NormOtto Dix und Albert Tucker
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The Chair of the Board (2006)
Peers out.
I’ve tried.
Removes hands from face.
It’s more like a blue flame.
Erects an index finger.
Is thought the light that makes ideas visible?
Dismantles erection.
Did I say that?
Looks at a once shaking leg.
The more I think about this uncontrollable leg the more it gets out of hand.
Hunched over.
Visions of a jack-hammer leg boring a hole in the floor.
Head pans across the room.
I wish I could bore the whole floor.
Uncertain.
Am I?
Index finger meets nose.
The leg is a flaw; a nervous thing, no doubt.
Index finger taps nose.
Can anyone see this leg?
Index finger massages nose.
Maybe.
Stares at 45 degrees down and finger comes off .
It’s almost over now.
Looks up.
I assure you.
Looks down.
I assure me.
Stares into space.
I: sure me; who else bar?
Looks down and around and all over.
I could be someone other than me.
Shoulders shrug.
What of it?
Surveys the members.
Shall we call it quits?
Leans back.
I was never here.
Leans forward.
Where was I, if not here?
Looks ahead.
I’ve missed something.
Prays.
This endless eternal internal prattle never ends.
Cuts the air with prayer-hands.
End!
Pauses.
It’s made me miss vital facts.
Cleans teeth with tongue.
I’ll never catch up.
Cleans gums with teeth.
Try as I might.
Glares to the side.
See, there I go.
Purses lips.
I’ve missed more.
Bottom lip pushes top lip up to the nose and relaxes.
Perhaps the toothless one could say a few words – break the monotony.
Glares.
Break monotony, break!
Blinks and breathes.
The toothless one would not appreciate the attention; halitosis.
Fans the nose.
Red cheeks would say it all despite saying nothing.
Agitated.
Saying it all: look forward to that I do.
Despairs.
Nothing says something like nothing.
Rubs hands together.
The thing about nothing is that it’s nowhere.
Examines palms.
In the back of my head: nothing is the air around you.
Looks at the air.
Air is not nothing.
Scratches knuckles.
Spirit is.
Squeezes hands.
My capacity to entertain myself is greater than to do the same for anyone else.
Looks for empty spaces.
This can’t be a good show; the crowd has thinned.
Sniffs the air.
Maybe there is a fire.
Raises eyebrows.
Would I make it?
Thrusts head forward.
Pushing and trampling my way to glorious safety.
Runs fingers through hair.
First out I’d lock the doors behind me to keep the fire controlled.
Nods head.
Some would perish.
Nods head with more force.
All of us perish.
Head abates.
We are all perishables.
Winces.
Those with dental courage would get a proper burial and those with crematory preferences would save money.
Indignant.
There you go, I’d be saving you all.
Notices the members.
Look at all the baby birds at meal time.
Strikes the air with an index finger.
Mum says: out you go, it’s time for you to go, go.
Shakes head wearily.
I can’t do it anymore.
Heavy head and eyes.
Find nourishment elsewhere; I’m tired of regurgitating for an ungrateful progeny.
Eyes and head light.
I was once ungrateful.
Glib.
Some of us, no doubt, will dispute this.
Looks to the distances.
You all know me and you think: ungrateful?
Bombast.
Never.
Tastes the mouth.
Was.
Stares at a point on the floor.
I know me best and maybe I know you best too.
Looks up.
I’d like to think so.
Looks up further.
I’d like to think, so I do.
Eyes level out.
Thinking is not doing.
Falls back into chair.
Not much like thought though really.
Yawns.
More like a vacant premises with prospective tenants coming through for an inspection.
Leans forward and puts on a voice.
Roomy isn’t it?
Leans back and normal voice returns.
Very.
Leans forward and puts on a voice.
What’s that smell and is that rat faeces?
Leans back and normal voice returns.
Most definitely.
Yawns and shakes head.
I’ve tried.
Removes hands from face.
It’s more like a blue flame.
Erects an index finger.
