The links, the hawt chicks, and nothing but.

Another week, another Friday, another hawt chick. How many hawt chicks can there be? Answer – a lot. If you’re a hawt chick reading this then maybe that makes you not very special at all. Who are we kidding? You’re special because there are a lot more men who want to interact with hawt chicks than there are hawt chicks. Take me as a case in point. I post a weekly hawt chick. I don’t post a weekly fat chick eating at Wendy’s. Maybe there’s an audience for that but I don’t want to find out. I don’t care about my audience that much. I care about me.

Onto the links. And the hawt chick. Not eating at Wendy’s.

Continue reading “The links, the hawt chicks, and nothing but.”

Europe versus Australia.

A number of my acquaintances have expressed some measure of perplexity at my decision to move to Europe at this point in time. As one said to me last night, “you sure will be at the pointy end of events going down in Europe.” He meant that by way of stating that I am either brave or foolish but probably an unbalanced mix of both.

I don’t think my decision is anything of the sort. If anything it is strategic. The common assumption is that Europe is going to the doghouse while Australia will continue its relative calm and prosperity down here in this isolated corner of the globe. This assumption is so common amongst the right and the alt-right here in Australia that it is never commented upon. It is taken as gospel truth.

Well let me do a spot of gospel dispelling for you all.

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Mental welfare slavery.

Looky here all you rambunctious delcons and deplorables. You think that you’re all thinking for yourselves when in actual fact you’re carrying around a chain of mental strangulation that’s heavier than a semi-truck laden with fat chicks on their way to a concrete eating competition. It’s my job, nay, it’s my public service to point this out to you whenever the opportunity arises. Your role is to take it on the chin, get back up off the canvas, and consider whatever it is that I am on about. Not what I am on. There’s a difference. Capisci?

Okay. So the other day I wrote a wee little post on the lunacy of bicycle helmet laws. The post got some open discussion which was nice as usually it’s either, “Adam, you are the shit!” or “Adam, you are shit!” (Nobody commented on my old awesome bike. Almost blew my brains out over that one). Regular commenter Lady Moonlight was a touch confused at my stance against this onerous law.

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An ANZAC poem.

Recently I have had the pleasure of getting to know a recently retired member of the Australian Special Air Service regiment. He has written the following poem about ANZAC day which is today in Australia. It is my pleasure to share it with you. My thanks to the talented poet who wishes to remain anonymous.

DAWN SERVICE TWILIGHT.

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Bicycle helmet laws were the start of the rot.

I was a mad keen cyclist as a teenager. This was back in the late eighties when there was no such thing as horrible middle aged white dudes riding around on bikes costing ten grand while wearing lycra. They were all off playing golf. Cycling was not a thing and that is why I did it. My dad gave me $1500 for my 18th birthday, a good whack of cash back in those days.

I spent it all on a bike. A Repco Vertex Time Trial. Here’s a photo of one that a guy recently restored:

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