mercies so small they can't even be seen.<br />
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The world will move on, and the atrocities will continue, and the sadness of the world will grow. We must keep speaking and we must keep hoping that the tide will turn some day. We have to believe that a sliver of decency can find its way through.<br />
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Or maybe we won't. Maybe we'll grow to accept this all as so many of our countrymen and women have, and one day it'll seem normal, and we'll end up nodding wisely and saying, like good patriots, "Mm, strong borders. Has to be done."<br />
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But what we can't do, what we can't forget, ever, is that this is not happening by accident. This is not a side-effect of necessary measures. Always, always remember: what is happening in those godforsaken camps is exactly what our leaders want to happen.<br />
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Suffering is the heart of their plan, and they will go to their graves clutching it fondly to themselves, smiling at how well they handed it out.Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-83651370267339889492015-02-19T21:36:00.002-08:002015-02-19T21:36:32.436-08:00Harris Wittels, 1984-2015Last year one of the funniest men on the planet took his own life. He was 63 years old and had spent his whole life fighting his own pain until he was too exhausted to keep it up.<br />
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This week, again one of the funniest men on the planet left us. He was 30 years old, and I don't know why or how he came to leave. He'd had his problems, he'd told the world about them, and it had seemed that he'd come through them to somewhere better. I don't know what happened that made it all fall apart.<br />
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In fact I don't really know anything about him, and it's kidding myself to act like I did. As much as I wished I could have met him, I never did. I didn't know him, but we so easily come to feel that we do know people who can make us laugh, even when it's just through the sound of their voice, recorded on the other side of the world. I didn't know Harris Wittels at all, I just knew he was brilliant and funny and what he did made my life better. There are countless people who would say exactly the same.<br />
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If losing someone so young and so suddenly is inexplicable, it feels all the more so when it's someone so full of that supreme talent for creating laughter. But there never was a way to turn the ability to make jokes into the ability to make yourself happy. Comedy doesn't protect you from pain or diseases or addictions or stupid meaningless accidents or any of the monsters that come to steal away young lives. All it does is paint the tragedy with a kind of sick irony, make it look on the surface to be so perverse that it paradoxically becomes easier for us to process - the juxtaposition of laughter and tears so extreme that it's somehow fitting.<br />
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But no, that's not all comedy does in these times - it also leaves something behind. Harris Wittels could have, should have, would have done so much more, but he'd also done so much already, and he's left us all a lot of beauty to remember him with.<br />
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That's something, but it's hard to see right now. Right now my heart hurts and all I can see is that there is so much sadness in the world, and it might be insurmountable.Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-22106849855391532252014-12-30T18:54:00.001-08:002014-12-30T18:54:47.231-08:002014: The Definitive List Of Retrospective ThingsWow, what a year! There were ups, there were downs, there were laughs, there were tears, there were days, there were months, there were low pressure systems, there were sandbanks. But most of all there were things. And though others may have impressed you with their looks back at the things of 2014, none of those OTHER lists are as comprehensive and definitive as this, my specially curated List Of The Things Of 2014, a retrospective of the things that in 2014, we could say without fear of contradiction, were.<br />
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1. These sheep<br />
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<img src="http://news.bbcimg.co.uk/media/images/79969000/jpg/_79969777_db9a2284-3980-48fd-aae5-cb7c5c54e4aa.jpg" /><br />
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Wow, remember these sheep? No? Well, someone does!<br />
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2. Oranges<br />
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<img src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ2TaHiit6CsSxJwXWDLSleznkKX1PbbE-ceako8FH7OS1mDCBNxw" /><br />
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If there's one thing you can say about 2014, it's "wow, this year people ate some oranges". Have truer words ever been written?<br />
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3. The guy from Blue's Clues<br />
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<img height="250" src="http://i.vimeocdn.com/video/459725037_1280x1001.jpg" width="320" /><br />
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What did THIS guy get up to in 2014? Nobody knows! Apart from presumably his family and friends!<br />
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4. Exercise bikes<br />
