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The Christmas newsletter 2015 and mercifully there will be no more.

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(Until he finally kicks the bucket, GOF will enjoy hearing from you via the sidebar message facility or email under the ‘Who’s this GOF bastard’ tab above. Thank you to all my WP friends, it’s been a wonderful journey.)


This year, as an antidote to the rampant scourge of cynicism and sarcasm which pervades our beautiful world, I would like to share with you the following heartwarming newsletter that I received today from my Cousin FOG;


Hello dear friends,

Seasons greetings to you all.

Two thousand and fifteen has been our annuss anus horrabillus a pretty rotten year for us down here on the farm.

The purebred line of large-boned Charolais beef cattle we’d been developing for 40 years had their exquisite genetic constitutions sullied by that runt of a Jersey bull from Uddermans Dairy Farm next door. The randy little bastard apparently got into 23 of our prizewinning cows some time in January although we didn’t find out until later in the year when our lovely girls started dropping ugly and stunted diarrhoea-coloured progeny.

Sadly the FOG family is functioning like our local municipal garbage dump at the moment. Brand new crap is being generated at a faster rate than I, as patriarch, can bury it or transfer portions into someone elses backyard. Patriarchy is a very demanding and stressful business.

I know you’ll find it hard to believe that the twin girls are now 27 years old. Goodness gracious me how time does fly. Sophie Isabella Nosegay , who we’ve always just called ‘Sin‘for short, eventually took her vows of silence and chastity last June and remains cloistered in the Pirelli Convent near Milan in northern Italy. We no longer hear from her and barring the magic of immaculate conception or some other mistiming of rhythmic ecclesiastical intervention we probably won’t ever be blessed with grandchildren sprouting from her branch of the family tree. A bit of a waste really. She was very good breeding stock.

Lazy‘ Susan is more than making up for her sister’s carnal deprivations. The latest boyfriend from America seems to be a pretty good sort of chap though. Lance apparently used to be a reasonable cyclist back in the day and he’s been busy helping Susan and her kiddies with some dietary supplements to help them all cope better with their busy lives.
We do still worry about her a lot though. Whilst Australia’s policy of multiculturalism is very good in principle we feel that Susan is shouldering way too much responsibility. The fathers of her five children all returned to their respective places of origin in Chad, Bahamas, Mongolia, Oklahoma and Tasmania before my friend Winchester and I could intervene and negotiate some child support money out of them.

Normally at this time of year, even though it’s very hot here in Australia, as a service to the community I squeeze into my Father Christmas costume and dispense yuletide joy and happiness to all the feral rugrats wonderful children who gather in the airconditioned Swindling Spigot Shopping Centre.  Unfortunately I’ve been banned from doing it this year just because of some stupid appointment I’ve got down at the Magistrates Court on the ninth of December.
I think I can prove what I did was justifiable spontaneous retribution after that inconsiderate fat kid leapt onto my Santa lap last year and ruptured both of my anterior cruciate ligaments. Just because his father happened to be that toffee-nosed Crown Prosecutor Sir Archibald Wrigley-Basemetal I am now in a wee spot of bother. Upper class gits.

Another team of lawyers is also flat out parasitising another member of our family.

Uncle Bart, who spent most of his life training thoroughbred horses in Victoria is facing doping charges. As you might already know, Bart’s successes on the racing track were few and far between, although his gelding Knackery Boy did come a creditable 17th behind Rising Fast in the 1954 Melbourne Cup. Eventually the horse’s name proved to be quite prophetic.
Uncle Bart is now 91 and he recently moved into the Our Angel of Necrosis home for the chronically ancient. The doping incidents apparently involve at least two rather sprightly 87 year-old women living just down the corridor from Uncle B. Unfortunately the nurses and police discovered an incriminatory stash of veterinary drugs and other paraphernalia hidden in Bart’s wardrobe so it’s not looking too good for him. Goodness knows what he was planning to do with his old eartag pliers and elastrator.

