About Me
Well Ladies and Gentlemen, for a bloody long time I've refused to add any sort of content to this here site.Times of change are upon us.Yes, I AM Stephen Geggie. Pronounced as it sounds.I hate a lot of stuff. Shit music, adverts and television. Other things of note include green lego blocks and breadcrumbs.Occasionally, I actually like stuff. These things include good music, no adverts and no television. Also red lego blocks and whole pieces of bread.Sometimes, I get sand in my undies. This is average for a number of reasons. One, there's no room for my whizzer and mud crabs. At this point in time, I'm not going to write anything else about myself, because I can't think of anything funny or spontaneous...you know when you try think of something really odd, and all you can come up with is the same thing over and over, and it's usually stuff you can see in the room. Brains suck like that. Not literally though, that would be a little awkward seeing as it has the smarts, but not the functions to achieve such a feat. And by feat I mean "a noteworthy or extraordinary act or achievement, usually displaying boldness, skill, etc.: Arranging the treaty was a diplomatic feat." not the feet that are joined to your ankles. Hah, you see what I did there? I was at loss for words, but I just kept plugging on until I struck something, albeit horse shit.Actually, I'm glad you brought horse shit up, as I have a funny anecdote I must relay to you sometime. Only after you chuck us that 20 you owe me but.A wise man, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in fact, once said to me, "Stephen, what saves a man is to take a step. Then another step. It is always the same step, but you have to take it."I thought about that. For a long time. I pondered on it, I let it seep into the very darkest parts of my soul, let it dance a jiggery on my brain, and after an age I had this to say to Antoine, "Cheers dickhead, what if he's fucken disabled? Thanks for thinking broadly you idiot. Some fucking philosopher you are. Get a labouring job you worthless piece of filth." And he did. See that's what I'm about. It's not just the nice things you say to people that matters. It's getting a well-educated and positive man a job with Bazza down fucken vasse laying some bricks. And I mean, some people don't like the fact that that is how I roll. (double "that"'s, crazy I know, but it works.) You know what I say to those people? I say "___(insert name here)___, one who understands much displays a greater simplicity of character than one who understands little." And if they don't hear me properly because someone has music turned up incredibly loud and that kid next to them is being really noisy and there is a game of cricket on in the background, I don't repeat it. Because I hate saying things twice. Except "G'day" which I probably say at least 10-15 times a day.Actually, that reminds me of seaweed. It's great on biscuits, I know... but rashing up the old legs down the beach? Not so hot. I'm a big fan of meat pies. I'm not going to beat around the bush and lie to your faces, they are just dead set fantastic. Another thing, equally if not more appealing: steaks. BBQ dead horse is a must though, you can't eat steaks with out the horse. And I bloody hate getting bits of meat stuck between your teeth, it's a freaking horror show getting all them bits out.If you're a little unsure where this 'essay' is going, and you think you are wasting your times reading it...congratulations. You 'got' the joke. Notably, Giraffes do NOT have longs necks because their arses stink, as a lot of people mistakenly think. Lady Giraffes love to (EXPLETIVE) And the boy Giraffes don't muck around when it comes to (EXPLETIVE).And remember, young kids are very impressionable, so don't do anything bad around the younguns. Like set fire to the cat. 44 gallon drums are great for rolling a small animal down a hill, but why on this earth are we still calling them 44 gallon drums? We are, believe it or not people, in the age of the 'litre'. Now, for the sake of keeping things simple here people, we'll assume we are all talking about a 44 gallon drum, measured wet (as in, a liquid), in the United States. Not dry, and not in the UK. Or a liquid...in the UK. Because that is a whole different kettle of goat scrotums. Just doing some quick sums in my head, a 44 gallon drum, of liquid, in America, works out to roughly 166.5581192 Litres, give or take a few decimal places. How much better does THAT roll of the tongue? "Hey chaps! Let's roll this kitten down the ravine in a 166.5581192 Litre drum!" This would be followed quickly with a chorus of youthful exuberance, I am certain.Just while we are talking about ravines, don't you hate it when you catch your finger in the belt sander in year 10? I bloody do it all the time, and frankly, I'm getting a little sick of it. I must have lost whole fingers 8 or 9 times at least. 