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<img src="http://spinning-eindhoven.nl/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/spinning.jpg" /><br />
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When we look back at 2014, will we remember it as the year of exercise bikes? We might!<br />
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5. Bricks<br />
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<img height="212" src="http://www.greenprophet.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/red-brick.jpg" width="320" /><br />
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Some people might have thought we'd be "over" bricks by 2014, but no, bricks carried on as strong as ever!<br />
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6. An angry leopard<br />
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<img 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" /><br />
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It's amazing how often this year our lives were impacted by the existence of an angry leopard. I sure didn't see that coming a year ago!<br />
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7. President Barack Obama<br />
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<img src="http://mixednation.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Barack-Obama.jpg" /><br />
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A lot of good judges think 2014 was the year that President Barack Obama was more president than he'd ever been. The thousands of people abducted by Mr Obama during the year would agree!<br />
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8. Trains<br />
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<img src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTMKnX6Gqup3GCMW77yYiuPzco_mU52IyW89b4FnZB_tR99W4jIXA" /><br />
<br />
Whether you live in the city, the country, or the bottom of the ocean, one thing's for sure: 2014 had trains in it!<br />
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9. Hunting in bright clothing<br />
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<img src="http://s.hswstatic.com/gif/public-image-of-hunters-1.jpg" /><br />
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It was almost like an epidemic in 2014, as millions of people suddenly put on bright clothing and hunted!<br />
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10. Machines<br />
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<img height="262" src="http://www.rmpanchal.com/images/paper_cutting_machine_big.png" width="320" /><br />
<br />
If you're like me, you were stunned by how many machines were in places in this past year!<br />
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11. Writing<br />
<br />
<img src="data:image/jpeg;base64,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" /><br />
<br />
Against all expectations, writing kept happening!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
WOW! What a year!<br />
<br />
<br />Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-66051603153766164572014-12-07T16:48:00.001-08:002014-12-07T16:48:17.161-08:00Stella Young 1982-2014How feeble words seem today. How impossible it is to find a way to describe what we've lost.<br />
<br />
Stella was ferocious. She was hilarious. She was irresistible. She hated to be called an "inspiration", but she inspired me, because nobody I've ever met fought so hard, so uncompromisingly, for what she believed in. And she did it with a wicked smile and made you laugh your guts out the whole time.<br />
<br />
Stella was a warrior who took on the injustice she saw in the world and refused to ever be defeated.<br />
<br />
Stella was an artist who won your heart and changed your mind, forced you to think as easily as she forced you to laugh - or cry.<br />
<br />
Stella was a teacher who opened my eyes to so much that I needed to know.<br />
<br />
Stella was my friend. And I'm so incredibly proud, and so incredibly lucky, to be able to say that.<br />
<br />
My words are so feeble today. If you don't know how extraordinary Stella was, <a href="http://www.theage.com.au/lifestyle/celebrity/stella-youngs-letter-to-herself-at-80-years-old-20141122-11llol.html" target="_blank">read hers instead</a>.<br />
<br />
<img alt="Stella Young: The assumption is that people like us die young." src="http://www.theage.com.au/content/dam/images/1/1/l/1/l/x/image.related.articleLeadwide.620x349.11llol.png/1417995050096.jpg" />Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-83838049231701738642014-11-12T03:18:00.001-08:002014-11-12T03:18:17.117-08:00Cheese<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Cheese!<br />
<br />
Even the sound of the word excited him. <i>Cheese</i>. <i>Cheeeeeese</i>. Like
the whirring of some marvellous contraption, a futuristic machine designed for
pure human delight. He could see it in mind's eye: gears spinning, pistons
pumping, steam bursting joyfully from the chimney atop the device, whistling to
let all know that the cheese was ready; the Delight-O-Tron spitting forth
divine hunks of yellow and white, and even blue and green, magical slabs of
pungent paradise for all to consume and sate themselves with ecstasy.<br />
<br />
This is what he saw. Reality was sadly different, and as the wrappers piled
high in the corners of his flat, he knew he must be content with daydreams. In
this harsh capitalistic world, nobody else saw cheese the way he did. The other
invention he fantasised about was a new kind of nuclear-powered spectacles,
attuned to a specific cheese-friendly frequency. When you put them on, your
