Out of Work Absurdist

Word of the day

2008-06-18T09:14:00.003+10:00

chimera / / n 1. mythological creature comprised of a lion's head, goat's body and serpent's tail; 2. this chick:

Ah yes - Lakshmi the goddess. And no, she isn't sporting a serpent's tail under that limber nest. Rather, she's all but swallowed a twin, and is likely composed of two genetically different tissues. Ditto this one:

That is, indeed, the poor boy's willy on his back - or at least his brother's. Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase "high tackle".

Form an orderly line, Hensonites...

Three things to do on a Saturday

2008-06-14T14:15:00.005+10:00

1. Ah, my beloved blog. How I've missed you! Holidays are a cruel separation, like a fat man and a chocolate bar, dropped of a sudden on the floor.

2. There's smoke drifting by the window in bursts of grey and worrisome. If you never hear from me again, I've been burned to an indolent crisp, or have taken another, longer holiday.

3. If we counted in base two, like my laptop, there'd be 11 things to do on a Saturday, with this being the eleventh. Or possibly still the third. Although none of today's things are exactly what a business-hipster would describe, over a wry carrot-and-ginger, as a "call to action".

Coinage of the day

2008-06-03T08:07:00.004+10:00

bauch / / v If 'debauch' means 'to corrupt', from the French 'desbaucher' ('to shape timber roughly'), from the German 'bauch', or 'beam', then the English 'bauch' ought to be 'the insertion of a rod for the purposes of moral rectitude'.

The students were bauched from an early age.

Go bauch yourself.

Ironically, the young nun was de-bauched by a beaming member of the congregation.

Three things to shun on a Sunday - multiple choice

2008-06-01T09:01:00.003+10:00

I recently heard this story from a vague acquaintance distantly connected to the cousin of the protagonist...

Suffice it to say that "Jake Jakobson", as he shall be known, was in the habit of undertaking one-night-stands with women of an accommodating disposition. And the morning after, he would leave a single stool on a dinner plate in the fridge before decamping.

Now, while even the best of us have failed, on occasion, to contain a morning-after discharge, there's something about this ritual - a certain je ne sais quoi - that I find pinkly tickling. Which begs the question of whom to shun on a Sunday:

1. Those who leave a turd in the crisper.

2. Him who curses the bowel that purses above a random's dinner service.

3. Those who believe such portentous questions stoop, in the first place, to the purview of mortal authority.

Three things to do on a Saturday

2008-05-31T10:33:00.010+10:00

1. Invite Mercedes Corby round for a shindig. She'll be in a party mood, having won her defamation suit against Channel 7, and you can probably count on her bringing some cucumber sandwiches, perhaps a pack of Camels.

If she brings some lawn clippings in a boogie-board-bag, they will likely be for personal use only, as Merc is not a dealer. So you'll have to try to scab a toke of her penis pipe, or content yourself with the camel.

2. She might also bring a party hat from her line of couture headwear (the Corbette designs kiddy clothes for a living - best keep a close eye on any models she might employ, Hetty Johnston).

3. Hope some newscaster with a neck injury interviews one of your scabbier friends in an attempt to stretch three nights of chequebook journalism from the one sketchy if amusing anecdote.

Then sue for a lifetime supply of party hats, penis pipes, and dignity.

In the culottes, news...

2008-05-30T10:13:00.001+10:00

Ah the French. With their passions for short leaders, shortcrust pastry and, so it would seem, short memories. A new book is raising ire over the raised spires during the Nazi Occupation of France.

Patrick Buisson's 1940-1945 Années Erotiques claims that the incoming bratwurst went down rather well among war-widowed mademoiselles.

Buisson points to a telltale spike in the birthrate in 1942, not to mention an overburdened sewer reeling from spent condoms and a torrent of oui!

He also points to a cold winter and low supplies of coal, which obliged a bold new means of central heating.

