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GOF the Masterchef

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My small country town held a Masterchef competition last week. It was a fundraiser at the church for our beloved Bishop Risotto Parmagiano. He is suffering from depression and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome after he scored an incredible 99% in a paternity test of the Rawlinson quintuplets.
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Our talents are for giving
As philanthropic deeds
To the destitute, and spawn
Of Bishop’s holy seeds.
There were nine young contestants,
Plus me, I tagged along
With ‘old age and treachery’
Whistlin’ Willie Nelson’s song.

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Seven of ‘em exited
Before the show began.
I uncorked my flask marked ‘Anthrax’
And they all took off and ran.
So as I surveyed pots and woks
And lentils, nuts and ghee,
There remained just the three of us;
Gaylord, Fat Anne and me.

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Next to go was gourmand Anne
With a loaf of sourdough bread.
Golden brown and shaped a little
Like Bishop Risotto’s head.
Smiling wide with nostrils flared
Fat Anne was thrilled to bits,
But I’d laced her flour with Epsom Salts
And the judges got the shits.

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Gaylord mortar-pestled with
An alcoholic grin,
From vodka in his drinking glass.
How the hell did that get in?
He fell down drunk and went to sleep,
So now I’m here to boast,
‘Bout how I won the Masterchef
With canned baked beans on toast.
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Wickedness

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Thankfully we got rid of most forms of censorship in Australia, but that does not give adults the right to behave in a manner which is prejudicial to maintaining an environment of innocence for our children.  
Warning;   This story necessarily contains one tasteless sexual reference.

 

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Wicked Campervans began operating in Cairns a long time ago hiring affordable wheels, primarily to young backpackers. For many years I was wholesomely entertained by the passing parade of witty slogans and eye-catching paintings on their vans. Proclamations such as “A baby ate my dingo” and “Virginity is curable” still make me smile.

In recent times the slogans have became increasingly crude, sexist and misogynous accompanied by sexually explicit illustrations. I will spare you the worst of them which graphically demean women and sexuality. We’re not talking bumper stickers here…..this is stuff most people can read from 50 paces, and myopic GOF from ten.

The proprietors of Wicked have been thumbing their noses at complaints from locals, and authorities failed to intervene as it seems motor vehicles are exempt from scrutiny or regulation under any Australian public decency or advertising standards legislation.

It required a courageous eleven year old girl from interstate to stop the rot. She was offended by the prominent tailboard slogan “In any princess there is a little slut who wants to try it just once” and initiated a media campaign which received a tidal wave of support from around the nation.

The company has now been forced to back down and apologise and begin the huge task of erasing offensive material from dozens of their vans.

I am left wondering why all the responsible adults sat on their hands while Wicked sped so far out of control leaving one little girl to deploy the metaphorical spike mat which finally brought the vulgarity to a halt.
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The last blacktracker

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(My use of the word ‘blacktracker’ instead of ‘Aboriginal Police Tracker’ may be politically incorrect in 2014, but it is part of our vernacular and as I am using it with respectful intent I don’t give a rat’s arse.)

 

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Australia cannot claim much moral high ground over America or South Africa when it comes to the past treatment of people of colour.

Until the 1960′s Australian aborigines had no voting rites, the National census classified them as ‘fauna’ and many were forced to live in shanty settlements on the outskirts of our towns.

This is the reality of the country in which I was raised, yet ‘white Australia’ still grabbed every opportunity to bask in the glory of those aboriginals who excelled despite their ethnic subjugation.

On one hand we lauded the exceptional achievements of Albert Namatjira (artist),  Kath Walker (poet),  Doug Nicholls (Pastor and Governor,) and Lionel Rose (boxer), whilst with the other we abducted aboriginal children from their parents.

Blacktrackers have always been an under-appreciated part of our history.

For more than 100 years they have been employed in remote locations to work alongside European police officers, using their unique tracking skills and knowledge of ‘country’ to locate fugitives and lost travelers. In places far away from ambulances and Forensic Crash Units they were also called upon to assist with first response services and investigation of motor vehicle accidents.

Barry Post, age 72, (pictured above) retired last week at Coen, a remote township on Cape York Peninsula.   He was Australia’s last blacktracker, an occupation made redundant by satellite imagery, GPS and mobile phones.

