Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in ham & irony's LiveJournal:

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Tuesday, June 4th, 2002
11:16 pm	"My son's a faggot and I love him! I love my dead gay son!" My father is a homosexual. He has found himself a godawful Olivia Newton John CD and has taken to playing Xanadu over and over and over. These underlying inclinations would also explain the Con Air DVD he won on Ebay. Nobody, however, is putting this bunny back in the fag-box. Speaking of which... What Retard are you? Current Mood: irked Current Music: the cat-spaying warbles of stupid twatting sodding Xanadu (1 Comment |Comment on this)
10:53 pm	doon-toon... All right. This is just getting ridiculous. Rectum-probingly so. I like my mule asses firm and fruity... This seller puts the same delightfully deranged, bestially depraved item up for auction on a weekly basis, promptly sells it, and then puts another up. How many "WILD ASS LOVER PARKING donkey mule burro" signs can one person acquire? Rhetorical, eh? Anyone care to donate US$14 to the Zoe Takes The Equine Kingdom From Behind Fund (benevolently supported by the Zoe's Afro Needs Flattening Organization and the Zoe Is An Oedipal Wreck Institution) so that I too may live my dream and sleep with a vulgar sign above my bed? Sometimes, in the midst of tumultuous slumber, I can *still* hear the donkeys. Braying. Current Mood: hyper Current Music: Jennifer's Veil - The Birthday Party (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, June 3rd, 2002
2:50 pm	the sick twisted logic of fat I am dreading work in the same passive, lackluster way a very unkosher pig squeals unconvincingly as it's taken into the Special Bovine Abattoir. The suckling pig has hit the fan - and big fat chops thus fall to the floor. Choppppps. Never mind. I can go home and watch Buffy and gorge myself on twisties and french onion dip - that tantalizing amalgamation of MSG and oh-so-artificial cheese. *This*, furthermore, isn't fair. I wanted to be the Baron. Woe is the dermatological injustice. which DUNE character are you?? Current Mood: cranky Current Music: I Can't Forget - Leonard Cohen (Comment on this)
Sunday, June 2nd, 2002
1:51 am	"You can ride my tail any time." Consider: That Berlin soundtrack, which may be better suited to a Children With Asthma commercial. Those intoxicating homoerotic subtexts. The undercurrents of subversion and metaphorical sodomy, elaborated upon oh-so-eloquently by a brief Quentin Tarantino cameo in the otherwise banal Sleep With Me. I give you... Top Gun Is Gay. "There are certain basic premises on needs to grasp in order to understand the 'Top Gun is Gay' theorem. Firstly, the basis of the film is that Maverick (Tom Cruise) is struggling to understand his sexuality. Maverick is right on the homo/hetero line and doesn't know which way to turn...." "A further premise to keep in mind is the symbolism contained within the actual act of flying fighter planes. We are presented throughout the film with the idea of partners - every pilot has a copilot and a wingman with whom they can share the flight experience, a physically and mentally draining experience, comparable with sexual intercourse. Of course, this supports the notion of a homoerotic subtext..." Oh, my Birkenstock-wielding, tampon-throwing lecturers would schpunk themselves in rapture. "He's going vertical, then so am I!" Current Mood: amused Current Music: Danger Zone - Kenny Loggins (4 Comments |Comment on this)
1:01 am	dubious horn & dented toyota (or: onanistic manoeuvres in the dark) After joining my family for a disturbingly pastoral, Brady-esque viewing of Harry twatting Potter, I decided begrudgingly in my very special, chemically unbalanced way, that Alan Rickman - who one might recall from such heart-warming, thrush-inducing pieces as Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves, and Rasputin: The Teleseries - gives me the horn. I am not in any way happy about these moist paroxysms, as I have been clitorally moved in the past by such idiotic fancies as Silent Bob, Tim Curry's demented clown role in It ("they all float down here"), Jeremy Irons' irritatingly melancholic Freudian daddy character in Damage, and Groundskeeper bloody Willy ("grease me up, woman!" indeed). However, I hepped myself up on saccharine mugs of hot chocolate, armed myself with flea-ridden pussycat, and have decided that