Hard knock life.

Children's literature is apparently a tough market to crack. Kids have a rather brutal approach to what they like and don't like. If the book is good, they'll read it non-stop for a year. Everyone in their extended family will read it. They might even hold onto it for years, to give to their children one day. But if they hate it, then it is treated like rubbish. It can be used as anything from a napkin to a towel. But it wont be read.

Yet their books are complete rubbish. Bad watercolour paintings of what can only be described as nonsense. My favourite book was about a boy who played with cars. There was no character development, no plot twists. In fact, I could have been playing with cars myself and I would have had an exponentially more fun time. Yet that book was my favourite. I look back on it now and think what a waste of paper it was.

I've decided to devote my time to becoming a children's book reviewer. But I'm not going to dance around the tough issues. I don't care how easy it is for 5 year olds to read. I'm going to ask it the tough questions, the sort of critical eye that every other piece of literature gets subjected to.

To begin, 'Axel the Freeway Cat' by Thacher Hurd. (Read it online here.)

Straight off the bat, come up with a better pseudonym, Mr/s Author. That name sounds like a burp.

Now, Axel is a cat who lives under a freeway overpass, in a car body, in a muddy ditch. So Axel is an abandoned animal. And in the realm of abandoned animals, he's essentially a bum. Yes he seems happy. This book is teaching children that if they abandon their animals, they'll be fine, they'll just shack up under a freeway somewhere. Unfortunately, they are more likely to end up dead on the freeway than living under it.

But Axel is happy. Good for him. He wears clothes, eats breakfast and has a job apparently. This job? He picks up the litter on the side of the freeway and gets ignored by the drivers. Sounds like he's actually a convicted felon, because that's the sort of "job" they get criminals to do. While they're in prison. I believe they call them 'chain gangs'.

Still, Thacher maintains the illusion that Axel is happy, because Axel collects this rubbish. Including old food. Oh, and a harmonica, which he plays under the overpass. Axel is, without a doubt, a vagrant.

One day there is a big traffic jam and the reader learns that a little cat in a little red car is the cause of the disruption. Note that the cat is a female cat and she looks suspiciously like an old woman cat. Well done enforcing the stereotypes that old people and women are bad drivers Thacher.

Axel fixes the car, and the old woman invites him to take her car for a spin. Now I'm not sure if Axel even has his license, but apparently that's not an issue. It should be, because Axel speeds off into the sunset, driving dangerously for hours. Eventually he invites the old woman into his house (read: abandoned car body). Hear that kids? Invite strangers into your car, particularly ones that live under bridges. And then go back to their "house" for dinner.

Axel caps off a day of reckless driving by crashing through his own fence, vegetable patch and irrigation system. Nice, so whatever good work he'd done fixing the car has been undone. And when the old lady suggests they clean up? Axel just wants to have a drink of milk. I suspect there may be a dash of whisky in that milk.

The book then ends abruptly. Axel and his hostage have dinner and then jam for a while. And that's it. There is no message, no closure for the reader. What now? How does the old lady cat get home? What about her car? Is Axel going to suffer any consequences? I haven't learnt anything, particularly no valuable life lessons.

Thacher Hurt, if this was your fourth book, I am concerned about how bad the other three are.

I've been your cybrarian Tom, allow me to play you out...

Internet Hero 1: Ms. Moogoo

I spend a fair bit of time on this internet game. Some might say I spend too much time. I tell those people to shut up.

Occasionally I stumble across things that , in spite of all the ridiculous stuff I have seen and done, rock me to my very core. These are the hidden gems of the web, the monsters that Web 2.0 has created.

Any weirdo with a webcam and an internet connection can now proudly broadcast their insanity. There are those who say I should take pity on these nutbags, that they don't know what they're doing. I politely disagree.

These people are my heroes. They do the things I can or will not do, whether through my own physical or mental limitations, or simply because I was not quick enough to capitalise on whatever brilliant idea they are gloriously riding through their 15 minutes of fame.

Tonight I offer to you my first hero of the internet...

ToshBabyBoo



"Who is this beautiful creature?" you ask? According to her YouTube profile, she's a 27-year-old (my, what a youthful figure she has) American woman who loves her "Online Boyfriend And All Of My Friends In The Whole Wide World Thanx For Being The Greatest Online Boyfriend And Friends In The Whole Wide World To Me." Got that?

Tosh enjoys her dog Bo (cutie!), pimping out her hair (she's got a top ponytail and a wicked single braid) and singing. Not just any singing mind you, she mumbles along to R'n'B which I can only assume is pumping through her headphones. However, like the pop-stars of old, Tosh cleverly provides no backing track for herself, so each video is a 6-minute operetta of the chubbiest proportions. Oh, and something called 'Stickam'.

To illustrate, Tosh flawlessly covers 'Ms. New Booty' by Bubba Sparxxx featuring the Ying Yang Twins and Mr. Collipark.



Notice how even though she introduces the song as "Ms. New Booty" she insists on singing "Ms. Moogoo" throughout the entirety of the clip. Clever girl.