Is thought the light that makes ideas visible?
Dismantles erection.
Did I say that?
Looks at a once shaking leg.
The more I think about this uncontrollable leg the more it gets out of hand.
Hunched over.
Visions of a jack-hammer leg boring a hole in the floor.
Head pans across the room.
I wish I could bore the whole floor.
Uncertain.
Am I?
Index finger meets nose.
The leg is a flaw; a nervous thing, no doubt.
Index finger taps nose.
Can anyone see this leg?
Index finger massages nose.
Maybe.
Stares at 45 degrees down and finger comes off .
It’s almost over now.
Looks up.
I assure you.
Looks down.
I assure me.
Stares into space.
I: sure me; who else bar?
Looks down and around and all over.
I could be someone other than me.
Shoulders shrug.
What of it?
Surveys the members.
Shall we call it quits?
Leans back.
I was never here.
Leans forward.
Where was I, if not here?
Looks ahead.
I’ve missed something.
Prays.
This endless eternal internal prattle never ends.
Cuts the air with prayer-hands.
End!
Pauses.
It’s made me miss vital facts.
Cleans teeth with tongue.
I’ll never catch up.
Cleans gums with teeth.
Try as I might.
Glares to the side.
See, there I go.
Purses lips.
I’ve missed more.
Bottom lip pushes top lip up to the nose and relaxes.
Perhaps the toothless one could say a few words – break the monotony.
Glares.
Break monotony, break!
Blinks and breathes.
The toothless one would not appreciate the attention; halitosis.
Fans the nose.
Red cheeks would say it all despite saying nothing.
Agitated.
Saying it all: look forward to that I do.
Despairs.
Nothing says something like nothing.
Rubs hands together.
The thing about nothing is that it’s nowhere.
Examines palms.
In the back of my head: nothing is the air around you.
Looks at the air.
Air is not nothing.
Scratches knuckles.
Spirit is.
Squeezes hands.
My capacity to entertain myself is greater than to do the same for anyone else.
Looks for empty spaces.
This can’t be a good show; the crowd has thinned.
Sniffs the air.
Maybe there is a fire.
Raises eyebrows.
Would I make it?
Thrusts head forward.
Pushing and trampling my way to glorious safety.
Runs fingers through hair.
First out I’d lock the doors behind me to keep the fire controlled.
Nods head.
Some would perish.
Nods head with more force.
All of us perish.
Head abates.
We are all perishables.
Winces.
Those with dental courage would get a proper burial and those with crematory preferences would save money.
Indignant.
There you go, I’d be saving you all.
Notices the members.
Look at all the baby birds at meal time.
Strikes the air with an index finger.
Mum says: out you go, it’s time for you to go, go.
Shakes head wearily.
I can’t do it anymore.
Heavy head and eyes.
Find nourishment elsewhere; I’m tired of regurgitating for an ungrateful progeny.
Eyes and head light.
I was once ungrateful.
Glib.
Some of us, no doubt, will dispute this.
Looks to the distances.
You all know me and you think: ungrateful?
Bombast.
Never.
Tastes the mouth.
Was.
Stares at a point on the floor.
I know me best and maybe I know you best too.
Looks up.
I’d like to think so.
Looks up further.
I’d like to think, so I do.
Eyes level out.
Thinking is not doing.
Falls back into chair.
Not much like thought though really.
Yawns.
More like a vacant premises with prospective tenants coming through for an inspection.
Leans forward and puts on a voice.
Roomy isn’t it?
Leans back and normal voice returns.
Very.
Leans forward and puts on a voice.
What’s that smell and is that rat faeces?
Leans back and normal voice returns.
Most definitely.
Yawns and shakes head.
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The Chair of the Board (2006)
Yawns and shakes head.
See there I go.
Folds arms.
If I dare laugh it will send shockwaves through the boards.
Yawns.
I dare not.
Nods off and wakes.
You have to get up pretty early in the morning to go to work but before that make me laugh.
Sniffs.