Alan horn really ain't the bottomless donkey's ass. It could be worse. Much much worse. I could have odd tantalizing notions of having boob sex with Meat Loaf. I could be sent into frenzied chills of delirium at the prospect of usurping Soon Yi and becoming Woody Allen's newest, suitably neurotic child-bride. I could find myself nursing an alarming hard-on for George Michael. And the proverbial toilet cubicle in which he shakes hot white coconuts from the veiny love-tree. Ach, the lurid possibilities of the ever-unpredictable, all-weather Horn. In other news miserably unattached to my newfound appreciation for films that may as well be Disney, I got myself into two mini car accidents in a period of 24 hours. Damn special, in a "my cat's breath smells like cat food" kind of way. And not elaborate, epic, artful, orgasmic J.G. Ballard-esque car crashes either. No "the juxtaposition of shattered glass, puncture wounds and blood on the dashboard made me shoot my pants" bollocks for me. No siree Donkey Bob. These were pitiful vehicular gesticulations. Dodgy dodgy manoeuvres brought on largely by driving-in-the-rain disorientation and general carelessness. All, however, is good. Close, but no cigar. My car, nonetheless, exudes a not-so-fresh feeling whereby it looks like it spent a particularly skanky night in Caesar's Palace. One pill makes you larger, and one pill gives you the strange unearthly delusion that Paul Simon has hardcore credibility. "It's a trap, Bellamy!" Current Mood: bored Current Music: Young Americans - David Bowie (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, May 30th, 2002
4:00 pm	i don't like dangle-berries (tell me why) It just occurred to me that at Jewish Brainwashing Evangelism "if you don't sing along to Hava Nagilah and dance like a monkey, you'll give Hitler posthumous victory" Camp in Year 9, we had to chant the following profound ditty... Who ate all the pie? *crowd points randomly at some poor cunt* He ate all the pie! You fat bastard, you fat bastard, you ate all the pie! Current Mood: tired Current Music: Thieves - Ministry (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, May 28th, 2002
10:34 pm	I will do anything for my own shiteful narcissistic agenda (but I won't do *that*) Call me a mopey, masturbatory bastard (1) riddled with the prosaic onanism of too much Morrissey, cannabis, and regressive 90's angst, but I'm really having an awful amount of trouble dealing with the fact that people at work - even the ones who *aren't* crap - are quite fond of me (2). From the earliest possible period, I don't ever recall being one of those extroverted, perky, social people, despite my Obnoxious Drunken Lewd Aunt At A Wedding Complex (TM) when tequila hits my frontal lobe like a truck full of obese donkeys. In fact, I've probably deliberately hyperbolized and honed my misanthropy to the nth extent, so that I may revel in my "nobody loves me; I'm Leonard Cohen and I use the word 'lover' a lot" oh-so-fetching charm. So when I behave like a cold, reserved, snooty cunt at work - as one would when one is surrounded largely by a horrid mixture of 17 year-olds and porcine acrylic-taloned scrubbers - I expect to be regarded with the same apathetic, standoffish disdain I dealt with in high school. I don't talk to them, they don't talk to me. Good-o. But noooooo. No. These people *talk* to me. They say *nice things* to me. It even sounds *genuine*. They ask me for my number and offer to make me *coffee*. As if I was the highest Heather in a hierarchy of duplicated Heathers.(3) It would be nauseatingly cute, if I was Stephanie sodding Kaye, and had a penchant for sprouting such curiously accented words such as 'aboot'. I just assume they're pleasant because I'm becoming or have become their standard token novelty, which is essentially what happens when you wear corsets to a telemarketing job, and make very loud references to fisting and Ronald Macdonald in the same sentence. Popularity is what irks me and shakes me to my mule-felching core. Popularity with a capital 'blennnnnhhhhh', which incidentally rhymes with such archetypal words as 'Jessica Wakefield', 'Psych 101', 'anal-virgin', 'America' and 'yeast infection'. Oh, I shall conquer this. I shall render myself more supercilious, more antisocial, more reticent, more unapproachable, more more more, than ever before. I'll make my former afro-bearing high school self look like one of those little Dawson's Creek fucktards. By God, that'll give the twats something to be nice about. (1) No. I jest. Like Woody Allen. (2) And the Stalker Who Knew Too Much. L'est we forget. (3) "I love my dead gay son!" ahoy. Current Mood: spooked Current Music: Relax - Frankie Goes To Hollywood (9 Comments |Comment on this)