Crank it up a notch

2008-05-28T15:46:00.016+10:00

A ruckus has been dithering all week over photographer Bill Henson's nuddy pics. One "Hetty Johnston" complained that juvenile nudes had no place in the public eye, and wouldn't society be better off if we were born fully clothed and this kind of filth didn't exist in the first place?

"He has a tendency to depict children naked and that is porn," raved the Bravehearts spoutswoman.

Hetty, herself (now) a victim of naked depictions - but aren't we all victims of this obscenity? - wants art to be classified, villified, and finally ossified. "Enough's enough."

While the rancour has limited itself, thus far, to Henson's photographs, it's almost certain to spill over onto other depictions of nippers au naturel, such as Raphaelite cherubs and a recent, shocking series of Huggies commercials.

Indeed, it's hard to see why the smut-rakers should stop there, with realism to be followed by swiftly by Miró (ladyparts everywhere), Mondrian (triangles, for the love of god), and that guy who hangs himself from his own piercings in a piece entitled "Rape of a minor with a digital eye" [meathooks & flesh, 2007].

Presumably, Ms Johnston would like society to kindly return to a time when kids were kids, paintings were about blurry gardens, and kids named "Hetty" weren't teased by the very youngins they yearned to protect.

Quote of note - or, "Why I prefer to surround myself with a bolster of mediocrity"

2008-05-26T17:08:00.002+10:00

"Every time one of my friends succeeds, something in me dies." --Gore Vidal

Nine things to shun on a Sunday?

2008-05-25T13:48:00.007+10:00

1, 2 & 3. This.....................

There's something impossibly irritating about this album. Perhaps it's that - at a guess - Ms Carey has little to no acquaintance with the physics of mass-energy equivalence. Or that - again, guessing - all these waspy songs are about Mariah's lost loves, lost marbles, and lost right forearm, and in no way relate to special relativity.

Another contender: even if we granted that 'MC' were a witty take on the diva's initials, there's still half a fucking equation that remains to be explained.

I like to think that the 'E' stands for 'enterostomy', whence the album's genesis.

Crank of the week - "Lay back and think of Australia"

2008-05-23T09:40:00.009+10:00

So it seems Tania Zaetta took one for the team. Pictured here (on left) with Danny Devito, the boxercise personality was accused this week of gettin jiggers with some diggers in Afghanistan.

The 37-year-old "actress" - and we use the term with opportune looseness - denied having travelled to the war-torn nation as the Defence Department's whore: "I was there to sell boxermercials and my new Bollywood flop".

"The only stuffed toys I muffled were native animals," she didn't say.

Zaetta did, however, lament the logistics of her Afghan visit. "Even if a person would want to (have sex) I don't know where you would go. You're never alone with any soliders, you are in full view of everybody else, even when you are walking to the toilets."

Describing the allegations as "ridiculous" and "vicious", Ms Zaetta would prefer the Australian public continue to esteem her as the wanton cocktease we hardly knew...

In the news... каспаров и хуй kasparov and the dildo

2008-05-22T10:00:00.006+10:00

Chess legend-cum-politchik Gary Kasparov stiffened visibly when pro-Kremlin protesters guided a dildo-chopper across his press conference. The Grandmaster has a chequered history with the current regime, and in perhaps a perverse sign of putsches to come, Putin-huggers aimed a low blow at Kasparov's political hopes.

The man who famously lost to IBM's Deep Blue didn't fare much better against this deep throating opponent, until a precisely aimed dildo-chop brought it down. Benighted minders then attempted to capture the porn-friendly agitators, but the rookies fled the castle.

Check it out...

(Think your humble absurdist-cum-techdyslexic might've just discovered youtube?)

Word of the day - if M. C. Escher were a linguist, I

2008-05-21T08:00:00.002+10:00

calumny / / n obloquy [L]

Word of the day - if M. C. Escher were a linguist, II

2008-05-21T08:00:00.001+10:00

obloquy / / n calumny [L]

Two minutes' hate

2008-05-20T17:56:00.007+10:00

Ever since posting a picture of Victoria "Mantis" Beckham a little too soon before bedtime, your work-bereft absurdist has been having nightmares of a pointy, hair-hat variety.