appreciation of cheese would intensify beyond belief. Looking at cheese with
these glasses, one would experience such dizzy heights of joy...everyone would
know what it was like for him. He had been born with Cheese Specs. He yearned
to bring them to the world. Alas, he lacked the technology. The fact was that
all the time he could have spent learning of physics and electronics and
mechanical engineering had been entirely taken up with the consumption and
appreciation of cheese. And so, his love of cheese had robbed him of the
ability to fulfil it. This thought could at times reduce him to such despair that
he would collapse in a puddle of paradox and lie weeping for hours, nibbling
melancholically at a wedge of Jarlsberg.<br />
<br />
He knew there must be, somewhere, the answer to that question that had burned
inside him as long as he could remember, like a dairy-based blowtorch. It was
hard to bear, and even harder to understand: cheese satisfied him, more than
man has ever been satisfied by anything, at least as far as he knew. Casanova
looking back on his legions of female conquests, Michaelangelo recalling his incomparable
catalogue of artistic supernovas, Caesar himself surveying all the lands he had
brought to heel before his standard, none could possibly have felt such surges
of euphoric content, such electric bolts of all-consuming happiness, as were
his at the end of a day getting to grips with a consignment of Gorgonzola. And
yet... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And yet it
seemed that satisfaction, so far from being <i>dis</i>satisfaction's mortal
foe, was in fact its meek and humble handmaiden. For no matter how satisfied he
became, it was not satisfied enough. Always, the gnawing began again...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Cheese was his,
and it was glorious. But the glory of his personal affair with the sublime curd
was nothing, a speck of plankton in a wall of baleen, when compared to the
glory he imagined, saw in the distance, felt tingling at his extremities, heard
echoing within his skull, tasted, dancing, on the tip of his tongue...the glory
of spreading cheese to all the world and bringing that indescribable joy to the
masses, disseminating his love infinitely and watching the whole world rejoice
in cheese's benevolent embrace. The glory imagined dwarfed the glory realised
by so far that every day he woke up with a hollowness in the pit of his
stomach, a metaphysical famine that a quickly scoffed Camembert wheel could
dissipate only temporarily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And so, finally,
after years of enduring the burning ache, he made a decision. A decision that
would change not only his own life, but the very world itself. A decision that
in the pursuit of the ultimate goal, he would make the ultimate sacrifice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He would give up
cheese.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He could see,
all too clearly, that cheese was standing in its own way. Eating cheese took up
too much time; the buying, the unwrapping, the setting out, the savouring of
aromas and tender prodding of textures. The long, lingered-over consumption,
the reverent afterglow. The recording of details in his dark blue Cheese Log.
The agonised composition of words to do justice to the delicacy, lest he
someday forget a single bite. It devoured his time, and left not a second for
planning and plotting, for devising of schemes to encircle the globe with
cheese.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He must,
therefore, set cheese aside, and bend every sinew towards his greater goal.
Though it would be torture, his reunion with cheese at the completion of his task
would be all the sweeter for the knowledge that it was earned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Torture, in
fact, was far too mild a word for what the coming weeks brought him. Every day,
as he sketched blueprints, constructed scale models, sat in the library behind
piles upon piles of weighty, sombre volumes, he felt the siren song of Lady
Mold calling him. Every night, as he sat by the light of an inadequate lamp,
scribbling madly in exercise book after exercise book, ruling lines, measuring
angles, feverishly tearing pages out of phone books and pasting them in
esoteric configurations on huge slabs of cardboard, he felt the knives of
cheese-lust hacking away at his flesh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh, he ate, but
poor fare. Bread. Butter. Meat. Vegetables. He drank waters and juices, and
even milk - O sweet tantalisation, so near yet so far - but cheese passed not
his lips. Passed not even his doorway; he knew the limits of his willpower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And so he
worked. He became gaunt and ragged. His clothes grew filthy and began falling
to pieces. His eyes assumed a staring, haunted look. His face was pale and
pinched. The marks of obsession were stamped upon him like the imprint of
Surchoix upon an Appenzeller. Soon, soon, he would waste away to nothing. Soon,
the cheese would claim him, as it had his forebears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh, nobody knew
of them, of course. It was not widely reported when a lone lunatic fell victim
to the ravages of cheese. Felled before their plans could reach fruition, they
were anonymous, unloved and unmourned. But he, yes, he knew them. He had read,
he had learnt, he had come to know just what a lethal endeavour he had embarked
upon. The names floated like ghosts before his weary, bulging eyes.
