Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Conan the Compactor

What drives Conan, that most manly of men amongst men? What philosophy shapes his most primitive urges into action?

I put it to you that his is not a quest for mindless destruction.
But what is this business, you ask, with the crushing of enemies and lamination of their women, no less?

Nay, he thirsts not for blood, but for space.
He is in fact a champion of compactness. A preserver of beauty.

Hold fast this insight should you cross his path.
And give the man some room lest he start to feel cramped.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Down hill boobies

During my ill-advised uni days there was an ill-advised period where I would ride my ill-advised pushbike into town. I was living in Norwood at the time and to get to Uni I would ride up Flinders street in Kent Town. For those not in the know, Flinders Street is that narrow busy road that joins onto Bartels Road with barely enough room for two lanes, but for some reason has four.

Heading east out of the city, the road goes downhill, so on a pushbike you could get quite a bit of steam up, but during the peak times it was suicide to even contemplate riding on the road. So I used to ride on the footpath to avoid chancing death.

One fateful day I was heading home from Uni when a young lady in a short wheelbase jeep type thing flew out of her driveway, right into my path. Now not being the hands-on mechanical type, my bike had slipped from any sense of a service history and was in a less-than desirable condition. Brakes that worked properly, for example, would have been nice.

Stopping was an issue; I was unable to avoid her and collected the rear-right corner of the jeep with my handle bars. I knackered myself on the gooseneck after impact, slammed into the ground, rolled past the jeep down the hill a little clutching my sore ailing nads.

“Are you okay?” She asked as she opened the passenger door in a panic. The little jeep was narrow enough for the driver to lean over and open the passenger door from the driver’s seat, and as she leant over her breasts decided to escape. She had been wearing a very low cut tank top thing and the sudden change in momentum and the angle of her lean was just enough to cause a jailbreak. “Are you okay?” she asked again as I started to get up.

“I am now,” I replied not hiding the fact that these were the first boobs I had seen in months.
She was confused for a little while, noticed the breeze, called me a pig, and drove away in a huff.

She caused the accident, she caused the injury to me, she decided not to wear a bra that day, she exposed herself, but yet I am the pig? I picked up my bike, straightened the handlebars, and limped home. A few weeks later someone stole my bike from Uni, and I never saw her again.

But if I was Conan, I would have been warming up the laminator...

Thursday, July 8, 2010

An axe for my youth

My Dad has a strange and unusual hobby. Not many have considered taking up such a pursuit, but most people who find out about it thinks that it is cool. It has been well discussed by me and my friends that I have no authority on what is cool and what is not, but that is the response people give when I tell them my Dad is a blacksmith.

Such an endeavour has perks. For my 17th birthday Dad made me a rather large medieval/fantasy hand axe. It was huge; the head weighed over two kilos with only a 40 cm handle. The plan was that if Dad made it large enough I could not use it when stuffing around with my friends. Parents, it seems, do not like to go home via the emergency ward when they pick their kids up.

It was a good plan and an awesome present. Leading up to the big day was not that awesome however.

A couple of days before my birthday I was out driving with my mates and Dad brought the nearly completed axe into the house to show my Mum. All that he had left to do was to give it a bit of a clean, polish, and finish the handle.

Mum was praising my Dad’s craftsmanship, or so he tells me, when a police car pulled up at the front. Dad saw it first, recalled I was out driving, and subsequently panicked when the cop started walking up our driveway. With axe in hand, my Dad went barrelling out of the front door and yelled, “What are you doing here!?”

If you know my Dad, then you are lucky, but you also know he is a sweet, harmless and humble man. But he is short, stocky and particularly wide at the shoulders from swinging hammers. (He is bear like, but more Yogi Bear like.)

The police did not know him though. They just saw a wide stocky man, holding an axe, and asking what they were doing rather forcefully. So I can understand their concern. The cop closest to the door went white and started backing up slowly, while the cop behind him was reaching for his gun.

Luckily, Mum was not that far behind Dad and had followed him out, she saw what was happening, promptly removed the axe from his hand, and took it inside. Dad then realised what he had done.

What would Conan do in a situation like this? Well for one, he would not be bringing an axe to a gun fight...

Does your Motto Live Up To The Conan Test?

Conan knew what he wanted in life, nothing more than to crush your enemies, see them driven before you and laminate their women. When the mongol general asks you what is best in life, are you going to be as definitive as Conan, or come up with some lame corporate strategy?

Mongol General: Hao! Dai ye! We won again! This is good, but what is best in life?
Mongol: The open steppe, fleet horse, falcons at your wrist, and the wind in your hair.
Mongol General: Wrong! Conan! What is best in life?
Conan: To accomplish more together.
Mongol General: Retard.