I was home alone tonight. I’ve had a remarkably non-eventful day at work, the dear wife and children are taking advantage of the school holidays by visiting a land far, far away (my mother-in-laws). I found myself watching movies that I had recorded to the family hard drive many moons ago. In addition to this already sad state of affairs I decided that I would give the remnants of what was previously a pristine bottle of Wild Turkey Bourbon a gentle nudge. The results thus far have been………….spectacular.

The first movie on my hit list was Terminator Salvation. I had become hooked on network television’s Terminator theme and decided that it was necessary to record and watch this action franchise installment. I started watching this feature early in the evening. I was relatively unaffected by my poison of choice when the film commenced and decided early that I would moderate my alcohol intake by only pouring drinks during advertisement breaks. My monumental underestimation of repetitive corporate intrusion is now only apparent to me as I write this (lets be honest) crap.

I’m not going to bore you with a breakdown of the movie, its story line, or analysis of its characters. I only want to briefly discuss the thoughts that crossed my mind. I was becoming moderately influenced by alcohol by the time I reached the climatic ending of the movie. At its conclusion I was deep in thought debating the existence of fate, attempting to define the value of life, and contemplating the definition of humanity. I speculate that this is how the baby boomer generation felt when they watched Disney’s Fantasia after eating a ship-load of their friendly Rastafarian “organic brownies”. Deep isn't it?!

The next feature film undertaken is titled “Killer Elite”. It appears as though I attempted to watch this movie some time ago, and for whatever reason I had to abandon it, deciding to record it so I could torture myself at a later date. I think I’m about half way through. There appears to be no story line and I’m prompted to write up my night of experiences at a very specific scene in the movie. Let me paint a picture. There are a group of elderly gentlemen sitting around a table discussing the actions of a would-be associate of Jason Statham’s character. At the scene's conclusion one of the elderly gentleman states “We can leave no trace of our activities. That’s why we’re called the Feathermen. Because our touch (the character scoffs), is light”.

For those that don’t know, this is called “whiteboarding”. Whiteboarding is a scene or moment in a movie designed to reveal or discuss a topic or idea to the audience should they be too stupid to comprehend its significance, understand it's relevance, or require it's explanation. I watched this scene in particular and decided it was time for a toilet break. I found myself going about my actions while talking to myself about how ridiculously transparent this moment in film was and how indicative it was of the movie’s quality. Unfortunately I also found myself thinking that in my current condition I probably would not have interpreted the significance of the reference “Feathermen” if it wasn’t spelled out to me. I am a disgrace, and the only appropriate form of punishment I can think of is sitting down and forcing myself to watch the rest of the film. Consider this a movie review. Goodnight.

...but I might have to comment on a burger I have recently had the privilege of enjoying......a couple of times. The establishment has been around a while now. Cbeans cafe, Warrnambool. The dear wife and myself feed there semi-regularly, most of the time we do it when the obnoxious terrorists we call children aren't present. On this particular day I decided to enjoy a "Barbeque Bacon Burger With Chips". 

It came out and straight away I noticed the cheese melted down into the pattie. Mother of God. Of course I didn't say that when it was placed in front of me. From memory no coherent words were uttered at all. I think I may have let out an elongated gasp of sorts. The sort of sound that comes from a japanese actor who portrays seeing Godzilla for the first time. Owwwwwwwwrrrrrr. Handling the beast was always going to be a challenge. I opted for the "Thumb and little fingers underneath" method. While writing this I googled the best method to eat a burger. Turns out that I have evolved to be instinctively suited to the task. Science has proved it. 

http://kotaku.com/the-perfect-way-to-hold-a-hamburger-proven-by-science-1513085238

We have come to the point where my critic of the food hits a major hurdle. At this stage I've managed to securely wrangle my feed and take a good ole, mouth stuffing, initial bite. Time and space dissipate into a whirling haze leaving me with only the subtlest glimpses of what occurred for the rest of the day. Like some dodgy dream I can only recall single second frames of the day here and there, and none of them link together in any appropriate order. I once had a dream I was on some sort of carnival train ride and then BAM!! I punch a camel in the face while attempting to cross a baron desert. This was like that. I THINK we went shopping, or walking around town, or maybe caught up with some friends. I'm not sure. 