3 or 4 more times and I'm pretty well buggered then. I'll have to sticky tape beers and my wizzer to my hands. That would surely be a little troublesome at the best of times. Fucken 'Digger' comes over, "HEY HEY! SAMBO! How you bloody doing?"...*Digger extends hand for a hand shake*... So Digger's thrown the mitt out there, and old Sambo forgets he's taped his penis to his hand. No more rounds from Digger, I wouldn't think, if you know what I mean.Shit, are you still here? Sorry mate, I was just talking to myself for a minute there. Heh, I get caught out like that a fair bit actually. Just the other day in fact, I went to the bank with no pants on. Yep. Fair dinkum, I'm standing there in the line, waiting to make a brief little direct deposit, and just noted down in the old thermo-receptors that it was getting a little brisk. And all of a sudden, the shiela behind me says, "Sir, are you aware your cock and balls are on my shoe?" And of course, ever the modest chap, I say "Terribly sorry madam, shrinkage, you see."Sometimes roosters wake me up. And that baffles me. I live in the middle of suburbia. Who has a rooster in the middle of suburbia Stephen? I hear you ask. Well, _________, I'm not exactly sure. But it's probably the dickhead just a couple of houses down with a sound effect on his stereo cranked up, just to piss everyone off because he can't sleep because he eats Nescafe and tins of condensed milk.I swear to christ, if I ever have to flip through more than four pages of Coles adverts in the Courier Mail again, I think I'll be highly upset. I was walking down the street just the other Thursday...or was that Friday? Nope, had to be Thursday, because on Friday I volunteered down the old peoples home and gave all my money and worldly possesions to charity. So yeah, on Thursday, I was just strolling the streets of Busso (or was that Bunno? I ‘Dunno’. (hah, get it)) when a tall, balding man stopped me and said, "Hello there dear sir, you are looking particularly dapper today". I said this: "Thanks". His strikingly bald head was slightly offset in my mind by the fact that he was wearing no clothes at all. And strangely, he smelt of licorice and horses. Brown horses too, not those spotty ones that get skin cancer and look real stupid.Look I really need to poo, so just hold up for a sec.Right thanks, I'm back and slightly lighter. Big fan of watermelon when it's hot, and I'm going to be honest, I'm a swallower. It's just too much effort to spit out seeds every ten seconds. Grape seeds on the other hand.... I steer clear of those if I can. Seedless grapes: A godsend. Although I'm pretty sure man did that one. Commendable effort humans, at least we can leave that as a small legacy on our behalf. We got the seeds out the grapes. And have you seen those rectangle, stackable watermelons? Brilliant. All we need now is oranges that eat themselves and jump in the dunny for us.Fuck, Network Video just rang and I've got an overnighter overdue by 10 days. I might just start buying movies instead of hiring them. Works out cheaper. Well kids, I think it's time to discuss some music. Commercial radio? I love it. No really, I do.HAH.Yeah right, what a crock of shit.We have a huge offender of a radio station in my reasonably small town of Brisbane, Queensland. We play host to 4 main radio stations: Triple J, NOVA, Triple M and B105Triple J is the greatest radio station on this planet.NOVA, Triple M and B105 dear reader, is as close to hell as you will get whilst keeping your eyebrow hair. Not only do they play the most heinous songs ever to grace this Earth, but they assault the listener with a barrage of idiotic, braindead and downright immature, adverts. FOR ABOUT 10 MINUTES AT A TIME. And then there are the presenters themselves.Firstly, the songs. Chockers full of Americanised pop and rap shit which holds little, if any, artistic merit. Nothing against those people who like the 'top 50' sort of music...except well, I think you listen to shit music. And they would play half the number of songs Triple J gets through in a day.Secondly, the adverts.A) They are not funny. Nearly every ad tries to be funny. I've seen funnier cancers.B) They are bloody annoying. Imagine the single most irritating personality, combined with the single most irritating and cliched sound effects, accompanied with the shittest home made music you have ever heard. Double it, take 5, and then multiply by a factor of 3 and you have the ads these stations play.C) They target people with, or those who are of, a mental age of 6. I shit you people not, I feel embarrassed by the sheer stupidity of