It’s been a superb year for growing stuff here on the farm. The Back Paddock down by the creek was especially productive. Accordingly, Shantibelle Clover (my sixth wife who I hadn’t got around to telling you about yet) and I were in high spirits for most of the year….well at least until my birthday in October when she shot through with some tattooed Hells Angel and all three tons of our surplus trading stock.

Oh well, easy come, easy go.

Just like the years.

Seasons greetings and best wishes for 2016.


Imelda the millipede

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Once upon a time in the Kingdom of Millippines where all the Chilopods and Diplopods lived, there was a young millipede called Imelda. She was a very beautiful millipede. Every day she would look in the mirror as she was shaving the 70 pairs of legs which sprouted from her 35 segments and make a promise to her gorgeous reflection “One day I’m going to seduce our handsome King Ferdipoop and join him in holy millimony and then we’re going to live together in the Pod Palace and reign over all the other lesser pedes in the land.”

And do you know what happened? That’s exactly what she did.

King Ferdipoop and Queen Imelda spent many fun days in the Palace garden which was full of rotting leaves and hollow logs. In and out they would go, then over and under and up and down then in and out once more until it was time for them to go and exterminate anyone who might have been plotting against them.

They were also very careful looking after the Kingdom’s money. They stashed it all in lots of hidey-holes far across the sea where nobody else could find it.

Queen Imelda used some of the money to buy lots and lots of shoes for all her feet. There were breakfast shoes, lunch shoes, toilet shoes, tish shoes, and supper, party and dancing shoes. Her most favourite shoes of all were the sharp pointy-toed wooden clogs which she used to kick the Palace staff right up their excretory tubules whenever they were not working hard enough.

There were hundreds of working-class pedes employed to keep Imelda’s Palace looking shipshape.

First there were the disabled Monopedes who could do nothing much with their single legs except sproing through all the rooms in the Palace on pogo sticks painting the ceilings in short sharp brush strokes or changing light globes in stages. The Impedes were the court jesters and they flitted around joyously dressed in floppy red pixie caps adorned with green pompoms and flashing LED lights. They laughed a lot and played tricks on everyone with their protruding antennae, leaving behind a gay air of frivolity.

The Velocipedes dashed around here and there, hither and thither, high as kites on their staple diet of cocaine and amphetamines, while the squadrons of Stampedes just trudged around with military precision squishing all the invading ants and cockroaches with their hob-nail boots.

Life came to a sudden and tragic end for Queen Imelda. One sunny day when she was out tanning her ventral surfaces in the grass next to the bespoke coconut-shell swimming pool which Ferdipoop had commissioned, a human being whizzed over the top of her with his motor mower set on full throttle. All the Imeldrial legs, body segments and stink glands together with one hundred and forty tiny hot-pink Gucci flip-flops were splintered and splattered and flung all over the Arthropodian realm.

When King Ferdipoop came along and saw all the blood and entrails and pieces of thorax, mandibles and ganglia blemishing his brand new pool he exclaimed “Holy Crap! What a bastard!” Then he immediately went out and found himself a younger replacement millipede. One who he hoped would never upstage him in public like Imelda had done.


And her name was GaGa.




Counselling Doctor Fill

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Disclaimer;  Dr Fill and Dr GOF are products of my imagination. Any similarity to persons either living or dead is entirely coincidental.  

Advisory;  Contains explicit psychological procedures and occasional sarcasm.

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Dr GOF;   Come inside my consulting room Dr Fill. What brought you here to seek my professional services today?

Dr Fill;   A taxi.

Dr GOF;   This ain’t my first rodeo, son.  I suggest you answer my questions sensibly if you don’t want this exercise to be a complete waste of time.

Dr Fill;   Sorry Dr GOF. My problem is that I had built up a nice low-key counseling service in America, but suddenly I became so bashful and unsure of myself that I could no longer form definite opinions or communicate with my clients.  That is why I am here today to obtain guidance from the finest practitioner in our field.  
Am I now just a pathetic old worn-out failure GOF?