ToshBabyBoo... My Hero.

Make your own rules.

Literal lyrics is back! After a brief Christmas holiday in which it travelled to the ends of the earth in search of a good pavlova, it has returned victorious. Turns out a small coffee shop in western Ukraine really knows its New Zealand desserts.

This week we will be covering the first single from John Mayer's new album, 'Who Says'. In typical John Mayer fashion, he sounds just like a year 12 jock douchebag who bought a second hand guitar and takes it to every party because he knows like five chords and can totally bust out the first half of a bunch of Powderfinger songs and chicks dig that. Mr Mayer has totally nailed that market. Unfortunately, John is now 32 and hitting on 17 year olds is borderline illegal.

As such, it would appear Maybags (a smooth combination of "Mayer" and "douchebag" that rolls right off the tongue) has become a little jaded, probably after numerous attempts at failing to score with Jennifer Aniston, Hollywood's most damaged goods. Seriously John, I could bag that scalp if I wanted to, and I'm a poor, mostly talent-less Australian guy nearly 20 years her junior. You've got everything (well, not exactly everything, but money and fame are two good starts) and you managed to blow it.

So, Maybags has written what I can only describe is the apathetic anthem of the Naughties. Ladies and gentlemen, Who Says...

Who says I can't get stoned
Turn off the lights and the telephone
Me in my house alone
Who says I can't get stoned

Well, for starters John, the Government says that. They make these things called laws and the citizens of the country, who more often than not elect said Government (your country, as much as you desperately try to fuck it up, does this) must obey these laws. Now you may turn your nose up at this, but its these laws that keep people driving on the right side of the road, keep people from just waltzing into a shop and taking what they wanted, and stop angry members of the public from raping and murdering each other on a whim. They provide people with consequences, and help guide them in the right direction.

Laws aside though, the other thing that says you can't do that is our basic desire for sound mental health. If you sat alone in a darkened house and had no contact with the outside world, you would literally begin to go mad. And that's even if you weren't getting high all the time. Our brains crave social interaction. There are actually methods of psychological torture that involve locking people away from society for extended periods of time. It's called 'solitary confinement' and is regularly used in prisons to break the spirit of tough inmates.

Is that enough reason for you Maybags?

Who says I can't be free
From all of the things that I used to be
Rewrite my history
Who says I can't be free

You want a clean slate John, is that what you're getting at? You want everyone to forget all the terrible shit you've done? Or worse, all the cool shit you've done? Unfortunately Maybags, you are a worldwide celebrity, so the chances of everyone forgetting who you are and you being able to start over again are very slim. That would involve everyone else on the planet suffering a very specific kind of amnesia, in which we forgot just who you were but retained all other information. Plus there is the logistics of removing any trace of you from the internet and society at large. That's a pretty big ask Maybags, just so you can give being a different person a new try.

It's been a long night in New York City
It's been a long night in Baton Rouge
I don't remember you looking any better
But then again I don't remember you

Now we begin to see some evidence of how you managed to fuck up the whole Jennifer Aniston thing. I'm going to assume you're talking to a women in those last two lines. Bad move. "I don't remember you looking any better" is basically saying, "You look pretty shit right now, I much prefer what you were wearing last night". And following that line up with "I don't remember you" is bound to make any woman you've met more than twice feel like shit. I mean, sure, you're famous, you meet a lot of attractive women, but that is no reason to act like a dick. Do what most men do and lie, make shit up. And the excuse "It's been a long night in New York/Baton Rouge" really isn't going to work. Firstly, pick just one city (preferably the one you are actually in) and then say you've had a long night. Simply pointing out that it is the Winter solstice is not a valid excuse.

Who says I can't get stoned
Call up a girl that I used to know
Fake love for an hour or so
Who says I can't get stoned

More stoned talk, we've covered this Maybags. As for the drunk dialling, while there are no hard and fast rules on such a thing, it is generally frowned upon in social circles. More so by the person you are tricking into thinking you like them, but also by their friends. It really is a dick move. And just doing it over the phone and only for an hour is really just a waste of everyone's time. If you're going to mess with her head, at least invite her around and sleep with her. At least if she hates you she'll have had a night of pleasure. I am also getting the feeling you did this to Janiston, which probably didn't help your chances with her at all. As a general rule, no one likes any sort of emotions to be faked, particularly not love. And considering you did this to a woman who had her heart publicly broken by Brad Pitt and then Angelina Jolie basically spent the next five years rubbing it in.

Who says I can't take time
Meet all the girls in the county line
Wait on fate to send a sign
Who says I can't take time

Are you trying to tell me that you want to meet and, I can only assume, fuck, every girl on the county line (which, for Australians, is basically all the women in a certain post code) and then wait for fate to tell you which one to maintain a relationship with? Possibly an even worse idea than your psychological torture plan, Maybags. Firstly, the health issues. You're going to have to wear a condom the size of a pair of trousers, and that's not even considering oral sex. Secondly, those types of things can't just be left to fate. There will be a certain number of women who will pursue you and you will have to deal with them, you can't just wait for a sign. Finally, good luck keeping the fact you're shagging every woman in a 100-mile radius a secret. Much like the drunk dialling thing, women don't like being lead on. And considering you've already demonstrated your inability to talk to women, I can't help but feel this plan is going to crash and burn.