They bear an alarmingly similarity to this naturalist's video...

It doesn't help that OOWA's least-favourite mantis continues to make rather pointless news. Posh recently revealed that she finds it difficult to think in flats. Presumably, she prefers a pair of nice, green heels...

"I could go to the gym if I wore flats," the Spice lamented. "I'd love to go to the gym, but I just can't get my head around the footwear." If only Vic Bitter hadn't eaten her Spicemates in a fit of mantoid pique during their recent tour, Sporty might have found a rare utility.

While it wasn't clear whether Beckham was wearing heels at the time of her bonehead comment, the fact that she wears flip-flops around the house perhaps explains the stagnancy of her plans for world domination--as well as the dearth of any discernible, super-vegetal intelligence.

In still more Posh news, the mantis appears to be cultivating some manner of elephant trunk under her arm, the better to snuffle A-listers, mates, and her own, browned pit-musk.

Three people to shun on a Sunday

2008-05-18T19:19:00.003+10:00

What would the Sun-Herald be without tittypics, a disgraced sportsman's road to or from rock bottom, and a voxpop?

What You Think of the New Weapons [Tasers]

Paul Wilson: "A guy recently died in Canada from being shot with a Taser, so as long as there are protocols."

...as in a last meal?

Chelsea Glover: "I think they're fine... It takes hours to recover from pepper spray, though it's true I'm unsure of the actual physical effects of Taser guns."

Another authority. Gotta love this sample.

Nadia Parama: "They could be very dangerous. I would prefer guns, as they are more helpful."

Truly a well-reasoned perspective. Can someone give this girl a column?

Check out Don't Tase Me Bro below for a taste of the buffet to come...

Three things to do on a Saturday

2008-05-17T11:09:00.000+10:00

(guest editor Paul Osborn)

1. Take one's slag of a wife on a holiday to Pakistan. Attempt to pay for the hotel with one of her adulterous kidneys.

2. Root around the house for other needless items to sell on eBay: the slag's summer wardrobe, smart-alecky kids, one's dignity...

3. Move to the Ukraine and purchase a cheaper, newer slag on .

Crank of the week

2008-05-16T08:09:00.004+10:00

In what's thought to be a world first, a British man has listed his wife on Ebay. When Paul Osborn discovered that his dearly beloved, Sharon, was having an affair, he flew into rage, threw her out of the house, and then attempted to auction her off.

Throwing caveat emptor to the wind, the exasperated cuckold chose - one hopes - one of the less flattering photos at his disposal, and advertised his item a "lying, cheating, adulterous slag of a wife".

Apparently, bidders were impressed by Osborn's candour, as well as his wife's digital manipulations, and offers as high as $1,000,000 were made for this pick of the litter.

Osborn later withdrew the item, lamenting the present, bear market for his prize sow.

More or less in the news...

2008-05-15T22:44:00.002+10:00

Okay, so it's not real news, like "Earthquake smothers Tibet rally" and such and such, but apparently Victoria Beckham curtseyed to Julia Roberts.

Stop the press indeed.

Perhaps Posh is simply reverting to her insectoid origins: like a giant praying mantis sizing up a giant, throbbing forehead-vein, she crouches, tense, before throwing off her pillbox hair-hat and devouring Roberts' vapid expression--a spray of teeth and arterial face ... the clicking of mantid cheeks.

Prefix of the day

2008-05-13T08:22:00.004+10:00

entero- / / pref a lovely and, in OOWA's humble opinion, underused prefix, 'entero-' means 'of the intestines', and belongs to such delightful words as 'enteron' (intestine), 'enteritis' (inflammation thereof) and 'enterostomy' (artificial anus), but not 'enter on horseback' (mounted access only, often difficult after an enterostomy). [G enteron]

...of the cranks, by the cranks, for the cranks...