3:33 pm	schnozzwangers & an oh-so-very-metaphorical river of chocolate: coincidence? Which Willy Wonka character are you? made by galaxybounce I really don't think now is the appropriate time to rant incessantly about my Willy Wonka psychoanalytic post-colonial post-Holocaust post-Marxist manifesto, whereby the Germans ultimately have their way despite Gene Wilder's blatant yid persona... Or is it? Perhaps it's time to shove my golden ticket where the sun don't shine. Current Mood: listless Current Music: The Kiss - The Cure (Comment on this)
Monday, May 27th, 2002
9:52 pm	look what you made pop do! By and large, the lambs never stop screaming, no matter how many medium-rare chops you carve out of their furry little lamb-thighs, and no matter how many garden-variety mass-produced barnyard products you cultivate from their lambish frolickings in the proverbial Metaphorical Meadow. Still reeling from a physically exhausting weekend accentuated by the high-pitched Lindy Chamberlain shrills of bodgy pony-felching clients, the paralytic pang of A Night As Grace Slick, and the dull throb of bruised ass-muscle. There are bad Prince covers to peruse and spayed cats to sing to in helium-enhanced Kate Bush-esque shrieks. I hear the donkeys braying, but they do not bray to me. Current Mood: contemplative Current Music: Debaser - The Pixies (Comment on this)
Wednesday, May 22nd, 2002
11:24 pm	who's your daddy?: nabakovian woe and too much cheese Now, why can't I be an underdeveloped, nubile, paedophile victim of a wisp so I can look like, errrr, this, eh? And *then* and only *then* I can spout lexicographic, obscure phrases like 'puppy-body' and 'libidream' and schpunk Jeremy Irons... Ahhh, the perilous retardation of nymphets. In other news, I had to call the Wanke family for work today. Wacky Germans. Current Mood: giddy Current Music: Masturbation Generation - The Boys Next Door (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, May 21st, 2002
10:29 pm	putting the 'fist' back into 'sophistication' It seems that due to the exorbitant fun of my adventures in Bleachy Bleach Land, my hair is falling out at an astonishing pace. Thankfully - or not, if I choose to morph into my inner bulldyke - I naturally have about three times more hair than your average bear (donkey even), hence the proverbial afro, so I am watching it drop to the ground with great glee. Fly, my pretties, fly! It will be a very dreary Chanukah indeed this year. you have an ominosity quotient of ten. you are as ominous as ominous can be. we salute you. find out your ominosity quotient. Current Mood: blah Current Music: Moonlife - Dali's Car (Comment on this)
Sunday, May 19th, 2002
9:54 pm	peroxide & cheesecake don't mix - or do they? (or: why is Richard Adams like a writing desk?) My scalp burns like that Watership Down bunny's bloody eyes. Crackles and simmers like something out a crematorium-imagery-happy Sylvia Plath poem (ie. "I begin to talk like a fucktard. I may well be a fucktard). Gah. The impossibly tedious and asinine Hair Saga (TM) thus continues in its mythical wake. Wayne's World 2 will be on soon and unsubtle Mrs Robinson references shall spout fruitfully. Simon & Garfunkle make me giggle like a schoolgirl. I blame the ammonia soaking into my frontal lobe via my godawful, overprocessed fringe. "By God, those drapes will be silent now." Current Mood: confused Current Music: Prince Charming - Adam Ant (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, May 18th, 2002
11:28 pm	as your attorney-donkey, I advise you... I smoke too much. My father, bless his disturbing lack of irony and eerie physical resemblance to Saddam Hussein, is bidding on a DVD copy of Con Air on Ebay. What is this thusness? The proverbial bunny will never be put back in the proverbial box. Quasi-sociopathic Steve Buscemi and mullet-bearing redneck-with-a-heart-of-gold Nick Cage make baby Jebus splutter tears of mirth. Note to both self and Sarah: When aimlessly ambling through a quasi-respectable supermarket, it is neither appropriate nor amusing to loudly discuss uncircumcised donkey cocks - nor circumcised donkey cocks for that matter. Nightclubs, however, are just the place for it. There's nothing quite like eel insertion and mule girth to make people like you. I can't move my legs. Current Mood: ouchy Current Music: Close But No Cigar - Thomas Dolby (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, May 17th, 2002