them.Thirdly, the presenters. Like the ads themselves, annoying, dumb, and bland. It's like listening to Pre-Schoolers talking about Ninja Turtles. I hope they beat their own heads against the walls in shame when they get home from work. BE REAL PEOPLE! Why on Earth they can't act like a normal human is beyond me... they all seem as though they have a mighty big implement wedged squarely up their arse-holes, to be honest.Just imagine whatever you hate the most in the world and then you'll know how I feel. Also, I fucking hate hearing the same songs over and over and over again. Robbo has a single cd for 2 months, and my friends all have the musical taste of a cat's arsehole, so they'll happily listen to the same shit repeatedly. I'm considering getting amongst a new friendship circle if I have to listen to the same shit again. I'm not even joking. I suppose that's the reason commercial radio exists... for people that don't actually "listen" to music.*time passes*Righto, I've just got home and I'm on the piss. I tell you what, tonight, there where more bogans than at a burnout and flanno competition. Amazingly, I didn't see a single fight. There where plenty of dirties to go round too, and drinks where a very hefty 10.40 for my particular beverage of choice. Shout-outs to the 'Big Easy' for the mention down the pub too. Another notable human down the pub this evening: J-Rod. Drunk as a muffin...that was real drunk. Unbelievably, he didn't get in a single blue, or hook up with a total horse. I also succeeded in running the old weekly spending money dry, so that was average. At this point, you may be thinking, "Fuck me, how well is Muzzie typing for a spastic drunk!" I'm gonna be honest and say it was all with the help of a great little invention called the spell checker. Not that my spelling isn't usually of the most impeccable nature, it's just that beer seems to affect my hand-eye co-ordination in funny ways.'Scuse, gotta take a piss.K, back. Yallingup. Undoubtedly my single favourite place on the planet. But seriously, for all the rich cunts that live up in Noosa there is STILL no shower anywhere there. Bloody terrible. A good surf really does relieve me of all my mental and physical stress I have gained throughout the day. I come out just feeling 110%, except for that mad testicular chaffing that is so often associated with a good bodysurf. Another thing which is also closely tied with body-surfing: Pratty's mustard jocks. Dead-set, the worst colour for any situation. Zane Taylor once had mustard jocks. We gave him a wedgie that resulted in his jocks ripping OFF his body, AND THEN WE SET FIRE TO THEM. That's all we really could do. Back to the colour... it just looks like a really shocking poo, it's that bad.I fucking swear to christ, I'm gonna start breaking shit if I have to continuously listen to the smilies that sit in the middle of the page screaming "SAY SOMETHING!" Those little pieces of shit get on my nerves like you wouldn't believe. And songs on Myspace really get my goat too, because I'm always listening to my own music, and then someone punches me in the ears with spice girls or something. And then that little bastard usually tells me to "SAY SOMETHING" and that's when I get real mad and turn green and kill big dogs.And to continue my trend of shockingly average segues, I despise it when people spell arse "ass". Okay, if you're talking about and actual ass, then fair enough ie. "The crazy desert man loaded up his ass , so it could carry his things". However, if you are an Australian person, using the colloquial term for a bum, then bloody well spell it like you’re an Aussie. This is one of the few words in our language that is spelt pretty much phonetically. How do you say it?"R-sss" Right? Not "Ehhh-sss" like the bloody seppos. "R-sss". A-R-S-E.Every time I see some damned teenager with, "Oh man, I kicked his ass" written down somewhere, I'm looking around for his donkey. But his story seems to go off elsewhere. This is where I get confused."But, ___(insert name here)____!" I say. "What about the donkey?" to which they would reply something along the lines of "o lol sam u r teh silly. i dont get wot u meen. r u confyoozed? dont u no wot ass meens?"Now this jargon is usually followed by a swift kick in the teeth from me."