It's been a long night in New York City
It's been a long night in Austin too
I don't remember you looking any better
But then again I don't remember you

Again with the bad compliments and even worse excuse. Perhaps try "I've never seen you looking this beautiful" next time.

Who says I can't get stoned
Plan a trip to Japan alone
Doesn't matter if I even go
Who says I can't get stoned

Finally, you have proposed something that isn't frowned upon by normal society. I mean, it is a little depressing that you want to go on a holiday alone, but the fact you want to get out of the house is good. Baby steps Maybags, baby steps. And you're right, you don't have to go if you don't want to. However, I would recommend not paying for it if you're unsure about whether you'll actually show up to the airport. Otherwise you could waste a fair bit of money. However, considering the fact that you're both rich and willing to buy copious amounts of marijuana, maybe a missed flight to Japan isn't such a big deal. Also, a word of advice, don't fly stoned or take any pot with you. I may be incorrect, but I think that thing is illegal. They've been pretty anal about plane travel for the past few years and you could find yourself in a bit of trouble if they found you out.

It's been a long night in New York City
It's been a long time since 22
I don't remember you looking any better
But then again I don't remember you

John, you're a quick learner. Finally a decent excuse for not remembering someone. You haven't seen them since you were 22. That's ten years. She'll understand if you say that. Again I would avoid the thinly veiled insult and instead try, "You look amazing, I didn't even recognise you, have you lost weight?"

Wasn't that a fun journey into the inner psyche of John Mayer? Turns out he's just as much of a douchebag as you thought he was. Daughters is a pretty song though.

And now, something less vaginally cleansing than Maybags...

Test drive newborn.

Dear Parents-to-be,

There is a commonly accepted idea that couples, before they even consider having children, should get a pet. This, I assume, is to test their abilities to care for another living thing besides each other. Something that needs training and attention and doesn't understand what you're saying. In theory, it is a sound concept. If you can't look after a turtle, then you shouldn't have a baby.

However I feel there is a hole in the logic of this process. Basically, you can't raise a child like you can an animal. Sure, there are similarities, but if you're looking for some baby-raising tips, I'd suggest looking elsewhere. The following is a list of reasons why getting a pet does not prepare you for having a baby.

• You can't keep a baby in a cage.
• Lining a baby's room with newspaper does not count as a diaper replacement.
• Similarly, a baby cannot be forced to use a box of sand as a toilet.
• It is not okay to not know the sex of your own child.
• You can't use a plastic bag to clean up after a baby in public.
• You can't raise a child purely for the purposes of breeding it.
• Conversely, you can't neuter a baby is you don't want it breeding in future.
• You can't feed a baby your leftovers.
• Similarly, uncooked week old meat is not a safe or nutritious meal.
  
• Hiding their food is not a way to distract them for a few hours.
• Dangerous babies do not give you an edge.
• If your baby bites another child, this will not be viewed as playing.
• Putting your name and phone number on a collar around their neck is not an appropriate loss prevention technique.
• An old blanket in the laundry does not count as a bed.
• You should not have a second baby for the sole reason of keeping the first one company when you go out.
• Leaving the radio on and locking them in their room is not a substitute for a baby-sitter.
• If you go on holiday, you can't just leave your baby in the yard and pay the neighbours to feed it.
• Babies must take a bath more than once a month.
• You cannot restrict a baby to one part of the house for their entire lives.
• If your child humps your leg, or anyone else's for that matter, it is not cute or funny.
• Similarly, it is not okay if your child humps teddy bears, pillows or other children, particularly if it is non-consensual.
• Letting your child sniff other children is weird.
• You cannot race them against other children and bet on it.
• You cannot ride your child around your yard.
• You can't fatten up your children so that you may eat them at a later date.
• If your baby gets too big you cannot simply give them to a family friend who lives on acreage.
• You cannot shoot your baby if it breaks its leg.
• Also, putting your child down if their medical bills get too expensive and you think they've had a good life is highly inappropriate.
• If your child licks its own testicles or anus, you should be concerned.
• You will not be excited if your child unexpectedly falls pregnant, particularly if you do not know who the father is.
• It is not okay for your child to give birth to octuplets on the bathroom floor.
• Letting your baby eat bugs, lizards, grass or their own faeces is unhygienic.
  
• You cannot let your baby catch mice, birds or toads.
• Similarly, if you find any of the above hidden around the house or half-buried in the yard, you should be concerned.
• Do not milk them.
• If your child dies, you cannot flush them down the toilet or bury them in the yard.
  
• If your child does die, people will notice if you try to replace it with one that looks the same.
  

I hope I've helped you in your baby making endeavours.

Sincerely,
Tom

Waiting room reading.

There are many things that men get shit for. We smell, we are messy, we look like a footprint. One thing in particular women love to get on their high-horse about is men's magazines.