2:09 am	songs i shouldn't sing to the cat even though i'm so bored i'm going to watch blossom... 1. tinker will do anything for snappy tom (but he won't do twat) 2. tinker's like the wind (through my donkey) 3. don't want to know if tinker's a fat moonger (don't want to know if he's less than a fat moonger) 4. tinker's living on fat-reduced cat food - so what? 5. there must be a big fat tinker (playing with my arse) 6. tinker's swollen rectum's dead (undead undead undead) 7. would you like to suck tinker's spayed cock, berserker? my love for tinker is schpunking donk, berserker... 8. schpunk me, i'm tinker 9. all over pooh, electric tinker (i can see, see that it may be just a vision of pooh) 10. tinker's got a gun (what did his donkey do?) 11. when i think about tinker, i schpunk myself 12. when you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong; tinker? 13. some like tinker hot and some sweat when tinker's arse is on 14. order of tinker (this is what tinker wants, this is what tinker gets, this is what tinker wants, this is what tinker gets...) 15. and tinker's never going to schpunk again, guilty paws have got no rhythm... 16. wouldn't it be good to be inside tinker's arse, even if it was for just one day 17. one night in tinker's cock and the world's your oyster 18. smalltown tinker (run away, turn away) 19. tinker the stripper, hideous to the donkeys 20. tinker's rectum is never enough, never enough until his arse stops bleating... Current Mood: pensive Current Music: the din of my own musical chernobyl (4 Comments |Comment on this)
1:10 am	...on the left hand side The sheer idiocy of these quizzes - as opposed to the underlying intellectual content of all the other quizzes I seem compelled to take - rather aptly reflects just how ball-scratchingly, Kubrick-watchingly, Tubbs-quotingly bored I am. Sodding insomnia. In a vintage gesture of gaiety, they seemed to think playing a particularly trashy retro 80's CD at work today would be motivational and inspiring. Pass The Dutchie, however - contrary to popular belief - does not promote cunning workplace pride, but instead makes me to curl up foetal in my little cubicle and plutz myself into dysfunction. Nothing says "I'm a donkeyingly professional" more than acid flashbacks in the workplace. How does it feel when *you've* got no food, eh? In other news utterly unrelated to the hysteria-inducing talents of Musical Youth, I think I smell. Who's Your Movie Sidekick? Find out @ She's Crafty Which era in time are you? Take the which Silent Starlet are you quiz! Current Mood: awake Current Music: Rapture - Blondie (Comment on this)
Wednesday, May 15th, 2002
12:14 am	i like big donkeys and i cannot lie Honed turds of faux-wisdom, lurched by a veritable buffet of pharmaceuticals... Steak - as newly slaughtered and glossy as roadkill, positively glutenous with little blood clots and sinew and gristle - is best served with unintentionally moist, supermarket-variety cake. -> Steak *and* Cake. Only women bleed. And men with newly pierced foreskins. Foreskins, in turn, are as kosher as a pork-chop at a Bar Mitzvah. Patrick Swayze should stop trying to be a heterosexual. He's like the wind. Through my tree. 'Special' is a hypertrophied subsitute for 'crap'. Or 'stupid'. Porn that specifically takes advantage of the otherwise disadvantaged - ie. midgets, mongoloids, amputees, dwarves, children, and pregnant women - is funny. Ernie Dingo, contrary to popular belief, is not at all affiliated with the Azaria Chamberlain Memorial Dingo Conservation Park. It is unwise to expose any kind of bodily fluid to any kind of domestic pet, whether deliberately or via blissful ignorance. Women, particularly those who suffer from a Parkville-associated disorder created by the use and subsequent abuse of fungus-addled Birkenstock sandals, are crap. Misogyny is not a Freudian institution, but rather a gift. Martha & the Muffs are *not* New Romantic. Anti-depressants should be purchased in a colour or texture that contrasts savvily with one's corset and/or boots. They should also be