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A useful purpose

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IMG_4492

 

 

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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Déjà vu; The Goats and The Donkeys

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(Any similarity to the state of play in Australian politics is just some really weird coincidence.)
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The Goats were elected to govern the Australia Paddock some time ago after the Donkeys kept spitting and biting and kicking each other and crapping all over their own sleeping pads.

The first job the Goats did was to fix up the fences to stop all the outsiders from wandering willy nilly into our home Paddock whenever they felt like it.

After that was done the Goats discovered to their horror that the grass in the home Paddock was being eaten at a faster rate than it was growing.
In fact there was bugger-all grass left at all because the Donkeys (and another lot of Goats before them) had been so consumed with digging big holes and selling dirt out of the paddock to the Pandas in another field that they never noticed the disappearing grass.

When the Pandas decided they didn’t want any more of our dirt, the Goats panicked and immediately rushed into the silo to get some seed to start planting more grass. Lo and behold they discovered that the silo was empty and all it contained was a heap of bloated old Donkeys and Goats burping from overindulgence and three hundred corpulent foreign squirrels who’d been permitted to feed off the granary without ever having to contribute to it.

The Goats then decided it was time for all the animals in the Australia Paddock to start contributing more to it’s upkeep. This idea failed to pass the ultimate test of statesmanship and responsible governance;  The Popularity Poll.
It was also knocked on the head by one big fat Independent Wombat who had already single-handedly dug up much of the home Paddock and eaten it out of house and home.
A few green parrots camouflaged in the branches of the Parliament Tree also made some meaningless chirps and warbles but they soon went back to filling their bellies with perkberries.

Eventually the ruling Goats became obsessed with their popularity slump so they started spitting and biting and kicking each other, as well as crapping all over their own sleeping pads, and …………….

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So where are all the wise owls when we so desperately need them?

They’ve been relegated to a patch of remnant habitat in the back corner of the Paddock. The environment created by the Donkeys and the Goats is unsuitable for their survival.

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Simon the wonder forecaster

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Farming is an occupation where financial viability is often determined by events beyond our control.

Children, an excellent traditional source of free labour, have the propensity to irresponsibly leave the family farm at around the age of 20 to look for a paying job, search for some nooky, or plug into Australia’s social welfare payroll from a more prestigious address such as Surfers Paradise.
Politicians mess with our livelihoods yet we are not permitted to shoot or castrate them as we would any other feral pest. Rural life is just one disappointment followed by another.
Weather is farming’s greatest uncertainty. In Australia we have one of the most technologically advanced organisations in the world charged with monitoring and predicting weather.
For the last 20 years at 6.35 every morning I have turned on ABC radio to hear various blokes (until recently they were all male) from the Bureau of Meteorology making weather predictions.

If I were a cynical man I might be tempted to tar all these forecasters with the same brush; i.e. they are overpaid useless bureaucratic wankers who lounge around with eyes glued to computer screens all day in comfortably airconditioned bunkers, and toilet-trained monkeys could make more accurate forecasts by simply sitting on the roof using instinct coupled with superior intellectual capacity.

The Bucket does NOT tolerate intolerance such as this.
Cynicism might be a useful nail with which to deflate the tyre of mindless certainty, but in this case it fails to take into account all the proficient weathermen….. like Simon.
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Simon, aka Sanjay, was welcomed into the portico of my local Weather Bureau in 2009 by a wizened hirsute sitarist and the Indian Consul General who delivered a rather lengthy speech about bilateral relationships before everyone tucked into a free breakfast of barbecued beef sausages with onion rings and tomato sauce on wholemeal buns.

Simon’s enviable reputation as Andhra Pradesh’s premier weather guru had preceded him, and it came to pass that indeed Simon had unique powers of meteorological prediction. “Yes it will be rainings on next Tuesday but only until one quarter past ten in the morning time with the numbers of millimetres being thirty five and goodness gracious me I am seeing the sun will be shining at two o’clock in the exact moment.”
And every time Simon predicted rainings in the exact amounts, and sunshinings in the precise moments, it happened.

For three years he never made a mistake and his reputation grew exponentially. Simon became a celebrity. Aussie forecasters were jealous. Women swooned and Simon received marriage proposals from besotted meteorology students and professional gold-diggers.

Felicity-Jane Hobgoblin, Miss Twin Peaks U.S.A., submitted an irresistible handwritten application tucked neatly into a subtly perfumed item of intimate apparel. Simon, despite being betrothed to a young lady in Mumbai who had been selected by his parents on the basis of bullion ownership and potential fecundity rather than physical beauty, could not resist calling Felicity-Jane.

He nervously dialed the fifteen digits until the phone was answered on the seventh ring and……………..
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…..then I woke up.

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Observations of a bushie in town (Part 3)

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A debriefing on denim shorts.

 

Photo credit; NOT me.

Photo credit; NOT me.

I’m utterly appalled!  (again)

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This sort of arse shrink-wrapping complete with homeless pockets is worn by 79% of young women aged 18 to 22 (range amended following legal advice) who wiggle and sashay around shopping centres.

Mini denim shorts defy all commonly understood laws of physics. They are a lot like Dr. Who’s Tardis. The volumetric mass contained within them far exceeds that which could be expected from the external dimensions of the garment. (Unfortunately I am lacking corroborative data as all attempts I’ve made to take measurements with my theodolite, micrometer and tape measure have been met with varying degrees of resistance.)

Tardis-shorts also don’t comply with the laws of gravity. They’re constantly inching higher and higher away from the Earth’s centre of gravity….presumably attempting to launch themselves, vacant and unpersoned, on new time-travel adventures into unexplored places and the distant corners of the galaxy.

All that prevents take-off is a narrow retaining band of tattered textile and frequent yanking back downwards by the owner…...at an average frequency of seven times every minute.
(Erudition is never the product of sloppy observation.)

Thank goodness. Let’s count our blessings.

Australia has already been sucked into a vortex of depravity, wickedness and turpitude. The last thing we need to see is seething scrums of bare-assed young sheilas mooning around public places accelerating our progress toward eternal damnation.

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