To some extent, I agree. Men's magazines are trash. There are a few different types, but most are rubbish. You've got the sport/hobby magazines, which, unless you're a big find of Big Bass Fishing Monthly or Rugby League Weekly, really aren't interesting. They're a pretty niche market. Importantly, anything that involves body-building or tattoos is usually just an excuse to fill the pages with scantily clad women selling vitamin supplements.

Then you have the men's adult magazines, and I needn't say much on this topic. I am impressed as to how long they have survived considering how much better the internet is for porn. Obviously there is a strong market of gentlemen who crave the tactile page-turning experience of Hustler as opposed to the often laggy delights of RedTube.

The remainder of men's magazines are lifestyle journals which, if anyone has flicked through a Men's Style or Men's Health will know that they are full of wank and are aimed at wealthy unattractive men who are desperate to latch onto the latest trend, like bespoke suits or kayaking.

Understandably, those publications are the subject of much criticism. However, very rarely do people turn the magnifying glass around and look at the other side. Probably because no one wants to admit to reading the trash that is women's magazines.

Actual trash magazines aside (Who, NW and Famous) what is on offer for women in magazine form is pretty poor, and as bad if not worse than men's magazines. Besides the niche publications (anything related to weddings or crafts) there are really only two types of magazines.

Firstly, you've got your Mature Lady journals, which includes things like Women's Weekly (published monthly mind you, if that simple error is not a cause for concern then I don't know what is) and House & Garden. These magazines have become what is essentially glorified monthly cookbooks. Rarely is there anything of any substance in them. I bet the editors of Women's Weekly had a conniption fit when Julie won MasterChef.

The other type, and the type that is the target of my scorn, is the Woman's Lifestyle magazines. Cosmo, Madison, Cleo and Marie Claire fall neatly into this category. And they are, on the whole, absolute trash. I was lucky enough to have the most recent copy of Cosmo at my disposal while I was at work this week. It features Britney Spears on the cover, who I can only assume is their desperate attempt at giving women in their 20's a role model. Not a good start Cosmo. She's lip synced her way through a career in which she's had a complete mental breakdown and lost control of her children and finances. She also has a problem wearing underwear. But sure Cosmo, "she made it."

As the cover points out, this month's issue contains such riveting stories as "5 Snappy Fixes for Everyday Beauty Problems", "Clever Fashion Tricks to Beat Your Body Quirks" and "5 Little Ways to get Sexier Summer Hair". Oooo, topical. This is just the tip of the iceberg people.

Firstly, these types of magazines always have some sort of "Real Women, Really Naked" special. It's gone beyond being a gimmick and now almost every issue features average women getting naked and talking about how much they love their body. We get it Cosmo, different women look different naked. So often do these magazines speak out against men objectifying women, yet they are now doing just that. Women's bodies have become less an empowering element of their lives and more a point of discussion, a thing for people to look at and judge and say "Oh, look how real her body is, she's so comfortable getting naked." The real concern is that in every interview they do with these naked women, they always ask "What don't you like about your body?" or "What is your least favourite part of your body?" I suppose this is meant to illustrate that everyone has body hand-ups, but all it achieves is enforcing that idea that no one should be happy with the way their body looks, no matter how much you say "real women are all different and we embrace them!"

There is also always a section on understanding guys, specifically what some trivial behaviour they perform says about your relationship. In this issue, the big article that fills this criteria is "What His Sex Style Reveals About Him... And Your Future Together". Firstly, I can pretty much guarantee that if a guy is having sex with you, he sees some future with you. That future may just be more sex, but men certainly do not have sex with someone and think "Now I will never see or talk to this person again" let alone not think about the possibility of future hook-ups. Secondly, basing the future of a relationship on something as trivial as someone's sex style is completely ridiculous. I'm no sexpert, but I am well aware that no matter what kind of person you are, you usually want different styles of sex depending on any number of external factors. Not only that, people can have the most dramatically personality changes once they start having sex with someone. It would be foolish to try and find a pattern and then use that to judge their long-term potential.

One of my favourite sections is all the pointless quizzes. They link your favourite number to your success with men, your last meal with your relationship with your mother and your shoe size to whether you were reincarnated. I believe this is referred to as a 'pseudo-science'. The December issue of Cosmo contains, amongst others, an article that hopes to explain the connection between your favourite colour and your prowess in the bedroom. When I saw this I thought "Wow, there are a lot of colours, this should be interesting." To my surprise, Cosmo had taken some liberties with the concept of colour. The options? Orange, green and purple. What the fuck kind of colours are they? No one likes those colours, let alone wants to compare them to their skills in the sack.

Finally, these types of magazines have a real problem with contradicting themselves. For example, the issue I was flipping through had an article that warned of the dangers of over-exercising, specifically intense "crash exercise". A handful of pages later was an article that encouraged a quick-fix (read: crash) guide to getting a bikini body. Make up your mind Cosmo, do you want me to exercise or not? Not content with just one level of contradiction, they also had an article that warned of the dangers of exercising, specifically relating to assaults on women who exercise alone. You're sending some very mixed messages Cosmo. No wonder you have a bunch of over-weight readers who need to see their naked counterparts to feel better about themselves.