Lippinziger, Rothwell, Gerdell de la Bosconi. Noble men, men who had <i>believed</i>
in cheese, who had looked cheese in the face and smiled as it took their lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He knew he was
destined to join their ranks. Perhaps, then, he would know peace, he would know
bliss. He would be transported to Cheese Heaven, where even Brocciu is
endlessly available, and the only company would be those other brave men who
understood his passion. But one way or another, he was heading down that road.
The cheese was coming for him. Fate had drained the whey. The desire for just
one wedge, just one slice, just one smear across a cracker...it would overwhelm
him. To go without cheese for a day was agony. This...this was the Inferno.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And that's when
it happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This emaciated
shell of a man, this ghoul, this half-crazed banshee, sitting one night, eight
weeks past the start of his project, staring at his notes, his blueprints, his
maps, his scrapbooks, his models, his painstaking graphs...found the answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And when it came
it struck him with the force of an Emmental fired from a Howitzer. It had been
there all along. He was a genius without knowing it. The Cheese Conundrum had
been solved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And suddenly,
that cold night, flickering candle dimly lighting his laughing, dirty,
whiskered, madman's face, he knew that the world was his for the taking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The rest of the
night, he sat happily in the doorway of the shop across the street, rocking, a
contented smile upon his face, and when they opened, he bought every last scrap
of Gruyere in the place, and ate it right there, grinning from ear to ear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Not that it was
that simple, of course. Yes, he had the answer, but the practical work had
still to be done. Construction was undertaken. A score of strong men were hired
and told of a hefty share of the profits if they bent their arms to the task
with all possible vigour. Day and night they laboured in his new makeshift factory,
hammering, riveting, bolting, welding, scraping and oiling, but still their
hours were as nothing compared to the work he himself put in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The word went
out. Clever men in suits were employed to spread the message, to bring
habringers of the coming of the new age. Rumours of the miracle of this fresh
invention were carefully and scientifically placed and propagated in all
corners of the green earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And after months
of preparation, it was ready. He rented a suit. He stood nervously on the steps
of the Town Hall, dignitaries surrounding him, press confronting him, a crowd
hanging on his every word as he stammeringly, haltingly, did the best he could
to put into words what he knew words could never describe. His vision, his
dream, come to life. The device that would change all of their lives, and so
much for the better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He knew as he
spoke that they were there, not to celebrate cheese, or to experience the
possibility of altering their lives forever. They were there to capture failure
in its first blush. They were there to see him fall. And he prayed, as he
prepared to pull aside the drapery, that it was not all for naught. It had been
tested...it would work now, wouldn't it? His dream...it was not a foolish
fantasy? It really <i>was</i> real, yes?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He unveiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And...the gasp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The gasp that
was heard around the world. Such a thing of beauty. Of impossible elegance and
perfection, yet of such undeniable, irresistible substance and functionality.