You’d be hard pressed to get a few vowels delivered in succession from me.
Excavates nose.
Stony faced as I am.
Examines artefacts.
I have to be careful to whom I lease to.
Leans forward and rubs hands.
So, an intimate evening – it is isn’t it?
Pauses.
Evening?
Nods head.
Intimate, no doubt.
Cleans tongue with teeth.
Nothing to fear.
Looks down at the chair.
The chair would like to say a few words but it can’t.
Sits up straight.
It’s being oppressed by a violent one-eyed dictator.
Fiddles with cuffs.
Never has four legs been so obedient.
Pats the chair.
Good chair.
Indicates with an index finger to sit.
Sit.
Pulls hand away.
Wait, I am.
Stretches legs considerately.
Leg stretch.
Yawns.
When will this interminable crap commence or conclude.
Sighs.
I can’t tell.
Grimaces.
I know but I can’t tell.
Holds grimace.
That can’t be good.
Winces.
Negativity sours my experience.
Flippant.
Bugger it.
Irritated.
This experience is souring my outlook.
Nods head gently.
I must remain vigilant.
Looks about the place.
Do we know if it’s started?
Pumps legs up and down.
Waiting and watching.
Stops.
Masochists.
Taking stock.
Some wankers.
Scans the members.
Wankers: you know who you are.
Sympathetic.
Accusatory isn’t it?
Sees something above.
What’s worse being one or being labelled one?
Tries to identify the something.
Self-slaughter is a misplaced term.
Resigns to ignorance.
Wanking’s a far cry from killing yourself.
Stares at the floor.
If you are a wanker or you’ve been labelled one don’t kill yourself.
Knowing.
It’s an unweeded garden that grows to seed.
Thumbs up.
Sorry green thumbs: you’re not wankers by definition.
Holds a thumb up.
If you are, it’s likely that your thumb is not the only thing that’s green.
Raises the thumb.
I above all know.
Points thumb to the side.
That’s not what’s meant by wankers, anyway.
Slams fist down on a palm.
It’s a metaphorical wank I speak of.
Holds up fist on palm.
You know who you are.
Palm closes over fist.
I can’t hardly help but digress.
Relaxes.
It’s hard to sit here like this.
Looks down where the chair meets the floor.
Concentrating.
Looks at a leg of the chair.
Concentrate.
Holds the seat of the chair.
Please do.
Holds.
I’ve done well to last this long.
Hands drop.
We all have.
Visibly listening.
Sounds like a finale.
Suspicious.
Could be.
Resigns.
Far be it from me to call it done.
Tastes mouth.
So be it.
Eyebrows raise.
Well, what a finish.
Head nods.
Justice.
Stares down blankly at 45 degrees.
End.
Claps hands repeatedly.
Looks about in surprise.
Sighs.
Gets up and exits.
The chair.
End.
See there I go.
Folds arms.
If I dare laugh it will send shockwaves through the boards.
Yawns.
I dare not.
Nods off and wakes.
You have to get up pretty early in the morning to go to work but before that make me laugh.
Sniffs.
You’d be hard pressed to get a few vowels delivered in succession from me.
Excavates nose.
Stony faced as I am.
Examines artefacts.
I have to be careful to whom I lease to.
Leans forward and rubs hands.
So, an intimate evening – it is isn’t it?
Pauses.
Evening?
Nods head.
Intimate, no doubt.
Cleans tongue with teeth.
Nothing to fear.
Looks down at the chair.
The chair would like to say a few words but it can’t.
Sits up straight.
It’s being oppressed by a violent one-eyed dictator.
Fiddles with cuffs.
Never has four legs been so obedient.
Pats the chair.
Good chair.
Indicates with an index finger to sit.
Sit.
Pulls hand away.
Wait, I am.
Stretches legs considerately.
Leg stretch.
Yawns.
When will this interminable crap commence or conclude.
Sighs.
I can’t tell.
Grimaces.
I know but I can’t tell.
Holds grimace.