I have reached my offensive quota, so I'll call it a day.

Thanks for stopping by!

Self-esteem issues.

Time for another dose of literal lyrics. Under the microscope this time is an Australian lady by the name of Vanessa Amorosi. Now Vanny (we're friends and she lets me call her that) has been around for quite a while, beginning her musical career in 1998 with the dance anthem "Absolutely Everybody". This song did indeed annoy absolutely everybody with its repetitive pop loops. Then then disappeared off the face of the earth, only to be reborn with the following track. Lucky us.

The song is basically a, "You are beautiful no matter what anyone says, you are strong, just keep fighting!" anthem to all the ugly teenage girls who listen to Vanny. Too harsh too soon? We'll see.

We open on an empty stage. Vanny enters with her guitar. She begins to sing in a heartfelt manner.

I spend my life
Trying to do things right

Better than trying to do things wrong I suppose. That can end badly. So far, nothing new though.

But all I do is fall to my face
with my hands on my head so many times

You what? You fall to your face... with your hands on your head? How about using your hands to stop you falling "to" your face. Considering you've done it so many times, why haven't you learnt how to stop landing on your face? (Note: other versions of these lyrics read "my hands and my hips" which makes even less sense.)

But then I learnt, after being burnt
To get back up and push straight on
stop the tears people move on, on

No no, if you've been set on fire, you should go to the hospital, or at least a doctor. Don't keep going like nothing has happened. You'll regret it once your skin starts to peel. It's also okay to cry if you've just landed on your face, been set on fire, or both.

The following happy words are the chorus.

Well it's alright to be myself
now I've learnt to stand
well it's ok to be just who I am
I spent years really hating me
longing to be friends,
now I hope that you can understand
This is who I am

Lighten up Vanny. You hate yourself, you've just learnt to stand, blah blah. No wonder no one liked you, you're a wet rag on the party of life. If who you are is a mopey bitch, then I would contest that's not an okay thing to settle for. You should really try to not be a downer.

Now when life gets tough
I'm quick to hurry up
I run all day, I run through the night
I break down walls, I hit up high

It would seem Vanny recommends the following coping mechanisms for those on Struggle Street:

• excessive and dangerous exercise
• vandalism and property destruction
  
• grievous bodily harm
  

Not the wisest of choices, but I suppose if it stops you killing yourself then it's better than nothing.

I don't care if I'm fat, or if you think my clothes are bad

You should care if you're fat, because its actually unhealthy. I realise the media places too strong an emphasis on being thin, but the reality is, fat people get sick and die much quicker than thin people. That's a fact. Bad clothes is less of an issue, but I guarantee if you're fat and poorly dressed, no one is going to want to be your friend.

'cos I can go to sleep at night,
I'm a good person and I'll get by

Most people sleep at night, thats not a feat of strength. If you said you wrestled alligators at night, or kicked bears in the shins, then I'd be impressed. The same goes for being a good person. Big deal. Lots of bad people sleep brilliantly at night and get by just fine as well.

Are you someone, are you someone, are you someone,
someone like me

Fat, badly dressed, self-loathing, violent and well rested? No. You're appealing to what I can only assume is a very niche market here Vanny.

You deserve, you deserve, you deserve to be free

Free from what? Their own shitty lives? If they deserve it so much, they can go out and earn it.

Because the world will keep spinning,
and you'll be trapped in it

Not only do you have a poor grasp of the basic sciences of the planet, you're being very threatening here Vanny. These people aren't the most confident souls on the planet, and I can only assume they don't react so well to being told they'll be sucked into the Earth's core if they don't emancipate themselves from their shame spirals. Maybe not though, maybe that's what they need, a good scaring.

The chorus repeats a few times, and it's just as depressing as it was the first time you heard it. I'm not sure where Vanny went wrong, but whoever is writing her material should really get themselves checked out.They've gone from poppy anthem to borderline emo rather quickly. Well, that's a lie, it's taken 10 years, but still, they should be on suicide watch.

Multitasking bonus: The music and lyrics in one hit!

If you're feeling down about your weight, listen to this:

Wake me up when movember ends.

Guess what today is? It's November 30th. And that means one thing. It's the end of the fictional month 'Movember'.

I'm sure you all know what 'Movember' entails. But if not, here is a quick rundown:

Step 1: Grow moustache.
Step 2: Get donations.
Step 3: ???
Step 4: Profit!

I completed these steps. And let me tell you, it's not as easy as it sounds.

Firstly, and most importantly, you have to deal with the moustache. The first week is hard, because your moustache is in its first stage. You look like a pubescent Mexican child. It gets mistaken for either a shadow or a coffee stain. People laugh. The second week your moustache hits it's stride, and it's actually the easiest week. It's not long enough to be annoying yet not short enough to be confused for a dirt smear. At this point your commitment to Movember becomes evident, and people stop laughing and start paying attention.