discussed liberally in public, and without any kind of apt grasp of medical vocabulary. When Macauley Culkin spoke of “making his family disappear”, he was cunningly and cryptically referring to his own latent Michael Jackson-induced homoerotic sensations. That little boy in Free Willy too. Minor illogical inconsistencies present in the otherwise rational League Of Gentlemen - eg. Tubbs' ability to lactate a squealing piggy even though her "insides are all wrong"; David's sudden unexplained transition from newly-local fucktard to carnivalesque freakshow; that sort of thing – need not be explained because in doing so, one is otherwise cheapening a program about three men in dresses who can do whatever the fuck they like. Dolphins and tattoos in their own respective categories are absolutely sodding bloody fine. They should never however - like donkeys and cheese, or milk and oil, or Lennie and George - ever ever be combined. A large amount of global upheaval can ultimately blamed on the genital dysfunction of miscellaneous political leaders. A healthy country has descended testicles as its national mascot. No-one – not even the biggest, fattest, skankiest slapper - should be coerced into humping rhythmically in tune to Time Of The Season. Donkeys are not subjects of sport unless one understands the grand pillars of Donkey Irony and Donkey Love. Without these, a mule is just a mule. Donkey as Other. Potatoes taste quite tolerable when fried in disturbing quantities of butter, and garnished with parsley. It is not, however, aesthetically appealing to resemble one and thus become a Potato Woman or Potato Man (ie. unfortunate condition in which the face, neck and chin all merge into the same spud-like mass). Heaven *is* like Swansea. A 200kg balding man with an e-cup chest in a skin-tight leather harness who wants to be whipped for fun and profit is not sexually attractive. The oompa loompas weren’t so much victims of paedophilia, gluttony and aryan manipulation, so much as a metaphor for the exploited proletarian class. Those girls who went missing at Hanging Rock still linger in the unprocessed bowels of a very fat girl with an eating disorder. Irony has left the building. Current Mood: shitfaced Current Music: Hand in Glove - The Smiths (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, May 14th, 2002
10:47 pm	dingos in the mist There's a batty woman at Bourke Street Mall who runs around screaming derangedly about dingos. That's her crazy 'trademark'. They call her Dingo Lady. Current Mood: groggy Current Music: Shine Like Stars - The Cranes (Comment on this)
Monday, May 13th, 2002
11:45 pm	"Nobody kills Misery!" It seems that I have two stalkers. Not one bunny-boiler, but two. The pair of them are invading my person a la George Michael. Guilty feet, by definition, have no rhythm. Oh, I knew that "Don't Stand So Close To Me" being played so flagrantly on the radio in the car this morning was full of portent. Sting never lies. Current Mood: amused Current Music: Since Yesterday - Strawberry Switchblade (6 Comments |Comment on this)
4:10 pm	they schpunk donkeys, don't they? Erotic dreams about Giles. That's precisely what my cotton-stuffed collective unconscious needed in its dubiously Freudian tableau of wanky metaphors and wankier woes. Serves me right for eating bacon before bed. See, if it has been a Giles/Spike sandwich (unkosher combination though it is, and much as I deplore puerile thigh-slapping BDSM cinematic shenanigans), I'd be far more well-adjusted - smarmy and sated even - but I can't deal with the Humbert Humbert-esque anglophilic wiles of Giles on his own. That ain't cricket. O ye gods: my father complex is back, and this time it's after my donkey. Current Mood: disturbed Current Music: There Is A Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths (2 Comments |Comment on this)
12:37 am	his jiggling is almost hypnotic... Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker. Where is my Mind? You're smart, shy, and often nonsensical. You have dreams of being famous, and you're quirky enough that you just might pull them off. Some would call you a genius, others would call you insane, but in reality you're pretty well-adjusted. Take a vacation once in a while- it'll help take your mind off of your troubles. Which Pixies song are you? Which Spike are you? Current Mood: blerky Current Music: Come Undone - Duran Duran (Comment on this)