The first sight of it sent a shockwave of excitement through the crowd. When it
was turned on...the thrill went to the core of every human present and struck
outwards, like ripples on a stone-addled pond, like an exploding wheel of Brie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Within a day the
world was abuzz. Within a week seven hundred more devices were in production.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Within six
months cheese consumption had multiplied tenfold. Within a year, a
thousandfold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Cheese had
conquered the world. The plan had worked. Good had triumphed. Now, he could
rest. And rest he did. Fabulously wealthy, wanting for nothing, he spent his
days reclining in luxury, bringing forth from his vast refrigerated cheese
vaults such a cornucopia of wonders as he would never have considered possible
for such a poor, unremarkable specimen as himself. Now and then he spoke, he
lectured on cheese, its significance, its history, its inimitable beauty and
unparalleled mystique. He gained more honorary doctorates than he knew what to
do with. He was in demand from social sets the world over. And always, the
cheese. Whatever cheese he wanted. Soft, hard, pressed, unpressed, cow's milk,
goat's milk. He discovered the exquisite taste of cheeses he had hitherto only
dreamed about. Rare cheeses, exotic cheeses. Brie, Camembert, Roquefort,
Geitost, Mozzarella, Ricotta, Mascotta, Cheshire, Gloucester, Romano, Edam,
Gouda, Colby, Pecorino, Munster, Stilton, Urda, Cas, Neufchatel, Paneer, Queso
Fresco, Brousse, Chevre...these were a mere appetiser for the universe he was
now wandering through. He had all he wanted, but far more importantly, to him,
he had made a difference. He had opened the eyes of the world to cheese and all
its possibilities. His goal was achieved, his purpose fulfilled. The world was
a better, more fragrant, more joyous and lovely place because of him. People
everywhere were happy, and cheese-filled. With this in mind, he could have
remained a stick-thin pauper and been happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And then one
day...not long after the unveiling...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He awoke and
strode to the kitchen. Days of emaciation and filth long behind him, now sleek
and filled with joie de vivre, he felt he would start another wonderful day
with a hearty breakfast. His mood was mellow and old-fashioned. He decided on
staunch traditionalism, withdrawing a mighty hunk of blazing yellow Swiss magic
from its shelf. Seated at his broad breakfast table, he plunged in his knife,
and took a weighy slice from the body, biting into it with the enthusiasm of
the perfectly balanced. And as he bit, he felt something he had never before
felt while eating cheese.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He blinked,
confused. He bit again. Still nothing. No thrill, no tingling, no explosion of
flavour, no electricity, not even the smallest frisson shooting through his
body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Perhaps, he
thought, he had been overdoing the Swiss lately. Returning to the fridge, he
withdrew a pungent slab of Limburger, and devoured the whole thing on the spot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">His tastebuds
remained stoically indifferent. A sense of unease rising within him, he pulled
out a ball of mozzarella, and gulped it down, with no more reaction from his
physiology than if he had gorged himself on week-old rice cakes. No pleasure,
no fizzing fireworks in the brain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A wheel of
Camembert, a scrap of Edam, a desperate scraping of Monterey Jack, all
shovelled down, all with no result but a slightly heavier sensation in the
stomach. Unease had turned to panic. Tears pricked his eyes and he fought them.
This was <i>cheese</i>, he couldn't be feeling <i>nothing</i>. He simply had to
find the right one to spark his old self to life again. Perhaps he had
overslept and his system was not yet fully awake. He would perk himself up, and
in the blink of an eye, his love affair with the curd and the mold would resume
as passionately as ever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And so, as he
frantically boiled and downed a jug of coffee, he hurled as much cheese as he
could into a saucepan and turned up the heat. Within minutes, he tipped the pan
up and poured the cheese like boiling wine down his throat. The stream of
boiling yellow fire scorched his oesophagus, but no more. Gasping, he fell to
his knees and rummaged through his stocks some more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Pulling cheese
after cheese out, he tried each one. Yellow, white, blue, red, green...the most
exotic cheeses from the most far-flung lands, the most unexpected animals, the
most bizarre of homespun and high-tech techniques...and none of it changed a thing.