Dr GOF;   ‘Doctor’ GOF please Fill.  Failure is no accident.  What you need here is a hero. You need to step up to the plate and be a hero for yourself.

Dr Fill;   Then why did you make me sit way up here in this oversized chair so my feet can’t hardly touch the floor no more?
A man cain’t feel like a hero when his legs are a-danglin’ around in the breeze like a couple of  broken powerlines in a hurricane.

Dr GOF;   Hero can wait.  Right now you need to be positioned in that chair as a physical reminder of your powerlessness and intellectual inferiority, and to make certain that you feel suitably humble and subordinate while you are here basking in the aura of my overwhelmingly popular and authoritative presence.

Dr Fill;   (With legs still dangling)  OK, so tell me, why am I feeling so incompetent, unappreciated, unloved and alone in this world Dr GOF?

Dr GOF;   You’re only lonely if you’re not there for yourself Fill. You need to talk to yourself, encourage yourself, lift yourself up and play with yourself on a regular basis. Be there for yourself when you need a best friend.

Dr Fill;   But people have said behind my back that I am a pontificating old sermonizer, and that hurts my self esteem and makes me feel really horrible inside. These days I am just so sensitive to the opinions of others.

Dr GOF;   Opinions are like asses…..everybody’s got one.

Dr Fill;   Except for Elle MacPherson……I saw her once on Oprah and I can tell you that her legs went on and on, way past where her…..oh sorry Dr GOF, I know you’re not interested in distractions of the fleshly kind.  Tell me, what do you see in my future?

Dr GOF;   The best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour. I’ll bet you never thought of that one eh?

Dr Fill;   Actually I was aware of that. I once saw some long tall Texan dude repetitiously sprouting that phrase when he was talking down to TV audiences….that Oprah Show sure is educational in many ways.

Dr GOF;   Awareness without action is worthless, Dr Fill. You’ve gotta DO something man.

Dr Fill;   So what should I do to fix my troubled soul?

Dr GOF;   Ahh…soul!  Yes.  You have to require more of yourself, and you can’t change what you don’t acknowledge.

Dr Fill;   So what should I acknowledge?

Dr GOF;   Lets take baby steps.  There’s obviously a lot to fix here.

For starters you might just simply acknowledge that you are an opinionated preacher-man who thinks he has the preordained right to force his own bourgeois moral values upon all people regardless of their own culture and socio-economic circumstances.
See. No biggie.
All we have to do is clobber that little bit of self-deception outta your noggin’ first, then we’ll move onto Step Two.

Dr Fill;   Well dangnammit, I’d never quite thought about it in precisely those terms before. You’re only a gnats-gonad distance away from being a master philosopher Dr GOF.  I shore do ‘preciate your wisdom.  Someone like you should be on television.

Dr GOF;   My little sunbeams of erudition will only be available to a select few like yourself Dr Fill…….. in exchange for the sweet shuffling sound of large-denomination banknotes being dealt upon my palm.


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Is anyone still here?

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An erotic Aussie love story

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Language warning;   Contains adult themes, and I have used one really naughty “f” word twice, which of course Australians only ever do in situations of extreme adversity, plus two lesser swear words and one blasphemy all of which would have resulted in my mouth being washed out with Sunlight laundry soap 55 years ago.
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Many great romances have flourished in Australia’s sparsely populated outback west of the Great Dividing Range where the size of cattle stations is measured in square miles rather than acres.
Young people, chock-a-block with raging hormones, are attracted to these remote areas to work as jackaroos, jillaroos, stockmen, camp cooks, bore runners, bookkeepers and governesses.
The isolation and harsh climate can either destroy partnerships or act as a glue holding them together. Unfortunately some love affairs are doomed to failure before they even get off the ground.

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Keith was enjoying this special time of his life. He stood over six feet tall and his magnificent physique and closely cropped red hair never failed to attract female attention on Horny Downs Station.