Was it that good? I try to think back to the last time I was intellectually crippled to this level and nothing comes to mind, but then, how would I know? Great, now i'm tripping balls over the paradox of not being able to recall the last time I was unable to recall something. I think I managed to pull myself together momentarily to get a picture. Not sure it will help you to appreciate what i'm telling you though. 

Another year done. For me, there was little fanfare. There was no big event, no singing and dancing, no countdown. For the most part I blame the fact that I was working, but there was a little more to it. Like a 70 year old on a cheese pizza diet, I couldn't give a shit. Truth be known I  had every opportunity to inject a little enthusiasm. My workmates were quick to point out that my seemingly obligatory responses to the public's "Happy New Year!!" wishes were very (****quickly googles****) nonchalant. What makes this particular day any more friggen special anyway? Who decided that this particular day, the same as the 365 others, was going to be the end of one year and the start of another? I call bullshit.

Regardless, i'm going to join in the meaningless tradition of entering into a new years resolution. It kind of disgusts me. I mean really? REALLY? Fuck it, why not?!?! Why not openly admit to everybody out there that I am so pathetically weak in my resolve I require the special, almost mystical powers of a new calendar year to commit to bettering myself. Wow. What's the Ebenezer Scrooge equivalent to new years day? If one exists I think i've managed to capture it's spirit. Actually, I think i've wrapped my hands around that spirit's throat and throttled it neck until it's eyes popped out. Gee, i'm getting a bit dark. Moving right along.


What fantastical, whimsical, promises have i made to myself you ask? I'm going all out baby. Non of this "if i can do just this one thing" shit. Here's the list. The first is to try and not let other people's actions and attitudes influence mine. Take note that I said "try." Spend more time with the kids, less on facebook. Spend more time active, and less on the couch. Spend more time reading, and less on watching television/dvds. Spend more time writing, and less on video games, spend more time.................nah fuck it, that'll do. 


Wish me luck, or don't. Whatever. I'm trying to not let your attitude influence me anyway remember!?




Oh, i couldn't be bothered trying to find a relevant picture to put on this thread so here's a picture of a rubber duck.

© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff

I'm struggling to find something to write about. I am literally sitting at the computer writing next to nothing, and thinking about even less. There's no hiding it. I blame Facebook. I've noticed more and more that I am spending countless hours scrolling through the never ending behemoth of social media available at my fingertips. It's ruining us (the entire human race) as a whole. There are zombie like individuals just walking the streets oblivious to the goings on around them as they scroll through all manor of topics that ultimately hold absolutely no benefit or influence on them, and I'm becoming one of them. In fact, I think I saw an image depicting something like this on Facebook once.

Then there's the subject matter. In one post your reading the plight of a destitute, illness riddled child of a war stricken third world country, and the next post is a pictorial expedition of dogs reactions when their owners present them with their walking leads. WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH THAT? Aren't we emotionally unstable enough. Why the hell do we want to torment ourselves in our spare moments by swinging our mood from heart tearing sadness to reality escaping euphoria?!?! 

And how about the English language? Kiss that shit goodbye. With words like "derp" "pwned" "bae" and similar shortened/misspelled phrases being used more and more one can only assume that the bulk of contributors to social media must have been repetitively struck upside the head with a large blunt object. We are being presented as stupid, shallow, lumps of meat. Almost autonomic in operation. It's sad. If enlightened celestial beings happen to come our way, and they accept Facebook as an indication of the level of intelligence we hold as a species it's a good chance they might just initiate an attack that sparks a catalyst causing our solar system to collapse into itself and crush us all into a tiny dense ball of matter, all just as a precaution to ensure the spread of idiocy is prevented. 

Then there's the fact that a lot of the information on social media is .....well.......BULLSHIT!!! People don't even seem willing to verify any claims made on social media. Every month this year I've see some random "money bags" post claiming that because any one particular month has five Saturdays, five Sundays and five Mondays I will come into good fortune............but only if you like and share this post. ARE YOU SHITTING ME!!! I've been checking. It's as simple as looking at a calendar. Also, lets momentarily disregard the issue that most of the time the facts stated in the posts are horrifically incorrect. I'm pretty sure that whatever cosmic forces decide our fate ARE NOT MAKING DECISIONS ON WHICH INDIVIDUALS RECEIVE MONETARY REWARD BASED ON WHICH POSTS THEY LIKE ON FACEBOOK!!!!! Seriously you guys. Come on. Stressing the uselessness of your actions to you is nearly causing me to pop a vein in my forehead. Also, thinking that you can rid the world of cancer by sharing a Facebook post is like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube by shitting your pants. Ponder that. I'm very wise. 