That can’t be good.
Winces.
Negativity sours my experience.
Flippant.
Bugger it.
Irritated.
This experience is souring my outlook.
Nods head gently.
I must remain vigilant.
Looks about the place.
Do we know if it’s started?
Pumps legs up and down.
Waiting and watching.
Stops.
Masochists.
Taking stock.
Some wankers.
Scans the members.
Wankers: you know who you are.
Sympathetic.
Accusatory isn’t it?
Sees something above.
What’s worse being one or being labelled one?
Tries to identify the something.
Self-slaughter is a misplaced term.
Resigns to ignorance.
Wanking’s a far cry from killing yourself.
Stares at the floor.
If you are a wanker or you’ve been labelled one don’t kill yourself.
Knowing.
It’s an unweeded garden that grows to seed.
Thumbs up.
Sorry green thumbs: you’re not wankers by definition.
Holds a thumb up.
If you are, it’s likely that your thumb is not the only thing that’s green.
Raises the thumb.
I above all know.
Points thumb to the side.
That’s not what’s meant by wankers, anyway.
Slams fist down on a palm.
It’s a metaphorical wank I speak of.
Holds up fist on palm.
You know who you are.
Palm closes over fist.
I can’t hardly help but digress.
Relaxes.
It’s hard to sit here like this.
Looks down where the chair meets the floor.
Concentrating.
Looks at a leg of the chair.
Concentrate.
Holds the seat of the chair.
Please do.
Holds.
I’ve done well to last this long.
Hands drop.
We all have.
Visibly listening.
Sounds like a finale.
Suspicious.
Could be.
Resigns.
Far be it from me to call it done.
Tastes mouth.
So be it.
Eyebrows raise.
Well, what a finish.
Head nods.
Justice.
Stares down blankly at 45 degrees.
End.
Claps hands repeatedly.
Looks about in surprise.
Sighs.
Gets up and exits.
The chair.
End.
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Things can be hard, I find
If there's one thing I can't take it's things that don't belong to me. Things that others own I just can't have. If, in a perfect world, there were no possessions then I wouldn't have to worry about what others have. I can't have what I don't. Even less than any of this I can't take things that belong to me. I can't take what I aready have. I could take them if I was going somewhere. Unfortunately, I never go anywhere. If I was going somewhere I might find the things I own easy to take. Especially if they were mine. If I was going away for a long time I might find it easier to take the possessions of others. As it is, I'm going nowhere and as such I can't. If I could I would. That we are arrogant enough to think ourselves outside of nature and not just a part of it is part of why I find things so difficult. I find things so hard because I have tried to take them and couldn't. Finding things easy and finding them hard to take are two separate things in delicate balance, opposite. I find that finding things easy is fine if you're fine with that, but if you're not then it can be as hard to take a thing as any. Taking things that are hard to take is a given for those that find taking things easy. Anyone who can take anything that is not easy to take is not easy to take if you find taking things hard. Don't take it hard if you find things hard. Get some spectacles. Nothing puts things in a different light like a pair of enormous bubbly jugs.
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Humphrey B Bear sues Victorian Supreme Court for loss of income.
Humphrey does his impression of a gay judge, and mocks the pillars of the justice system.
It's no surprise that I bring this news to Orble, having recently voted myself the best investigative journalist on the site, and put 10 of my own posts in my top 10 list of the best written Orble posts of the last 2 years. Those of you who would like to agree with me, and tell me that my judgement is spot on? Don't bother. I already know that.
As great as my investigative skills are, I cannot bring you an exclusive Humphrey statement. Because he can't speak. I have translated what he wrote in crayon, but doubt I will publish it on Orble, when a bidding war is taking place between the tabloids, magazines and TV networks.
For those of you who need your daily dose of celebrity gossip, I can let you know Humphrey wasn't happy and that he wrote his message in black crayon.
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Mal’s tip on writing popular Australian Orble blogs.
What a classy US/Aus blog is all about. Striking a Madonna pose like you're sitting on the Jon.