Blacktrackers served Australia with distinction (and inferior employment conditions) and they should never be forgotten.

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A useful purpose

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This is my Maori weapon from New Zealand, a patu or mere, traditionally used to stave in the skulls of enemies, some juvenile delinquents, and presumably any irritating little turd who popped his head up at an inopportune moment.

A very useful purpose indeed.

My traditional patu is made from very dense wood shaped by a traditional band saw, engraved using a traditional industrial wood stamping machine before being finished off with three coats of traditional petro-chemical varnish applied through a traditional air-powered paint gun.

I inherited my patu following my mums death 23 years ago. Since then it has been sitting on the shelf gathering dust. A little like me really.

Neither of us have a purpose. Until…….

until……I remembered my all-time favourite comedy sketch featuring Rowan Atkinson.

Sunday I will be purposefully taking my patu into the city.

There is a great deal of work which needs to be done.

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My car is a bomb.

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MY CAR IS A BOMB

 
I bought this new vee-hickle,
A green and purple van,
From Yakuza Motors Incorporated
At Fukushima in Japan.
They assembled it from spare parts
Found scattered up the street,
On rooftops and in trees and
Under slabs of thick concrete.

The seats are radioactive.
It runs on nuclear power.
I outrun all the cops doin’
Two hundred miles an hour.
I fill ‘er up with uranium.
Special blend of two three five.
A single rod for every gear,
Plus two for overdrive.

The chain reaction starts by
Pushing pedal to the floor.
Smokin’ beryllium out the back
You can hear my turbines roar.
But I’ve got a little problem
That worries me somewhat;
Festering ulcers up my nose
With pustules oozing snot.

There’s lesions on my larynx,
Cysts and blisters down below,
And I illuminate the neighbourhood
With my incandescent glow.
I’m sure the car is not to blame.
It’s the vindaloo I ate,
At Mother India Restaurant
Wot’s caused this deathly fate.
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Double-barreled football

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Another cultural gift from The Bucket Sports Department.

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DCE

Daly Cherry-Evans  is a prominent player in Australian Rugby League football.

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Now I’m not about to make fun of his name because   I don’t want to run the risk of him coming around here and thumping the scheissen out of me I am an extremely charitable soul.

Instead I’ll just introduce some other hyphenated hunks of humanity who lace up their boots every weekend and bend over into the scrum to have their brains scrambled, rotator cuffs demolished and bottoms digitally remastered. (here)
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Fortnightly Cantaloupe-Minesweeper.

Wallace Gromit-Parker-Bowles-Windsor     (Import from U.K.)

Kim Sun-Bush     (Korean American import)

Rastas Guggenheim-Mohammet     (Stateless import)

Li Ping-Pong     (Import from Serbia)

Matthew Brew-Munder

John-Susan Smith

Moses Inder-Bullrush

Zack Warrior-Princess

Confucius Thatcher-Hefner

Tupac Daley-Habbitt     (Import from USA)

Palmer Carpal-Tunnel

Dallas Hooshot-Jayyar      (Import from Arab Emirates)
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The Bucket has yet to snare an Australian Media Association’s award for excellence in sports journalism. I have a good feeling about 2014.
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Ophelia’s shoes

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Sadness warning.
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(Based on a true story which touched my heart.)
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OPHELIA’S SHOES
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Ophelia was an infant star
In a town I’ll leave unknown.
Her flaxen hair and impish smile
Melted hearts made out of stone.
The cake with candles three on top
Was iced in rainbow hues.
It’s party time: “Mama please,
Put on my nice pink shoes.”

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Ophelia ballerina,
At the age of just sixteen
Was invited to audition
And debut as the Swan Queen.
Through pain there came perfection.
She surely paid her dues,
And when the big night came,
She put on her nice pink shoes.

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Ophelia shared her life and love
With Maree, a dancer too.
This passionate affection
Was known only by a few.
Unofficially they married
In a bar that played the blues,
And Ophelia and Maree
Both wore their nice pink shoes.

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One year on: Maree was killed
While texting at the wheel.
Ophelia has a shattered spine
And legs that cannot feel.
Wheelchair bound she sits all day
By windows with some views.
With broken soul: “Mama please
Put on my nice pink shoes.”

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