I could go on and on about this, but I think my time might be better spent putting the xmas tree up with the family. 

Don't forget to like this blog on Facebook............................shit.


© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff

.......and as part of his birthday celebrations he decided to invite four of his friends to the local indoor pool. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but indoor pools are tricky that way.

Even while I was standing in the foyer paying for entry the enormity of my decision to participate hadn't dawned on me. It's not until you open the double doors and make your way into the pool area that the regret smashes you in the face. It hits you almost as heavily as the topic i'm about to sook-up about.

My primary complaint is the noise. I can only assume that the building has been purposely designed to contain and reverberate every singular sound made, perhaps even amplify it. This makes the swimming area an enormous Pandora's Box of incomprehensible acoustics. My theory was proven when I took the time to retreat to the foyer to acquire a kiosk made cappuccino.The protection of the closed door was breached occasionally by some soaking 6 year old child that's come in to beg the kiosk attendant for a Bertie Beetle. The mass of noise would blast through the hall like the Death Star's giant laser. If it wasn't for the fact that the automatic doors at the exit where shut, it would probably interfere with passing traffic, and set off the audible alarms of any parked car within 100 metres.

Let's discuss the major contributors to this sonic disruption. It's the girls. They squeal, but it's not that simple. There seems to be a great range of purposes to squealing. It's something I hadn't noticed until today. Firstly there's the short stab. The short stab is a quick, almost chirp of a squeal. This was mainly executed by large groups of girls playing together in the pool itself. I believe it to be utilised as some sort of echo location device. The dry ground variant to the short stab is the long whine. The long whine is performed by girls who have temporarily fled the swimming group to run around the edge of the pool. One can only assume that there must be a greater difficulty in tracking stray members of the flock once they are out of the water, so the intensity and consistency of the squeal must be drastically increased.  

Then there's "The blast". The blast is a squeal that is mild in length but extreme in volume. It is a dual purpose warning and weapon system. I observed the blast being utilised mainly in times of extreme splashings, or whenever a member of the male species was present to within ten metres of the female flock. I was unfortunate enough to be within range of a blast when an apparent 10 - 12 year old girl's position on an inflatable platform was being threatened by another in her group. I have now self diagnosed myself as suffering a perforated ear drum.  

© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff

The nutters are out there people!! They are doing their homework and showing their marvelous fictions to the world. If your willing to flood people with unsubstantiated claims and they are dumb enough to listen, you can prove anything. 

What a load of crap...but then I looked deeper. I found a picture, a single, solitary, lonely, some other word that means the same as the last three, picture. This picture has shocked me to my core and finally proved to me that there must be some sort of treacherous conspiracy at play. Ladies and gentlemen, i'm going to bring forth evidence that will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the shooting down of MH17 did NOT happen. Here is the picture in question.

OMG!! DO YOU FARKIN SEE THAT!!!!!  You see the issue with creating a rouse such as this is that it takes a lot of effort to plan and detail. It also costs money. Sometimes the little things can be overlooked. Little things like employing extras to play the part of rebels. But don't worry, if your party planner ever forgets to book actors for the role you can always duck down to your local comic book/video games convention and grab a couple of ready made characters. Recognise the bloke on the left yet? This bloke is in heaps of photos and even YouTube video footage at the crash site.That'd be Solid Snake from the Metal Gear Solid video game franchise. It's so obvious now isn't it?

It gets better. Say you want to ensure realism by giving your ultra nerdy cosplay gamer a weapon, but don't trust them with actual live ammunition. What the hell are you meant to do with them now? I know! Give them the blue magazines. The blue magazine/red magazine is a common trick utilised by armed personel and specialist forces all over the world. It was made famous when rogue military officials attempted to seize control of Dulles International Airport in Washington in 1990. Here is a exert lifted from the reports. These reports were made available from an unnamed source involved in the incident.