Week three is without a doubt the toughest. Your moustache is now at a length where it is starting to catch food and sweat on your face. It's gotten to the itchy stage, particularly if the weather is unpleasantly hot. If you're lucky, you can do a bit of a trim, but everyone knows that isn't in the spirit of things. By now you will have received all of your donations, and the whole thing feels like a waste of time.

The final week is highlighted by a general numbness. You've got mere days to go, and your heart is set on shaving your unsightly facial hair off. But part of you has grown attached to the little guy. You're starting to think "I don't look so bad with a moustache, maybe it is something I could pull off in the long term." These thoughts are horribly misguided, but at this stage of the game, anything is possible. You get few stray donations rolling in, nothing to write home about though. People start to say things like, "I don't hate it as much as I used to." or "You know, you look like *insert famous person here* with that moustache."

I've worked through all of this, and I can tell you, the end is totally worth it. Knowing I'm going to go back to my normal self is great. Not feeling like I have pubes stuck to my face is going to be very freeing. Not startling myself in the mirror every morning will be fun. However, I will miss it. It was a great conversation piece. Plus, I got compared to the following people:

• George Harrison
• Jason Lee (circa 'My Name Is Earl')
• Dave Grohl
• A 70's porn star
  
• Your dad when he was younger

Check out my Facebook for some pictures of the big shave.

Guns kill people.

It's 'Literal Lyrics' time again folks! I realize we skipped a week, but I had a very good excuse. Not only that, but this awesome blog called 'nine summertime' liked my last 'Literal Lyrics' so much that they want me to write for their blog as well. So this is going to appear on both blogs. Hurray, new audience! Anyway, enough ego stroking, lets get down to business.

This week's song is 'Russian Roulette' by Rihanna. Don't get me wrong, I think she's great. But only at dancing and singing. And getting punched in the face by her boyfriend. OH NO YOU DIDN'T! The song opens with some basic instructions on how to live.

Take a breath, take it deep
Calm yourself, he says to me
If you play, you play for keeps

Rihanna, you're hanging with the right crowd. These people have their head on right. Breathing, calmness, playing for keeps. Good on you girl.

Take a gun, and count to three

Jesus Christ! Rihanna, what the fuck is going on here? I take that back, these aren't nice people. Guns are not toys. Get out while you can!

I’m sweating now, moving slow
No time to think, my turn to go

No Rihanna, there is most definitely time to think. It doesn't have to be a long thought. A simple "I don't want to shoot myself in the face and die" will suffice. Also, I hate to point out the obvious, but if you're moving slow, then you're probably buying yourself those few seconds necessary to think about how much of a bad idea it is to play Russian Roulette.

And you can see my heart beating
You can see it through my chest

Now, either everyone is sitting too close or you're dangerously skinny. If people can see your heart beating, you've got some issues. I'm going to assume these same people that want you to play games of life and death are also encouraging your eating disorder. Rihanna, as much as I applaud you for leaving Chris Brown, perhaps you should reconsider your new choice of company.

And I’m terrified but I’m not leaving
Know that I must must pass this test

How topical. Is this song a metaphor for something? Perhaps a destructive relationship you had recently?

So just pull the trigger

Nooooooo! Rihannaaaaaaa!

Say a prayer to yourself

Oh thank God you're still alive. Get out now. Either you're going to die or you'll be an accessory to murder.

He says close your eyes
Sometimes it helps
And then I get a scary thought

Only now? You've just nearly killed yourself and now you're thinking scary thoughts? You're crazier than I thought Rihanna.

That he’s here means he’s never lost

That doesn't make him a winner. Nor does it make him a desirable partner. It most likely makes him a killer. Or at least a cheat. While I don't know how many games of Russian Roulette he's played (he does seem to have a lot of handy hints), I'm guessing the laws of probability would prohibit anyone from becoming too good at it without some element of rigging.

As with all pop songs, the chorus begins its monotonous repetition about here. Rihanna "pulls the trigger" two more times, so either there isn't a bullet in this revolver or they're playing with a machine gun. She does offer one more word of... warning, I suppose you could call it.

As my life flashes before my eyes
I'm wondering if I will ever see another sunrise
So many won't get the chance to say goodbye
But it's to late to think of the value of my life

Once again, I must point out that there is always time to think of the value of your life. You don't have to write an essay, just a brief "I have loved ones" would pretty much cover all the important arguments. This whole song is making me question Rihanna's sanity. She really doesn't seem to care much about her own safety, or how her death (read: suicide) might make people feel. Instead she worries about seeing the sunrise. Never mind how her parents would feel, or her legions of fans, or her friends. As long as you're impressing a boy by gambling with your own life, it's all good.

You know, Chris Brown may not have been the nicest guy, but I doubt he would have made you kill yourself to prove you like him. He wrote a song called 'Kiss Kiss' after all. Maybe you should give him another chance.

Read the full lyrics here
Listen to the song here.

I've been your literal DJ, here's something less dangerous than shooting yourself:

Circle of life.