___(insert name here)____", I say."I think it is you who are confused. An 'ass' is a long-eared, slow, patient, sure-footed domesticated mammal, Equus asinus, related to the horse, used chiefly as a beast of burden."The teenager glances at me with a piqued interest."tellz me mor sam", they splutter.I stand back upon my educational podium and continue. "Well, arse has many meanings. It could simply be used to describe the excretory opening at the end of the alimentary canal. It is also widely used as slang for the rectum, or 'bum' if you are unsure as to the meaning of rectum, dear child." Said teenager, meanwhile, has lost me after the capital letter at the beginning of my sentence.Well, after 2,703 words of utter shit (that's totally legit, I paid an African kid to do a word count) I've decided to change my ways. No more of this nonsensical rambling, it's time to get down to the real nitty-gritty. My dear friend Ruth Wedgwood from the New-York Times and I were recently discussing the finer points of The International Court of Justice’s judgment amounting to a posthumous acquittal of Slobodan Milosevic for genocide in Bosnia. Oh, how she makes me giggle, with her International Law degrees and her fancy hats. Actually, on the topic of Bosnian genocide, I am really not a fan of the fact that I cannot break this into paragraphs. I blame the public education system.And look at that folks. 2 seconds in google and I’ve figured it out. That’s nearly as easy as getting a quick physics degree, like I did yesterday on my lunch break. I was particularly interested in Photoelectric Effect.In analysing the photoelectric effect quantitatively using Einstein's method, the following equivalent equations are used:Energy of photon = Energy needed to remove an electron + Kinetic energy of the emitted electronAlgebraically:hf = ..phi + E_{k_{max}} ..,where* h is Planck's constant,* f is the frequency of the incident photon,* ..phi = h f_0 .. is the work function, the minimum energy required to remove a delocalised electron from the surface of any given metal,* E_{k_{max}} = ..frac{1}{2} m v_m^2 is the maximum kinetic energy of ejected electrons,* f0 is the threshold frequency for the photoelectric effect to occur,* m is the rest mass of the ejected electron, and* vm is the velocity of the ejected electron.And remember, fuckheads: If the photon's energy (hf) is not greater than the work function (f), no electron will be emitted. The work function is sometimes denoted W. According to Einstein's special theory of relativity the relation between energy (E) and momentum (p) of a particle is E = ..sqrt{(pc)^2 + (mc^2)^2}, where m is the rest mass of the particle and c is the velocity of light in a vacuum.I think we've reached the part where we talk about zombies. As we all well know, zombies are going to take over the earth at some stage, and there is simply no two ways about it. I'm under the impression that zombies will smell like rotting lemons. I think that's some sort of subconscious conclusion that I have settled upon, incited by the mouldy, wrinkly look that is so often seen on a rotting lemon. Now, one big thing that has really been insistently working it's way into my wayward daydreamery is this: If the ravenous zombies devour a human, how does a once living person become a zombie, if they aren't whole enough to sustain zombie like activity? How will zombification spread at any sort of effective rate? If we follow this line of thought then: There will be a massive spike in the number of zombies in the initial takeover bid, as people will be unsuspecting and unprepared. Once the zombies have a significant number, they will cluster into groups, all looking for living meat. Any body they come across will be torn to shreds in the feasting frenzy which ensues. There is no way this corpse can be re-animated, surely, as it would have sustained far too much damage to support zombie activity. That is, if there is even a corpse left. So really, the only new zombies that can be made are from the freelance zombies who don't have the time to eat the whole corpse before it is re-animated.With this in mind, we can assume that a counter strike from the human resistance would be easily organized and set in motion.However.THe classic zombie feasted solely on the brains on the living, as an anesthetic of sorts. Being dead hurts, you know. If this was the case, the damage to the corpus is collateral and thus completely dependent on how much of a struggle the victim put up and how many zombies were tearing at them for the brain. If this was to be the case, the human population could well be doomed.Another point I bring to your attention...What happens when all the humans are dead? Let us assume the 'classic' zombie has taken over... With all the humans gone, brain matter is no longer on the menu. Now zombies are not a supernatural being, they follow the law of nature. Do they simply decompose to the point of no longer being an effective zombie? If the zombie rots to nothing more than dust, is the zombie like, full serious dead? Or does the very essence of being a zombie entail that the flesh remain forever? These are things of which I am uncertain. With these points taken into consideration, we must