"Colonel Stuart and Major Grant's men all use MP5s with "jungle style" magazines, (two magazines joined together with tape). Two versions of these guns are seen: magazines with red tape or blue tape. There is a massive firefight between Major Grant and Colonel Stuart's men, during which John McClane picks up a discarded MP5 with blue tape. McClane checks the load, and discovers that the gun was carrying blanks, and deduces that the ones carrying live ammunition must be the ones with red tape. McClane fired the gun at Carmine Lorenzo to prove that the firefight was staged and that Stuart and Grant were in cahoots, nearly getting shot in the process. McClane proves his point, and Lorenzo gets his men on it."

Well there you have it. More undeniable proof that MH17 did not actually get shot down and that the whole event was fabricated. It must be true. It's on the internet.


© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff


To those that understand the references, this was farkin hilarious.

My chance had finally come. I'd decided early not to let my fear over come me. The mountainous pile of dirt, clay and rocks before me will either become the site of my ultimate triumph, or a natural monument that will forever remind me of my epic failure. 

I approach the ravenous peak of raised earth, all the while taking careful note of the bikes speed and position. My body is moving with the bike, shifting my weight to where it's required, when it's required. It's crucial that everything is perfect.  I make my way up the side of this colossus natural formation exactly as I wanted and the next thing I know the earth drops out from under me and I'm flying through the air. Being responsible for a piece of machinery at this sort of altitude. This must be what aircraft pilots feel like. I feel like a god.  With one hand I could reach up and carve a path through the clouds above. 

But there's no time for shenanigans now. It's time to bring this baby down.  I focus on my point of re-entry and gently place my aluminium and plastic steed on the ground as gently as an autumn leaf falling onto a grassy field.  Spectacular. 

So I may have talked it up a bit. It was good ride none the less.  My brother, another friend and myself all headed out to our super secret riding location and I got access to some tracks that were good enough to stretch the 450's legs on. I had a couple of wins and a few failures. My first "off" came at low speed trying to follow another bike which successfully launched over a bit of a ditch. I launched fairly well too .......... probably too well. I had to ditch the bike as it started flipping over and I commando rolled off the side. Low speed, no injury, and apparently I looked pretty good doing it. The second "off" came when we were heading home. Wide open dirt tracks with the occasional puddle. I had tried to lift the front wheel up going through the puddles more and more. On my last attempt I gave it too much and the bike flipped over on me again. 

This one was a bit faster. Maybe came off at about 50 - 60 kph. I was smart enough to ensure I was wearing all my gear so although I am a bit sore and sorry for myself I came out pretty unscathed.  Again, despite coming off it was a great ride. At least I'm trying and not just plodding around like a wimpysookylalaman. You've got to learn somehow. 

© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff
Here's a quick reminder that'll appear at the bottom of all my little diddys. If you like it, hit the like button on this page and feel free to share it on the Interwebs with the Facebooks. If you've got a comment, question, or something you'd like me to have a crack at let me know. Cheers, Dutchy.

Obviously I haven't added anything here for a short time.  I've been a bit slack.   The subject is yet again motorcycles but I'll try my hardest to write this up in a way that is interesting and entertaining to those both inside, and outside of the two wheeled community. 

I was recently granted the privilege (thanks Darling) of purchasing a dirt bike.  I developed an urge to put myself into the dangerous position of blending high speeds, rough terrain, and blatant inexperience. This urge came after a trip to visit friends and relatives in central Victoria.  I got to ride a couple of bikes and it simultaneously broadened the grin my face, clenched the valve on my pooper, and tightened the space in my pants. If that last little bit of literary mastership doesn't appropriately describe my excitement, I don't know what will.

So now I own one. I haven't ridden it too much yet and I'm a bit of a noob. Real bike riders would label me a goon (person with little or poor riding skill). I've had a few little squirts here and there but a nice test of relative riding skill will be coming up when the family goes away for the coming weekend. My brother and I are going out and my main concern is that because of my lack of experience I'm going to ride with all the co-ordination  and grace of a one ton rodeo bull on ice on ice (NOT a typo). 

© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff
Here's a quick reminder that'll appear at the bottom of all my little diddys. If you like it, hit the like button on this page and feel free to share it on the Interwebs with the Facebooks. If you've got a comment, question, or something you'd like me to have a crack at let me know. Cheers, Dutchy.