2008-05-12T18:26:00.009+10:00

In an unexpected but entirely welcome turn of events, Jenny "Electra" Deaves, of Crank of the Week fame, suggested to OOWA that our crank laureates should have the prerogative to nominating future contenders.

With this in mind, Ms Deaves took public exception to the dungeon antics of the Fritzl family. With all the prudery of a blackened pot, Deaves disdained the kinky Austrians, preferring to sugar her daddy in a caravan by their slumbering kids-grandkids. Her advice? "Get a room."

But in actual news, Deaves labelled the cellar dwellers' treatment "unbelievable" and "an outright crime" (in apparent, if vague distinction from her own, less criminal comminglings). "This is the reason incest laws are there and the reason they need to stay there." And here we were thinking they were designed to discourage incest everywhere, rather than just in Austrian basements.

It must be said that OOWA has a limited understanding of the law, whose particulars Jenny clarified thus: her incestuous relationship with John wasn't a crime because "she never saw [old man] John as her father". Which makes it okay for her to smurf her papa. "We were consenting adults … in our situation there was no grooming".

While Fritzl, we're sure, would be only too happy to pass on some old-world panache, Deaves appears reluctant, insisting she would even "turn away the sick man if he came for help". While it was unclear whether she'd been approached by Josef for assistance, or, indeed, what kind of help he'd be seeking (the art of soliciting kin?), or how he'd managed to escape from his Austrian prison in the first place, Fritzl is unlikely to see the inside of the Deaves' glass house. Er, from the inside.

The big questions - "If I were a pie, it would be..."

2008-05-09T14:45:00.000+10:00

chicken - 9%
cherry - 17%
cheese - 46%
chorizo - 0%
chthonian - 28%

Name of the week, or "Blueberry muffin"

2008-05-08T09:22:00.009+10:00

Dewberry / + wallowing Southern drawl / It has been suggested to OOWA that Dewberry, of Hell's Kitchen fame, would make a dashing sequel to the nominal delights of Frangag et al.

Sadly, it befalls me to explain that "Dewberry" is, in fact, our Southern Muppet's surname, his first being "Jeff".

I know, a real kick in the apron for us romantics entertaining possibilities of "Dewberry E. Lee" or "Dewberry Dubois". Or even "Dewberry Scone III". But he even has a family crest (albeit pilfered from the House of Duxbury):

Despite the crest's being markedly bereft of Jeff's candy-pickin' glamour, it does seem to verify his claim to a banal first name.

In the news... almost...

2008-05-06T16:10:00.012+10:00

Imagine a boot stamping on a human face: that of the fat boy (right), of the hardened-eye-candy, or of the Billy-Idol-wannabe. This year's Big Brother audience would have a hard time choosing - if only it were watching.

Where once the reality banalities of dwarf-tossing (insanely dull link to "Rima" breaking her leg) and granny-bashing might have put bums on seats, Australia tastes have evolved to more politically-minded bulletins about, er, bums on seats, courtesy of Troy "Chair-bear" Buswell.

It now appears everyone's favourite "embattled" leader "groaned and writhed" between snuffles, and has an enviably brief downtime. Just ten minutes after the initial coition, "Buswell opened the door really wide, grabbed a chair and started sniffing it, lifted it above his head and breathing in, going 'aaww yeah'". Only slightly more perverse was the Opposition's decision to retain him as leader, which may yet fail if the federal opposition decides to poach the stalwart politico.

While Buswell's yet to deny the groaning (13 times), he remains only an asshat-moustache away from trenchcoated depravity.

Word of the day - "rubba dub dub thanks for the shrug"

2008-05-05T15:57:00.005+10:00

condom / / [The word is named after inventor Dr Charles Condom, the "father of prophylaxis" (1630 - 1685), who either didn't anticipate the coming success of his pigskin sheaths, or had little respect for the good name of the Condom clan.]