Tears streamed down his face, his burning throat screamed at him, and his heart
felt near to melting and running out his pores. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Finally he got
to the back of the cabinet and brought forth the last. With wrappers and
discarded pieces of cheese littering the floor around him, he sat miserably in
the centre of his dairy graveyard and held the chunk of ordinary everyday
cheddar in his lap. Cheddar was the beginning of his journey, and now...the
end? Of late he had forgotten about good old cheddar, intoxicated by the
enormity of his gift to humanity and the seemingly endless variety of
impossible rarities hurled at him by the world's grateful cheesemakers. And
yet...cheddar was the heart and soul of cheese, was it not? Cheddar. His old
friend cheddar. He nursed it against his cheek, enjoying the coolness on his
skin and whispering to it as to a secret lover. Cheddar would save him. he
angled it wearily towards his aching, exhausted lips, and took a bite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He chewed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He swallowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And he knew, as
the fragment travelled to its final destination, that he might just as well
have bitten into the polystyrene packing the fridge arrived in. The truth fell
on him like a ton of Parmesan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He was dead.
Dead to cheese.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He threw back
his head and howled. All his work, all his striving and passion, returned in
the shimmering air before his eyes, taunting and cackling at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And he fell face
down on the kitchen floor, as the gutted Camembert mingled with his tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogcontent" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Ben Pobjiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07320337293942659210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281415506871751523.post-42123455545107807542014-11-10T04:21:00.001-08:002014-11-10T04:21:05.868-08:00TUESDAY HOROSCOPES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!<b>SAGITTARIUS: </b>Happiness comes to few people in this life, and certainly not to you. Heavy drinking will numb the pain.<br />
<br />
<b>AQUARIUS: </b>A secret you'd thought long-forgotten rears its ugly head at a most inopportune moment. Distracted, you stumble and are trampled by a runaway goat. Years of painful therapy later you learn to use your left hand again, but find this doesn't satisfy you because you lost the only woman you ever loved. You look her up on Facebook but at that moment the secret rears its ugly head again and you accidentally send her a photograph of your penis. You cry for hours.<br />
<br />
<b>ARIES: </b>Weather plays a big part in your week. There'll be some, for sure.<br />
<br />
<b>LEO: </b>Try not to overeat this week, unlike other weeks when you should definitely overeat. Family matters consume most of your attention, after you discover that your mother has for many years been a wanted bank robber.<br />
<br />
<b>CANCER: </b>A routine trip to the doctor's ends in tragedy, but fortunately not for you, as you at no point will go to the doctor this week. However you will have some minor trouble attempting to poach an egg, triggering your Vietnam flashbacks.<br />
<br />
<b>SCORPIO: </b>Your theories on racial superiority get you in hot water with the diocese, but you must remember to be true to your beliefs. At some point on the weekend a duck will bite you. You will never quite get over this.<br />
<br />
<b>TAURUS: </b>An impulsive trip to Nigeria has far-reaching consequences which I can't divulge at this stage. That uncomfortable feeling in your pants, you will find, is indeed a tube of liquid cement.<br />
<br />
<b>GEMINI: </b>The vague foreboding that has been plaguing you is explained this week when a letter arrives informing you that you have been dead for eight years. Don't let it get you down, as you will be getting much worse news on the following day. Your shoes will cause trouble for a schoolteacher. 'Nuff said.<br />
<br />
<b>LIBRA: </b>Romance intrudes upon your peaceful life this week when a pair of young lovers falls out of a hot-air balloon and through your skylight. Your efforts to dispose of the bodies will be just the thing to reinvigorate your lust for life.<br />
<br />
<b>CAPRICORN: </b>You will meet a small, pale Taurus who will tell you she is your birth mother, but she is lying. Early Friday morning a bear will severely maim you.<br />
<br />
<b>VIRGO: </b>You will finally give in to the temptation to eat the loose skin you peel from your sunburnt legs. It's actually really tasty, isn't it? Don't be ashamed, it's totally natural, I promise.<br />
<br />
<b>PISCES: </b>Don't let other people tell you what you can or can't do: find out for yourself what you can or can't do by trying and failing at many different things. This will be a good week for gardening, taking up a sport, or inserting something into yourself. While baking a pie you inadvertently discover the identity of your grandfather's murderer.<br />
<br />
<br />
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