Here I am on the side of the road bashing my bike with a lump of wood……and I LOVE IT!! It’s not what you think. I'm not angry at the bike. I'm not flogging it with a piece of timber because I hate it. I'm actually trying to fix it, because…. well…. I’ll get to that later. Here's a short story.

My bike and I took off with a couple of friends down the Great Ocean Road. We camped overnight in between Apollo Bay and Lorne and then returned home inland through the Otways. “Spirited” is a word that comes to mind. Motorcyclists use it to describe the type of ride that will be, is, or was fast enough to enjoy without crossing, or acknowledging the crossing of any boundaries of legality. Spirited.

My bike and I were enjoying a spirited run down the side of Lavers Hill. We had 99.9% negotiated a right hand turn but then decided that we wanted to experience the thrills of riding down the roadside gutter. We did it too. It got boring fast so we quickly decided to try and get back onto the road proper. While still travelling somewhere around 50 kmph we attempted to re-mount the road when we decided that we were unsure if we were happy with the surface. With that we decided to closer inspect the bitumen.  

I leaped from my motorcycle and tested it’s rigidity by shouldering it with the amount of force similar to that generated by rival Marino rams as they butt heads. It was certainly solid enough, but does the bitumen have the appropriate grip required to ride a motorcycle successfully? To test the levels of friction available I slid down the road on my back. Excellent. I knew the surface was correct so I did a rolling somersault out of my slide in celebration. My motorcycle saw me and decided it too was happy with the outcome. To acknowledge this it did a little break dance down the centre of the road.

I picked my bike up and we went road side to decide our next course of action but unfortunately while break dancing down the road my bike completed such an impressive maneuver that it’s right hand side clip-on (handlebar) couldn't cope with the amounts of awesome generated and snapped.

I tried as much as I could to remove a lodged broken section of handlebar. At one stage I caught the broken bar admiring a small piece of timber just off the side of the road and hoped that if I was to give it a closer look I may coax it out. I showed the lump of timber to the wedged piece of metal repeatedly, but it was too shy to come out. My motorcycle and I were tired and decided that it would be better for both of use if we simply got trailered back home. The end.


© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff
Here's a quick reminder that'll appear at the bottom of all my little diddys. If you like it, hit the like button on this page and feel free to share it on the Interwebs with the Facebooks. If you've got a comment, question, or something you'd like me to have a crack at let me know. Cheers, Dutchy.

I cook meals about as often as my dear wife fucks them up, but we'll discuss that in the second half of this story.

I really can't take all the credit. Props go to two Patak's Original products. I couldn't be here today if it wasn't for their ready to cook Pappadums and Tikka Massala in a jar. It's not that I don't want to cook, it's just that my limited menu mainly revolves around burning shit on a bbq, some absolutely awesome nacho and burrito recipes, baked bean brevilles with cheese variants, home made pizzas, and toasted sandwiches of many varieties.

To mark this momentous occasion I decided to spend the evening playing the part of "Facebook Foodie". I'm fortunate enough to have just enough FB foodie friends to appreciate it, but not too many for it to be annoying. Now it was my turn to participate.

What has become obvious to me is that many people are throwing a few likes my way. Is this normal? Is this because it looks like I did a good job? I'm willing to bet the farm that it has more to do with the fact that most of my friends understand that I cook about as often as Halley's Comet is visible to the naked eye. Just a theory.

On that night I scraped my plate and finished my drink. I was getting that questioning look from dear wife that said "Well, how was it?" (She knew from the looks of it that it wasn't that flash). The kiss came first tonight. I wanted to get in and out. It was the kind of maneuver you'd execute on a theme park mascot.  That thing you do when you want to smack them upside the head and split before they swing around and give you the obligatory backhand.  

"Thanks Darling. That was ........................... filling?".  The reply of "Is it that bad?" was delivered with a slight smile that indicated my life would be spared. She knew it wasn't her best effort. I left the room for a moment after that. By the time I had returned my dear wife, Matey, Sweety, and one of Matey's guests who suffered the most unfortunate timing of arranging to sleep over on this particular weekend were finishing up, and by "finishing up" I mean scraping most of their sausage casserole into the bin or compost bucket. Funny. At least I ate all mine. 

© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff
Here's a quick reminder that'll appear at the bottom of all my little diddys. If you like it, hit the like button on this page and feel free to share it on the Interwebs with the Facebooks. If you've got a comment, question, or something you'd like me to have a crack at let me know. Cheers, Dutchy.