Previously on Pazzwizzle...

"NacBook is dead... my beautiful, black, second-hand MacBook... 'HAHA HAHA NACBOOK!!!'... I spilled its entire contents over my Mac... my Mac came crumbling down around me... the cancer had spread... I dropped it into the MacHospital again (this time Mac1 on James St)... what a mistake that was..."

I checked NacBook in on Saturday November 7th. The geeky Mac shop assistant assured me that their technicians would have a look at my laptop within the next 2-3 working days and get back to me, and if anything needed to be replaced, that'd take about 5-6 days. I was upset but I knew they were going to fix NacBook. Well, I thought they would. They seemed to think it was just a power button problem, and those are cheap and easy to fix. I thanked them for their time and headed home, Mac-less.

2-3 working days rolled past. Nothing. Not a peep. I began to worry. I spoke to some of my friends who also owned Macs. Some of them had used Mac1 before and none were impressed. Long wait times, poor customer service, high fees. I began to regret my choice of MacHospital.

Friday November 13th dawned and it was now into the 5th working day. I was pissed. I waited until lunchtime and then called Mac1 to see what was going on. A smarmy Mac techie answered. Put on your best "I'm an elitist MacTard and I'm better than you because I know about computers" voice and let's have a conversation. (Mind you, this is abridged for convenience.)

Tom: What's happening with my Mac? You guys said you'd call me within 2-3 working days?
Mac1: Hmm, let me have a look. No, we haven't checked your Mac yet. It usually takes 5-6 working days. We'll get to it.
Tom: Right, well, I kind of need my laptop back, so when do you think I'll get a call?
Mac1: Ahhh, probably not today, so definitely Monday, since the weekend isn't a working day. (Oh really? No shit, Sherlock. Did your Mac tell you that or are you just naturally gifted at knowing what happens on certain days of the week?)
Tom: Okay, I guess I'll hear from you Monday then.

I sat through my second weekend without NacBook. Tortuous stuff. I was using my mum's mini-laptop and it was like trying to make a phone call on an Etch-A-Sketch. Anyway, Monday arrived and still no phone call. Now I was mad. It had been 5-6 working days and that window had passed.

I didn't know what was so difficult about my problem. it's not like there was a program on the Mac that wasn't working, the whole thing wouldn't turn on. How long did that take to test? I can tell you, about five seconds. Once they'd identified the problem, all they had to do was solve it. Surely there are only so many things that can cause that problem. Yet somehow I was at the bottom of their list of things to do.

Tuesday November 17th and I finally got a call. Once again, get your "Elitist MacTard" voice ready.

Tom: Hey, Nice to finally hear back from you.
Mac1: Hey Thomas, we've had a look at your Mac and there isn't anything wrong with it.
Tom: Sorry, what?
Mac1: It's booting up fine. I've run a full diagnostics test on it. There is nothing for me to fix because there is nothing wrong.
Tom: There is, or else I wouldn't have dropped it in. It wasn't turning on.
Mac1: Well I've turned it on a number of times. It's working fine for me. (At this point, he is implying I don't know how to turn on my MacBook.)
Tom: Right, well I guess I'll pick it up then. So there is definitely nothing wrong?
Mac1: Nothing at all. If you do have any further problems we can look at it then, but for now it's good to go.
Tom: Okay, excellent, I'll pick it up as soon as I can.

I picked NacBook up the next day (well, my sister did as I was at work, bless her soul) and was excited to use it again. Due to prior commitments however, I was not able to properly test it until Thursday night. Thankfully, Mac1 had not charged me anything to look after my MacBook for 10 days, so I was not out of pocket. Lucky for them too, as what was about to happen would not have been so easy for me to handle if I'd given them so much as a dollar.

NacBook wouldn't turn on. I tried for at least half an hour, yet nothing worked. I did this thing that the Mac1 guy recommended, I prayed to various deities, I even got someone else to try just in cas I had actually forgotten how to turn NacBook on. Zip, zilch, nada. Not a sausage. I was furious. Mac1 had wasted ten days of my life. I felt like hunting the MacTard down and ramming my laptop up his over-clenching anus. Then I realised he probably already pleasures himself with Apple products so I'd just be doing him a favour.

I picked myself up off the floor and committed to getting NacBook fixed. I owed it to him. No doubt having to spend nearly two weeks in Mac1 would have been like shooting yourself in the face repeatedly. On Friday at lunchtime I dropped into Next Byte on Adelaide St. I explained to them the problem. I covered the whole Mac1 saga and pleaded with them to have a proper look.

They were great. I actually spoke to the technician who was going to look at NacBook. He told me what the problems might be and assured me he'd get to the bottom of it. In fact, within the 20 minutes I stood in that store I learnt more about what was wrong with my Mac than I had in ten days with Mac1. I did have to pay a $75 fee to get it looked at, but at that point, money was no longer an issue. They said they would get back to me in 2-3 working days. I believed them.

Two hours later and I got a phone call. No "Elitist MacTard" voice necessary this time. The technician informed me that he had opened up my MacBook and discovered water damage on the logic board. The logic board was basically the motherboard and it controlled everything in the MacBook.

