How to Move Through Space

Do you know how to get here? How are you getting here? You'd have to fly southwest a long, long time until you get to Honolulu, and then you have to fly further south. Fuel is very expensive at the moment, so make sure you have enough. I don't know how far it is exactly, but when you get to Sydney, I'm about 15km north of the airport.

Once you get here, you just move a foot forward by swinging your leg, and swinging the OPPOSITE arm at the same time to keep your balance, and then shift your weight and do it with the other leg. Don't forget your arm! And this technique of moving through space will get you around in Sydney just fine. You'll do great!

See you soon, friend!

Australian customs

Oh 'twill be such a gay time! I reflect often on your pending visit, dear friend. Bring live snakes. When Customs stops you, release the snakes. Pandemonium ensues, and you charge the exit. I will smash through the glass doors in a Holden ute in reverse (this is a neat bit of physics) at 18:15 sharp. At that time you should be mid-leap through the air yelling, "Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi Oi Oi!" with your passport out. Get it stamped before you land in the ute. I will then make the jump to light speed and plant my foot, firing glass and debris from under my wheels, hot wind blowin' my hair, smokin' hot babes hangin' in the back seat, and Eddie Van Halen hammertapping on the hood, and we'll take the M4 toll road back to my place because it's worth the $2 to avoid all the traffic on the Eastern Distributor.

It's Armageddon All Over Again

It's happened. The world has ended. We all knew it would, and we kept making a lot of noise about it all the time, but we didn't do anything about it and here it is. Welcome to the end.

The world ends after this, and there won't be anything else to write about. That will be it. The end. The end bit. The end of this entry will be the last bit of the world and then that will be it. It will be the end.

... After the end bit. I mean, it's already happened, and... so nothing else can happen after that, so this entry is being written just in the moments before it happened, the end.

I mean, I know it's about to happen, which is why I can write about it having happened. And this is it. I know. Because I know. Because it happened, that's how. I mean, it's going to happen.

Oh fuck off.

How to get rid of people.

The whole problem with civilisation is people. Get rid of the people — what's the problem? No crime. No wars. Greenhouse gas cuts of 100% instantly worldwide.

I am forming a party. The People's Party For Ending Humanity (PPFEH). I have a lifetime of experience disdaining and have a bright vision of the future. That's why I'm asking for your vote.

Vote PPFEH! Get rid of people!

Mother Greg

Mother Greg and Other Greg were brothers, ungoverned and gregarious
and otherwise very Southern. Another southerner, Carruthers, was the other son of their over-eager father, Regular Greg, who'd rather have wed Carruthers' lover, Leggy Peggy, undercover somewhere or other. Though they'd never met, the ever negative Mother Greg resented brother Carruthers and the other, Other Greg, who would have had to have had what whichever of the other brothers would have otherwise not had. This bothered Uncle Father Greg, The Gregorian monk and unlucky brother of Carruthers and the other brothers' father, Regular Greg. "Carbuncles!" Uncle Father Greg bellowed when he lectured the regularly interrogated Regular Greg. "Mudder Greg an' Udder Greg ar' brudders! Get de fayr o' God in 'em!"

A brave morning

Up, and it being a brave morning, with a gaily to Woolwich, and there both at the Ropeyarde and the other yarde did much business, and thence to Greenwich to see Mr. Pett and others value the carved work of the “Henrietta” (God knows in an ill manner for the King), and so to Deptford, and there viewed Sir W. Petty’s vessel.... So home, reading all the way a good book, and so home to dinner, and after dinner a lesson on the globes to my wife, and so to my office till 10 or 11 o’clock at night, and so home to supper and to bed.

In bed I tossed and turned all night. I woke several times to find something peculiar. It seemed that I was not in bed at all, but in the back of a stagecoach, speeding down the county road, bumping and sliding in the mud and rain. We travelled all through the night until we reached Staffordshire. Mr. Pett was waiting for me here. He instructed me that it was of grave urgency that I be reprimanded into his custody for the remains of the day. Unwillingly I succumbed to his advances and agreed to the surgery. It was a gruelling experience, but one that left me pondering the meaning of a life such as mine. It seems that I am in fact more suited to living 600 to 1000 meters below the sea's surface. In a place that humans cannot go. For I am Mr. Pennyschmidt. The one and only. I resemble an eel, but am much more like a shark. And so home to supper and to bed.

A life!

You! You're lucky you've got a life! When I was your age we didn't have a life! No! That's where the saying, "Get a life!" came from. The lucky ones who had lives would say to us, the unliving, "Get a life!" It was a real insult, 'cause we had it tough! Oh yes, we did. When you're not alive, you don't exist. And it takes a lot of bloody hard work to do something, anything at all. None of us ever succeeded—we just continued not to be there—but we tried! Oh yes, we bloody tried. You lot, you count yourselves lucky!

—Pancreas, the Unliving