Because nothing says Merry Christmas like 750 individually wrapped Maltesers and a Nerf gun. 

There’s obviously a story or two here, lets start with the first one. In the early days the family had a run of Christmases where Matey, Sweety, and I would receive Nerf guns as gifts. This was my idea, and over the years we gathered a great collection of “weapons of mass annoyance”. Many mighty battles were won and lost.

All good things must come to an end. Darling had put the foot down and rightly so. Not due to them being stupid or expensive. It wasn't even because they weren't being played with. It was because we simply did not have the room.  At one time they were stacked in Matey’s cupboard in such a fashion that if they received the slightest poke the whole lot would tumble out like the contents of a child’s closet in a Disney movie.

For past couple of years I've been humorously threatening to purchase them. It is the same old gag every time we enter any mediocre department store, but this year I thought I’d stir the pot.  I put a threat on Facebook stating that “any wife who states whatever or I don’t know when asked what they want for Christmas, gets a Nerf gun”. The trap was set and sprung in a matter of minutes. Everyone had a laugh, but I wasn't done yet.

With the assistance of Matey an assurance was made that his mother’s first gift would be the Nerf gun, after all, I had to stay true to my word. Feigning a display of disapproval my darling wife received and (I believe) enjoyed her gift. I was promptly shot in the testicles with a bright blue piece of foam travelling at what felt like 100 kph.



"748 (trust me, they were counted) individually wrapped Maltesers. "

The next story is in regards to a family run “secret Santa” sort of deal where you jot down a few things on a bit of paper (must be under or around the value of $25), they’re all thrown into a hat, you randomly draw your victim and away you go.  Sensible suggestions are usually ignored. If you’re dumb enough to put something down on paper, be prepared to receive it.

I picked one of my victim’s more easily acquirable items but couldn't help but wonder how I could spin it.  I figured it would have to be the presentation, but how? I needed to get as many Maltesers as possible for $25, and paying for something funny looking to put them in was going to interfere with the budget.  The answer was simple.  Buy as many as I could for $25 and wrap them individually. Again, feigning disapproval my gift was received and enjoyed.  In fact, I'm led to believe that due to the difficulty in unwrapping them they are still being enjoyed. 748 (trust me, they were counted) individually wrapped Maltesers.

They weren't expensive, had no deeply emotional sentimental value, they weren't even really wanted, but damn did they get a response. I think they were great gifts not because of what they are but because of the story behind them. All I have to do now is continue to think of good ways to present cheap, crappy gifts and I’ll be set for many more Christmases to come ;-)

© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff
Here's a quick reminder that'll appear at the bottom of all my little diddys. If you like it, hit the like button on this page and feel free to share it on the Interwebs with the Facebooks. If you've got a comment, question, or something you'd like me to have a crack at let me know. Cheers, Dutchy.

It's a planned event. There's no escaping it. Now is the time. Today is the day.  I've put on an old t-shirt, jeans, and boots in preparation. Lets poison some weeds. I go outside, stand on the decking, stretch, and have a final look around before I kill everything. I go to the shed and look around for my old faithful bottle of roundup. I've become pretty accustomed to using roundup. I know exactly how much is required to accomplish  the desired effect, but where is it?? Shit!! I can't find it. Shit!!! Now I remember. It's all gone. I used it up in the last garden conquest. 

Then I remember about the 4 litre container in the corner. I'm not sure about this one. It was left here by the landlord and looks to be a more industrial poison. Something used more by farmers than gardening illiterates. Meh. Reading the bottle I find an instruction that says "See mixture ratios in booklet attached". I guess that little booklet was originally attached somewhere near that big tear line. Looks like I'll have to wing it. What could go wrong?

She's all mixed up and ready to go. I walk to the fence line and observe the mess in front of me. Oh boy are you going to cop it. In my mind I can hear the tiny screams of fear being emitted from my soon to be victims. As I look down the fence line I swear that I see some greenery already browning off in anticipation of the vegetation domination that's about to take place.

I work my way around the yard with my wand of destruction. Indiscriminately striking at all that's in my way. Like He-Man (and in a reference that will only be understood by people between the ages of may 30 to 40 years of age) I HAVE THE POOOWAAAH!!!! 