It was going to cost about $1900 to replace, but I hadn't lost any data. He then suggested that a new MacBook would only cost $1300, so it'd be far more economical to just get a new one, considering NacBook had water damage. He even offered me the opportunity to turn NacBook's hard-drive into an external hard-drive for a small fee, and that way I'd have all my old data, as well as a shiny new empty Mac.

Once again, in two hours, Next Byte had done more for me than Mac1 had managed to do in nearly two weeks. Obviously I was upset at the prospect of having to pay for a new MacBook, but knowing that I was going to have all my old data made me happy. I did not want to have to re-download all my porn.

So here I am now, using my sister's computer to post on Pazzwizzle and check my e-mail. I am faced with the exciting yet expensive task of buying a new Mac this week. The moral of this story is fairly simple: Don't go to Mac1 on James St for anything Apple related. However, if you want to burn down a shop or rob somewhere, then its the place to be. I do, however, highly recommend Next Byte on Adelaide St. Not as an arson or burglary target, but as a place to get Apple things.

Smell you later!

Death of a salesman.

It is the end of an era.

NacBook is dead.

"What is a NacBook?" you ask? Simple. It's the name I lovingly gave to my beautiful, black, second-hand MacBook. After a solid 2-ish years of faithful service, it has finally shuffled off this mortal coil. It will never more play another iTunes track. It will no longer be host to my gigs of pirated TV shows. It has gone on its last Safari.

Firstly, a bit of history. A eulogy if you will. The name NacBook arose not too long after I bought the MacBook. I bought it second-hand off Facebook Marketplace. Having never purchased anything online before, I was terrified I was going to get played. So much so I actually had a nightmare in which my MacBook arrived, but when I opened it up, I discovered it was actually a cheap Korean knock-off, called a "NacBook".

In the nightmare, the keyboard had random symbols written on the keys. When I turned it on, it powered up and looked like a Commodore 64 and the screen stayed locked on an image of a monkey laughing at me as the tinny speakers pumped out the following on repeat:

"HAHA HAHA NACBOOK!!! HAHA HAHA NACBOOK!!!"

I woke up in a cold sweat. It made the wait for my purchase brutal. However, when it arrived, the MacBook was perfect. A powerful, sleek, black machine that, once I got used to using the thing, was a dream to use.

The beginning of NacBook's demise was a few days before Christmas 2008. I was in London with my family, and they had all headed out to the shops. I stayed home, wanted to jump on the internet and catch up on the viral web I'd missed over the last few weeks that'd I'd been schlepping it around Ireland and Spain. I had a big glass of water at my side, and in what I can only assume was a fit of laughter, I spilled its entire contents over my Mac.

I'm sure they heard me scream across the English Chanel. I couldn't believe my stupidity. I turned NacBook off and wiped off as much of the water as I could. I placed it over one of the many heaters in the house and prayed it'd be okay.

Two tense days later and the big test came. I tried to power it up. And it worked! Oh joy of joys! I practically peed myself in excitement. There appeared to be no issues. NacBook had looked death in the face and laughed. "HAHA HAHA NACBOOK!!!" I assume.

Unbeknown to me, I had done more damage than I thought. Like a cancer that sits quietly in a man's testicles before it one day surprises it's owner with blood filled urine, the water slowly began to eat away at the inside of NacBook.

First to go was the hard-drive. In about April of this year as I watched an episode of Weeds, my Mac came crumbling down around me. It was running a marathon with a bad hip, and that hip had just disintegrated, taking with it all my music, movies and uni assignments.

I dropped NacBook into the MacHospital (Next Byte on Adelaide St) and hoped I wouldn't be apart for long. That same afternoon I got a call. They had the part in stock and would replace it for me right now. I peed myself for the second time in 6 months. $300-ish later and I had NacBook back. I rebuilt my music and movie collection, and restarted two uni assignemnts. Once again, I thought everything was fine.

Yet the cancer had spread. It hit NacBook's lungs (I've never felt a laptop heat up as much as mine could), brain (the logic [read: mother] board was slowly corroding) and liver (NacBook was a cheap drunk). It struggled on, like a rapper with a sore throat, but the audience know it was only time before this rap battle was going to end in a technical knock-out. Well, I didn't, but I was the ever-optimistic coach.

I began to notice that if I turned NacBook off, it sometimes didn't like to turn back on. It seemed that the power-button was faulty. Usually it would just take a few tries. But each time it took longer and longer. I was having to leave NacBook on permanently so I wouldn't have to boot up. This band-aid could only stick for so many showers.

Finally, on Friday November 6th, NacBook loaded it's last Facebook page. It seemed to be struggling so I turned it off, against my better judgment. And when I tried to reboot, nothing. NacBook was out. I tried all night but the poor thing was done. I hoped it was just a superficial power-button issue, and so I dropped it into the MacHospital again (this time Mac1 on James St).

What a mistake that was...

Coming soon: MacBook Medical Negligence