Three things to shun on a Sunday - or Names of the week

2008-05-04T08:53:00.005+10:00

Mr and Mrs JJ are having a baby! We haven't decided yet whether it will be human, canine, or trumpet-pitcher-plant-ine (to replace our old trumpet plant which is stunted and underwatered), but will keep you posted.

Anyhow, I've been trawling through some baby-names, and (with vaguely sincere apologies to anyone Scottish) would like to formally shun a few girl-pearlers.

1. Eithne (meaning 'kernel', which I find even more disturbing than the name itself)

2. Gormlaith (meaning 'a slap in the face with a bucket of rotting haggis')

3. anything ending in 'ag', including Seonag (Scottish for 'Sonya'), Teasag ('clothing distortion produced by gravity-stricken mammaries'), the ever lovely Frangag ('Francine') and the even more poetic Murdag

Anyone with a name that's begging to be shunned - in the civic-minded hope of sparing future newborns a debilitating yet preventable affliction - might drop it in a comment or email, or perhaps burn their birth-certificate in a church.

Three things to do on a Saturday

2008-05-03T10:40:00.003+10:00

1. Um, I dunno. My Saturdays aren't even that interesting. I like to get in a decent Friday night and let the weekend rejuvenate me like an eager massage girl with a lot of time and flesh on her hands.

2. Take this out into the sun and read it.

3. Discuss. (in 25 words or less)

Crank of the week - "Air on the G String"

2008-05-02T08:23:00.008+10:00

Reports emerged this week that Troy Buswell here sniffed the seat on which an unidentified woman had been sitting, in his Parliament House office in December 2005. Oh yes - Troy's the Opposition Leader in Western Australia (although we shouldn't be too glib with the present tense).

At first he tried (13 times) to deny the "unsubstantiated, anonymous rumour", but the poor woman's dirty laundry was aired in public - in front of other staff members, apparently to get a laugh - and now Buswell has caused a stink of his own. It seems he did inhale.

And why not? Are we so uptight that a man can't indulge his chocolate olfactory without being hounded, indeed, like a dog? And are we really prepared to draw a line in the sand of physical comedy?

Deputy leader Kim Hames paid tribute to Buswell's "robust sense of humour". Not to mention his robust sense for nether breaths. "To me," she continued, "Troy’s a rough diamond, and you don’t fix a rough diamond by smashing it to pieces."

Fix? These days that implies some manner of rehab, but- sadly - Betty Ford hadn't planned on this particular crack-addiction.

Besides, Troy is hoping to retain the leadership, on the assumption the scandal has bottomed out. "After watching John Howard kiss butt for 11 years, sniffing it should be a breath of political fresh air," he didn't say.

Word of the day 5

2008-05-01T07:57:00.012+10:00

centaur / / n Have you ever wondered whether Word-of-the-Day Compilers read other Word-of-the-Day’s? It’s like asking whether weather-reporters go home and watch weather-reports, or whether mama-birds sticky-beak on other birds chewing food and vomiting it up again. (I suspect that Tim Bailey, of Channel Ten News fame, watches weather reports constantly: all Channel Ten, a showreel of dwarfish meteorology. I also suspect he chews and then vomits up his food while watching his reel in an effort to remain leathery and stunted.)

At any rate, I can tell you that this WOTD Compiler does read other WOTDs, even though my WOTDs are rather informal (read half-arsed), being neither 'daily' nor especially educational. And I was somewhat disappointed with this entry - 'centaur' - from a respectable electronic wordsmith. What kind of WOTD Subscriber doesn't know the meaning of 'centaur'? I know the meaning of 'centaur', and have known it nearly as long as that of 'chthonian'. It was defined, for our illumination, as "An unnatural creation made of disparate entities", which made me wonder whether the WOTD should in fact have been 'disparate', or perhaps 'entities' or 'made' - as in 'the compiler took a fabulously common word and made it into an unlikely Word-of-the-Day'. Unless it's a WOTD for schoolchildren, their weathery peer here, or for regurgitating birds, truly we have reached a low in lexicomania. [G]

Word of the day 4

2008-04-30T14:05:00.006+10:00

chthonian / / adj well, you really don't need to know the meaning of this one - it's been my favourite word for several months, and the only kind of sentences in which it's figured have been of the 'My word of the day is...' variety, with the odd 'Isn't that idea just a tad chthonian?' thrown in. [G]

The big questions - "My favourite colour is..."