As much as America and most Americans (and Americanised Australians) in general make me want to vomit my prostate gland up my insides and out of my left nostril, cut it into pieces and sell the prostate slivers as salty anchovies to Pizza Hut, to become a popular Australian blogger on Orble, you need to absorb as much American culture as you can, and the trashier the better, then write about it to become a popular Australian blogger. The second best way to do this is surf the net and watch TV. The best way is to read American blogs on Orble and copy them.
So as not to be branded a hypocrite, I have been surfing the US net, watching Foxtel and reading the shit on Orble all morning. All in the name of blogging research. There’s so much great information on there for inspiration. I nearly just downloaded an article but thought I’d at least write something of my own.
Here is my first Americanised Australian post, which I hope will shoot to No 1 on the Orble popularity list, and inspire all bloggers to write some similarly educational and original posts.
O’Bummer fed ‘er a line of Coke.
Dow Jones’ Greenback’s primary twins, Angelina Cruise’s adopted mother, Scientology Hubbard, and the Hollywood winner of McCain’s NASA Spicy Flaming Bushburger swallowing contest, Paris Hilton, held at Harvard, voted in the goodwill Pitt of US ambassador’s Clooney’s Utah’s White House rehab, while Obama’s Hilary Ledger tornadoed Iraq’s twisted $3 Trillion Wall St underpants in the New England Patriots win over the New York Bare Badgered Britneys with UCLA spears.
What do you fill your mind up with?
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Rudd to include Christians and Evolutionists in his SORRY apology.
PM Rudd practising his apology speech.
PM Kevin Rudd plans to say sorry not just to the stolen generation of indigenous Australians but to all Christians on behalf of God and Adam and Eve for original sin. He will also apologise to Evolutionists on behalf of the Darwin family for those living in lower socio-economic areas still evolving into humans, and anyone who has been out with Wayne Carey since he quit football. He also plans to apologise to the Jews on behalf of Hitler’s parents.
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AFL Chief Andrew Demetriou appoints Ben Cousins to oversee anger management course for Wayne Carey.
“Too much piss, not enough drugs,” Demetriou said at a press conference. “The King needs to chill a bit for a while until this whole incident blows over so we can install him as an AFL Hall of Fame as a Legend like we did with Gary Ablett Snr. At least the bitch didn’t die of a drug overdose like Ablett’s one-night stand,” he chuckled, referring to Carey’s gold-digging ex girlfriend, who is now on the lookout for another sucker AFL bad boy footballer. “She only got a few major scars to her face and a few bruises, and let’s face it, most AFL groupie chicks deserve it,” he added as his wife tried to interject, was punched in the mouth, and carried out on a stretcher to Prince Alfred Hospital. When quizzed on why Ben Cousins would oversee Carey’s anger management course, Demetriou said, “Placid people are not qualified to deal with anger management. To manage anger you have to be familiar with anger itself, and that’s why Ben got my nod.”
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DVD Highlights of Ricky Ponting’s captaincy reaches No 1 in India.
400 million Indian women whose children suffer from insomnia have bought copies of the DVD ‘Highlights of Ricky Ponting’s Captaincy’ to help their children sleep. “My child falls to sleep as soon as he starts changing the field around between overs,” was the most common reason for so many women buying the DVD.
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Nicole Kidman's unborn baby voted Australian foetus of the year.
Lee Kernaghan, newly crowned Australian of the Year, and Pauline Hanson's favourite musician was the first to congratulate Nicole's foetus in his acceptance speech, saying her womb was "an inspiration to all real Australians."
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Target fashions a big winner with women tennis players at Australian Open.