I pause for a minute to get my bearings. Yep,it's all going well. I've had the occasional failure in delivery,but that's quickly been repaired with a quick re-fill. Not long now and it'll all be done. I feel a tingle develop in my lips. A slight buzzing that leaves me licking and pouting. "Probably not related, i'll continue spraying my agricultural grade herbicide".  

I go back to the decking where I started, and with another mighty stretch review my handiwork. The jobs done and I finish up. Even though I can't tell straight away I know that the yard is now a better place.......hopefully......depending on if I got the mixture right. 

© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff

This is the sort of rubbish I'm capable of. Lifted from an old Facebook status.

The idea comes up to see what's going on at the local club. My partner for the night (a female who is far to bubbly for this hour) and myself enter. A noise instantly pollutes the air. It's foul, it burns, and it makes me sick to my stomach. I draw a comparison to the time I ate an ass load of burritos and nearly died when I "dutch ovened" myself camping in my swag. Mother of god ........... it's One Direction.

The bubbly female partner begins a not so subtle dance in front of me, taunting me, all too aware that I'm already on the verge of loosing my shit. "STOP IT!!" My plea is acknowledged and complied with, but only temporarily enough to lull me into a short lived sense of satisfaction before she starts again ........... shit. 

We get to a point where we can observe the dance floor, and I mostly see what can only be expected when this sort of ........ noise, this ....... abomination of audible tones is painfully reverberated through the air. Young, drunk, rabid, females. All bopping together in some sort of brainless trance. But there is something else, something sinister, something worse, far worse.

It can't be. Please lord, help me from this evil. It's got the men as well. They're singing, and dancing. I smell the air in the hope that perhaps is some sort of gas leak. I look around praying to spot something that will excuse these, blokes(?) from their behaviour. Say it isn't so. Please don't have them doing this at their own will. But it's obvious from the look on their faces, and the enthusiasm they display that is voluntary.

My god, look at yourselves. You there, the guido with the tight top, gold bling and overly tanned skin, MAN UP!! You over there, in the flannel! Your a mullet away from the classic Aussie AC/DC yobo, but your meaningly pulling the air in front of your chest like your in a Rick Astley power ballad music video. I vomit a little in my mouth.

I'm frozen, horrified. I close my eyes momentarily in the hope that it's all a nightmare, and that I'll'll wake up safe and sound in front of the computer I was previously working on. I open them again, but there is no relief. It's obvious to me now. I realise what has happened. I look up towards the roof, but not at it. More through it, praying to god that I promise I'll do my best to behave and live and honest life more than ever from this moment on, because tonight, in this place, at this time, I've learnt what hell is.

© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff

I'm putting this website up to do some random, blogging? Is blogging a word? If it is then why the hell is spell check putting that damn little red squiggle underneath? Should I be saving this for my first blog? DAMNIT!! Why does the word blog come up with a little red squiggle? OK, it looks like I'm already writing my first blog.

This is exactly the sort of random babbling you can expect. I plan on writing these little diddys (diddys? damn! another red squiggly), and when you read it it may make you happy or sad, bore or amuse you, like it or hate it, or it might leave you agreeing or violently disputing.  Read on and you might find yourself entertained one way or another. 

Lets make it clear form the get go that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. Other than the occasional oversized Facebook status or hidden little short story it's not something I've done before, and I don't see myself doing it in any professional manner.  I'm not that smart. I'm not that wise. I just occasionally have some random thoughts running through my mind and I enjoy writing them down so that I can enjoy them again later. The only difference now is that I might have a crack at sharing them.  

I'm probably going to just start by sharing on Facebook. This is going to suck because that means that for the most part the only people reading are going to be family and friends who know full well who I am.  If anyone else out there ends up tagging on along the way then I choose to keep a little bit of anonymity. Sounds dodgy but that's how I'm keeping this page.  This is one of my goals when it comes to its design. This might change. 

If I post, or blog, or write, (or whatever it's called) then feel free to comment, respond, share, whatever. I might enjoy that very much.  I might even respond. I might snub, insult, tolerate, dislike it, whatever. It could be cool. It could suck balls.   I might realise early that this is all a great big mistake, that I look like a douche, and quit. We'll see.

© 2013 Dutchy's Stuff