2008-04-30T09:05:00.002+10:00

blue - 0%
cobalt - 13%
cerulean - 25%

not blue - 62%

FAQ Tuesday 2 - Why do bad things happen to good people?

2008-04-29T10:15:00.005+10:00

Well, there's no easy answer to this old chestnut, but here are a few serving suggestions:

1) Having invented irony, God likes to practise it.

2) Unless you've just been locked in a cellar fo 24 years by this guy............................
your 'bad things' are possibly just 'minor setbacks' you thoroughly deserve. (One can only assume that his captive/daughter Elizsabeth was Hitler in a former life, who considers himself lucky that his new father has such a sharp dress sense.)

3) When bad things see good people skipping along the street, flushed with the trappings of peace and compassion, the bile rises to the back of bad things' mouth and they set upon the good person like penis-thieves on a donkey.

4) There are no good people. You're all sinners. Especially all you incestuous newsitems who are lending my innocent blog an unwanted fetishism.

(If you have a pressing FAQ, simply drop it in a comment.)

Quote of the day

2008-04-28T12:31:00.001+10:00

"The future is a sewer: we shall wade with smiling face through the avenued shitstream of Google."

In the news... A particularly cold winter in Congo?

2008-04-28T08:45:00.001+10:00

13 alleged sorcerers have been arrested in Kinshasa, accused of "using black magic to steal or shrink men's penises", as reported by Reuters. Eyewitness Alain Kalala, 29, confirms: "It's real. Just yesterday here, there was a man who was a victim. We saw. What was left was tiny".

A clever marketing ploy by the Blue Wizard of the South? The leaked plotline to JK Rowling's forthcoming attempt at adult fiction? Or is Congolese simply bereft of a word for 'stage fright'?

Three things to shun on a Sunday

2008-04-27T08:59:00.006+10:00

1. the Sunday paper (unless you're house-training that new puppy, or are some manner of papier-mâché-artiste, or are stealing your neighbour's paper as a reprisal for lowering the tone of your hood by having the Sunday paper delivered)

2. unleavened bread (there's something unwholesome about lavash)

3. resolutions (being both the day after Saturday night, and the eve of a new week, Sunday lends itself to improbable lifestyle revisions: no more drinks with olives in them; from now on I rise with the sun; rigorous nether-wipes are no substitute for daily underwear changes)

4. numeracy

Three things to do on a spanking hot Saturday

2008-04-26T10:28:00.005+10:00

1. run along the beach with the salt on your tongue and the wind in your soul

2. buy a new puppy and share a gambol

3. read the paper in bed, secure in the knowledge that the 70% more pleasure of 1. and 2. derives from 95% more effort, making them a bum deal

Word of the day 3

2008-04-25T11:57:00.005+10:00

Anzac biscuit / / n as distinct from Anzac crumpet (the sheilas who comforted our noble diggers), Anzac Biscuits are a bland affair, providing little sustenance and less comfort. [The more perceptive of you will have noticed that 'Anzac Biscuit' is in fact two words of the day; the more pedantic are no doubt firing off emails of peevish delight.]

Cranks of the week

2008-04-25T08:29:00.016+10:00

Ah, John and Jenny Deaves. Daddy and daughter; worshippers at the bed of Electra (pictured here with their daughter/granddaughter/halfsister, Celeste).

There's something touching about this couple. And it's not that they're touching each other, or even that they possess a rather blasé attitude towards incest (in a really charming interview, they explain that they're just a "normal, happy family", and that when Jenny met John after a long separation, it was like "seeing him as a man... going, 'oh, he's not too bad'").