wonder, do zombies a) have a short life span with a decomposing body working against them, thus not having the time to form some sort of organised unit, or b)they do not decompose at all, and live indefinitely. If this was the case, would they then Bi)show they were capable of learning and/or form a government of sorts, or Bii) Wander the earth aimlessly?Well amongst the flagrant profanity and references to pornography in a discussion with the glamorous young starlet, Jasmine Trigwell, I came to a conclusion. Not many people read this. You know why? THEY ARE COMPLETE FUCKING IDIOTS WHO DON'T KNOW HOW TO READ. Now the beauty of this statement is that it can be made in the knowledge that said idiots will never know it has been made...for the very reason I made the comment. I know full well that if you have read this, you clearly are not an idiot. So congratulations. To everyone else who looks at my profile and doesn't read all of this, you are a cunt.Raptors, contrary to popular belief, are not huge.I have a pet huntsman, his name is Dog. My Brother is extremely scared of it, because he is some sort of baby. I'm not sure if he thinks it's going to jump down and beat him up and nick his wallet or what. Dog devoured a moth tonight, and to be honest, I was a little surprised by his methods. He chose the 'still like tired ninja' approach, and waited for the moth to walk by. There were a few false starts, however, with Dog twitching a little prematurely and scaring ole mothy away. It didn't take long though, and he pounced and fanged him to death pronto. What he did next was most interesting... he just shovelled him straight in. I was under the impression that spiders used the venom to aid in digestion, but this, I have noted, seems not to be the case with Dog.As you may have noticed from my headline name thingamjigglybreasts, I am a mastodon. Obviously not in physical form, I'm more a spiritual mastodon. Now, you may have been under the impression that tuberculosis killed us mastodons out, but you would be wrong in assuming so. Interestingly, mastodon literally means 'nipple-teeth'. Strange, I know... I'm not exactly sure how one goes about eating with nipples for teeth, but they seemed to do alright, for a good number of years. Any resemblance to the 'wooly mammoth' is superficial for a number of reasons that needn't be shared here.Mastodons had massive tusks, sometimes up to 5 metres in length. Archeologists have noted one tusk is generally shorter than the other tusk, indicating laterality (a preference for one side of the body over another, ie right of left handedness) amongst mastodons. Stephen Geggie has noted that one mastodon tusk is shorter than the other because not all the lady mastodons are equipped to handle the full brunt of a 5 metre "Man"stadon. Stephen Geggie also noted that the mastodons where covered in "heaps of pubes, ewwww" and that they looked like "massive walking dicks with malaria and some sort of fungal growth".These theories are yet to be proven.My fucking god. You cannot even begin to imagine the mouth frothing I am doing at some things that have been recently brought to my attention. I think a few words are needed to bring you lot up to speed.The Alex Hills Hotel, Mandatory Collars.Here's some more words to emphasise.Now to the Alex Hills manager...High-and-tight-beige-pant-wearing fuckhead. Get fucked, you old cunt.Now the finer points of my argument are out of the way, I'll expand with these smaller, less important pieces of informaTION I JUST ACCIDENTALLY PRESSED CAPS LOck ah that's better.
This idiot manager might force the people of Alex Hills to don a collar, but the people of Alex Hills will still hang around late, get into fights, make too much noise, drink too much beer, spew on his beer garden, piss in his ash trays, and continue doing what they all love doing.Except, they'll be pissed because some twat is telling them what is "respectable looking attire". What the hell is it about collars that upgrade the pub? Any fuckwit can put a collar on, there is just no point in having the rule.I'm against it because I am over collared shirts like you would not believe. A few years ago, when it was fashionable, it was all I wore. I had, and still have, Lacoste polos, and Ralph Lauren polos and I'd wear them everywhere. Then, every man and his bloody dog had them, and they became synonymous with complete fuckheads with diamond studs. They are so passe it's just a joke.To me, it's the equivalent of forcing people to wear Hawaiian shirts to the bloody pub.I'm going to do everything short of stabbing this arsehole in the neck with a stubby to get rid of this ridiculous rule. I'm gonna hang around outside and round up some drunken protesters. Trust me, they won't be hard to come by.