Leading women’s fashion designer Target have found a novel way of marketing their own brand of women’s bras after they break in half on their shoddy, third-world production lines. They have added a dodgy elastic waist band to each half-bra and released them as tennis ball holders for women tennis players to wear around their waists. The Bra Ball-Bag has become a popular fashion accessory for all women in the top 100. “Most of us are lesbians,” said a top 50 player. “As much as we enjoy the feel of our own hands tucking the tennis ball into our briefs, it looks a bit like a large cyst on our bums under our skirts or pants. Seeing the ball in a bra cup on the outside is not only more fashion conscious, it’s titillating. It keeps us focused. We win our matches quicker. There’s more to life than tennis.”
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Starving Africans redirect adoption money into Venus Williams fund.
Starving African children have placed their adoption money from non third-world countries into a fund to help Venus Williams get over her thigh injury in the Australian Open. Venus was so touched by their charity she plans to use part of the funds to buy $1M earrings with all the diamonds shaped in a T. "It was my mom's idea. She said it was the best way to say 'T'hanks." Poppa Williams said, "Even if half of these chldren die before the end of the Australian open, their parents will look at the little T-shaped cross above their grave and thank God for Venus's achievements for black humanity." Serena added, "She's the black Mother Teresa."
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Ricky Ponting’s Mother Admits Having Sordid Affair With Indian Telemarketer.
Ricky Ponting’s father has placed Ricky’s mother in rehab for an out-of-control addiction to phone abuse and extra-marital affairs. Ponting’s father admitted that his wife was a long-time lover of abuse, and actively encouraged it in the household as young Ricky was growing up, even though Ricky’s father describes himself as a placid blue-collar worker of unquestionable integrity. “My wife wanted Ricky brought up in an atmosphere of personal abuse, sledging, racism and sexism,” he said, “in order to toughen him up for the rigours of international cricket, where players sometimes bat for at least two minutes over a five day period under intense pressure, and then have to go through the same intense pressure months later, after having to laze around doing next-to-nothing for ages. This type of lifestyle puts an extraordinary strain on an elite cricketer’s mind. All the cricketer wants to do is play cricket, not spend time travelling all over the world holidaying and shopping. You can talk all you like about Aussie cricketers being on million dollar contracts, but very few people understand how many sacrifices are involved. But back to my wife’s problems. I think it all started when Ricky left home to marry what’s-her-name. My wife missed the abuse at the kitchen table. I can’t remember the last time we had the evening meal before 11pm since Ricky left. She’s spent most nights just arguing with Indian telemarketers. Only recently, I found out she’d hooked up with one of those curry-munchers based in Hobart and has been having an affair with him since the 2005 Ashes loss. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no racist. I’d be just as upset if the bloke who was shagging her was an abo on the dole, or a mop-haired coconut from the West Indies. I just hope she’s not pregnant. We’ve already got one black guy playing for Australia.”
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Harbajhan Singh “I want grandchildren.”
Harbajhan Singh has told his lawyer he fears dying of old age before the ICC hear his case for racial abuse. At a packed Sydney media conference, he said, “I would very much like my children to speak on my behalf but I fear they might also be dead before this hearing, so I would like very much to change my will, and add a clause instructing my future grandchildren to represent me, should the case ever go ahead.” Harbajhan believes he will be reincarnated by then, but not necessarily as himself again in order to pass Murali’s record, or a famous Indian cricketer of the future, or as one of his own grandchildren in order to represent his former self as himself. “I’ve been a bit of a naughty monkey during this life, but nothing bad enough to see me come back as a ‘see no evil’ – ‘see nothing’ umpire from the Caribbean land of monkeys, or one of those unwanted Caribbean cheat monkey doll exports with dreadlocks.” Ricky Ponting – disguised as an Indian journalist complete with a twisted, yet slighty-wet towel from the team hotel on his head, the penthouse suite curtains draped around his torso, and a bootpolished face, in an obvious visual and costumed cultural sledge, taunted Harbajhan. “If you keep talking like that, aren’t you afraid you’ll come back as an ICC official?” Rather than lose his integrity, Harbajhan quickly produced a cricket ball, and threatened to bowl a vicious top-spinner at the pseudo- journalist. Ponting dismissed himself, and for the first time in his life, he walked.
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