After all, there's nothing so absurd about incest. I've often thought that if you peeled the momjeans off my own mother, maybe tarted her up a little, I'd give her a second look.

No, what I love about these guys is that they describe themselves as "normal, intellectual adults", "asking for a little bit of respect". (They also reveal that the kinly coitus is "absolutely fantastic".) While it's unclear whether the respect is due to them as intellects, or as rank perverts, they've tickled my admiration. Because telling Celeste about mummies and daddies and the birds and the bees will require no small genius, particularly when it comes to why their other child died tragically with six limbs, three beaks, and pollen in place of an epidermis.

So, Mr & Ms Deaves, for stuffing the envelope full of respected, intellectual sex and giving it a push, we are in your debt.

Word of the day 2 - ooh look, a real one

2008-04-24T11:57:00.009+10:00

wabisabi / / n the art of imperfection. [J: WABI (rustic, lonely) + SABI (growing old gracefully); only a peoples as methodical as the Japanese could make an aesthetic out of their mistakes--it really covers all your bases. There's a nice thatched tea-house on Wikipedia showcasing the wabisabi look, but I think it's nicer still to have to imagine it, rather than to follow a link and be disappointed because it's not made out of slightly overcooked soba noodles.

Wabisabi is also linked to haiku, and would like to formally distance itself from my picture, left, which I've entitled:

An old man falls
to the sound of
one hand clapping

April 08.
Windows paint on screen-canvas, 171x310 px.]

Word of the day

2008-04-23T13:34:00.009+10:00

tomfoolery / / n bah, you know what it means. [I like to think the word was spawned by a succession of Toms notable for their lapsed acumen. I know one such Tom, and if there were a Foolery next to a Buttery and a Carvery, he'd be plum in a pot of vealstock, tossing garlic heads out of the tepid broth as fast as a bellycheeked chef could throw them back in.]

FAQ Tuesday

2008-04-22T08:55:00.011+10:00

I'm often asked - frequently, even - what an out of work absurdist does, from day to day. People want to hear about a keen, half-completed project to ventilate my floorboards like an air-hockey table (yes, a full-body puck-suit is hovering over this idea). About a recent decision to wallpaper my study with naked First Ladies, which began with sticky plasterings of Carla Bruni and may well end with an AVO from Theresa Rein. Or about my present difficulty in finding a slightly larger house for not much more money in Sydney's frighteningly ruthless rental market.

In actual fact, much of my life is unremarkable. I eat a lot of pesto. I have a wife. A cat I despise (I tend to think a companionable Burmese would be less derivative). I even work, on occasion.

But the absurdist in me is out of work. He emerges from time to time, perhaps to help arrange and rearrange our mounting credit debt, like an ikebana display of gnarled grey sticks topped with a blossom of low interest not long for this world. He would no doubt love more permanent work, say, judging wines, pie-eating or people.

Seems to me the absurdists in many of us are out of work. OOWA will attempt to keep them occupied...

(If you have a pressing FAQ, simply drop it in a comment.)

The deities

2008-03-05T10:28:00.004+11:00

The Deities
by Jameson Johns
------------------------------------------

Black rock glimmered crimson in the flicker of scattered fires, yellow sulphur billowings fissured with an acid hiss, and a trickle of belching lava ran slurping and gurgling between the crags of hell. Off in the distance, the bile pit gleamed with greenish sickness, lending a fetid luminescence to the infernal cave. A gambolling playground of tortures was pockmarked by brown, brackish pools all burbling with cess and filth, and the humid stench of pestilence hung heavy over the leprous, digit-littered midst.

There, in the field of scabs, two former cosmetics executives were jellywrestling in a glutinous solution of agent orange, while neutered pornographers drowned ceaselessly in sour breast-meat. Sodomites were beset by unending rectal haemorrhages, and oversmug christians choked on their own satisfaction.