Despite the long hours he spent with the cattle under the searing summer sun, he knew that on most nights he would be pampered and seduced by at least one of these admirers.  There were few things he enjoyed more in life than the hour or two of languid post-coital bliss which inevitably followed these encounters.

Keith never promised commitment. It was all about the sex and there was no way he ever intended to fall head over heels in love.
All of that changed on the day Wendy arrived at Horny Downs.  Keith could scarcely believe his eyes as he took in this vision of  feminine beauty.

Screened behind the copse of coolibah and she-oak trees near the homestead, he knew she could not see him hungrily assessing her potential as a future lover.  She was petite with blonde highlights in her hair but what really attracted his attention was the most perfectly formed body he had ever seen. Keith knew that he had to possess her. He also knew that he must move quickly for there was no shortage of potential suitors for Wendy on Horny Downs.

Keith decided that tonight had to be the night.

For the remainder of the afternoon he refused to go anywhere or allow Wendy to venture very far out of his sight. His entire being was consumed with fantasies of what he could do with her. He dreamed of staring into those huge brown eyes, touching her soft downy skin, and holding her taut body firmly against his own.

Keith’s opportunity came in the cool of the evening, when, like an angelic mirage, Wendy suddenly appeared with the golden glow of sunset illuminating her perfect face, and the remainder of what should soon to be his, silhouetted against the rising full moon.

He slowly approached her, then revealed his dreams and fantasies and declared his undying love. Overcome with emotion Wendy replied;  “Now listen here big ears. You’re the tenth red fucking kangaroo to proposition me today.  Are you a total ignofuckingramis or what!  Just look at me!  I’m a wallaroo for Christ’s sake you great big dopey dipstick numbskull, so piss off and go screw your own species.”

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The Skylights Project

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The Skylights Project was a 1960’s top-secret operation designed to prepare Australia for a position of world supremacy in the forecast booming personal computer market of the 1990’s.

Seventeen men and women comprising the finest electronics minds in the Southern Hemisphere were bunkered in a discreet laboratory three storeys below footpath level in Swanston Street, Melbourne in January 1968 when disaster struck.

One of their number, Eunice Hopsteader, smuggled her pet rabbit through the strict security system, into the lift, then down to Level 3.

The rabbit was infected with a mutated and virulent strain of the Myxoma virus. Ten of the scientists, including Eunice, were dead before lunch time.

Those who remained symptom-free celebrated their close shave with death by dining out the following day at Farmer Gramoxone’s Country Style Restaurant just around the corner in Flinders Street.  (Named after explorer Matthew Flinders.)

Six of them were declared stone cold motherless dead within minutes of sipping the vegetable soup which mistakenly contained diced carrots laced with strychnine poison which Farmer Gramoxone had prepared for distribution as rabbit bait on his farm.
(Today Australian Workplace Health and Safety Regulations only allow poison bait preparation in Registered Kitchens on weekends and Gazetted Public Holidays.)

The Director of The Skylights Project, Bill Picket-Fences, was the only one to survive after a quick-thinking cyclist shoved his bicycle pump all the way down Bill’s oesophagus and syphoned the deadly contents out of his stomach and back into the soup bowl.

“My bike pump never did work very well after that”  Wayne Pedalworster reported to the Advertiser newspaper three days later. “The strychnine corroded my plunger like real bad mate and nobody’s offered to replace it either.”

Even Blind Freddie could have forseen that Bill Picket-Fences would select me as deputy leader of the new Skylights Project team.
With a fresh-off-the-press Diploma of Agriculture and an I.Q. of 71, I was assigned the priority task of developing a portable computer memory device with a capacity of 16 gigabytes.

After just 44 years, I am proud to present the fruits of my labour to the world;  The GOF 16GB Portable Memory Device specifically designed for the Skylights Operating System.

So, all you computer nerds, stick that in your USB slots and smoke it. It will be a long time before you come up with anything better.

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The GOF 16 Gig Portable Storage Device. (GOF PSD)