Warren X. Mass

Up until a couple of weeks ago, I'd thought the 'war on Christmas' was a media beat-up, designed to appeal to the more sharp and crumbly (a.k.a. mature) Australians. Alas, I am now forced to eat humble pie, albeit served with lashings of delicious brandy butter.¹

Yes, I witnessed strange things on my trip to Tasmania, my friend. I hope you will forgive my laziness, for I have not read the books, but the war on Christmas reminded me very much of Peter Jackson's Return of the King. There was a giant all-seeing eye, shaped like a Christmas bauble, an army of the undead, and Cate Blanchett in a cameo as Bob Dylan.

For three days and nights the battle raged. Carols were going off to my left and right, Christmas stockings were being used as slingshots, and a piss-weak Christmas cracker joke almost took my eye out. It all came to an abrupt end when Bob Dylan avoided detection by the all-seeing bauble by taking a mountain track and managed to throw a Christmas album by New Kids on the Block into someone's back yard incinerator.

To this day, I still don't know which side wanted to kill off Christmas. But the real lesson here is that Tolkein lied when said that Sauron was all-that.




¹ To ensure that your brandy butter is awesome, omit the family acrimony. While family acrimony does add an interesting piquancy, it also leaves a bitter aftertaste that lasts long after the pudding's gone.

disaster waiting to happen

The Queensland government has an ad on TV encouraging residents to be ready for emergency situations such as floods, cyclones, an increase in the price of wine, and so on. For those hipsters¹ out there without TVs, don't dismay. You can still attain a cat-like state of readiness by perusing this website.

They recommend that you have an emergency kit containing, amongst other things, three days worth of non-perishable food. If you ask me, I'd say that most people will die of Internet deprivation long before starvation.


¹ A round of applause, if you would be so kind, for my blogger's hat trick. Three posts in, and three mentions of hipsters.

Take it away with DNA!

The day was as balmy as the Snoopy tattoo on a hipster's arm. As I surveyed the other cafe patrons, my eye was drawn to the couple with the young baby. S/he was attractive enough for a human of that age and yet I couldn't help thinking "If James and I had a baby, it would be heaps cuter".

The lesson here, my friends, is that no matter how low your self esteem may be, your DNA thinks it's the shit. That's right - you may be curled up in the fetal position, but your DNA is prancing about waving its undies in the air, screaming for attention and boasting about its helix.

It reminds me of what Emo Philips said: "I used to think that the brain was the most wonderful organ in my body. Then I realized who was telling me this."

celebrity

It was a cool morning as I walked along that Hobart street, and yet there was a tension in the air as thick as the mutton chops on a hipster's face. As our eyes met, I knew that this would change everything.

I was confident in my ability to cope with my new found celebrity. After all, the Courier Mail had dedicated a whole inch to my art exhibition. Yes... I had already tasted the heady delights of fame and I'd come through unscathed.

My concern was how James would cope. Now that I had made eye contact with Senator Bob Brown, people would be looking at me differently. They might even start asking for my autograph. How would James cope with all the extra attention I would receive?