A carnal whirl of storm-tossed bodies beset fondlers, fingerers and the odd malingerer, and not far off in the seethe of the peat-bog, whispering obscenities tormented grub-tongued slanderers as they bricked themselves in to airless wormholes, thankful for walled mercies. Circling among them, an indeterminate multitude were being prodded sporadically with pitchforks, while high above, two furied poets climbed brazenly for the Gates, straining in vain against the living weights of irony and self-righteousness.

Just across from the meadow of endless itches, hiccoughs and erections, a desperate many queued outside hell’s kitchenette, awaiting both lashings of hot lime-and-bitters, and the bitter lashings with hot limes that inevitably followed. They clamoured with anticipation, thirsty and unthrashed, to no avail. After what seemed like thirty or forty purgatories, an ungodly quiet befell the once-teeming corridors.

Then, suddenly, an horrific cheering bit into the air, etching its din into the pit: a bleating cacophony of cloven-hoofed stoats, the bray of two-headed harpies, the sloughing rasp of goblin swarms. Hording around a grim arena, they were inflamed now, the bedevilled crowds—especially the demonspawn, dribbling muck down their pitted cheeks, frothing from every orifice. They stamped, screeched, gnawed on their tongues and clawed their wasted faces in the sweaty grip of exhilaration.

In the stand opposite – though it was less an amphitheatre than a befouled, rocky outcrop – a small cluster of saints and angels mustered in the stricken heat, with the occasional, fatted cherub flitting overhead. Their beatific faces were struck with rapt fascination, hanging on every move, their haloes aglow with pious excitement. Rosaries jangled, dandling between tense, miraculous hands; ablutions of holy-water doused the flush and tumult of supernal nerves; and a soft-hued humility barely repressed the quiverings of blessed viscera.

And in the thick of it, surrounded by pus-flecked eyes and kind, saintly smiles, by greasy pores and the chastity of sacred flesh, by palsied legs and noble, martyred brows, amid all this commotion the combat was at its best—there, on a modest rostrum, raged the Deities.

For years – indeed, since a little before the beginning of time – the contest had blazed: the primal battle between good and evil, Heaven and Hades, between God himself and hell’s own Lucifer. In immortal circles, it was better known as the Biennial Divine Armwrestle.

The wrestle was the highlight of the celestial calendar, and drew saints, satyrs, seraphim and fiends, demiurges and earthmothers alike. This year there was even an incubus, who during half-time had regaled the local coven with seedy aspersions against the Immaculate Conception.

The event had begun some weeks ago, following a lengthy preseason of taunts and warm-ups. Talk of a ‘friendly’ had fluttered through the halls, hallowed and hellish, but naturally had come to nothing. (The Antichrist felt there was already a glut of idle speculation among his minions, and as he remarked to the smithies, “the probes won’t insert themselves.” All in all, it was better to get straight to the crunch—especially as the underworld was hosting this year, and he wanted the volcano brimful of scientologists before the visitors’ arrival.)

After a sensational start, as God attempted a classic ‘five second smiting’ while his surprised opponent hung on by a razor-fingernail, the two competitors had knuckled down, with the armwrestle teetering mostly to Satan’s advantage, but hard-fought all the way. At one point, when the Prince of Darkness was but inches from vanquishing his messianic foe, God had managed to distract him momentarily with a burning bush, and garnered some leverage. Days later, a diabolical Granny Smith almost tempted the Holy Father into a premature capitulation, but he wasn’t going to fall for that ploy two millennia running.

The loathsome hosts hissed and squealed with every wavering of the almighty biceps, feasting all the while on rank platters of haggis, blood-sausage and spotted dick. The perennially ascetic saints looked on with undisguised repugnance, and spurned each proffering of netherworldly refreshments.

As the thousandth hour ticked past, Lucifer’s glacier eyes bored across his adversary, and a wry smile tweaked his wrought features: the old man looked tired beneath the brilliant robes, his vast musculature lacking the vigour of revelations past. Satan inched his lead a little further, leaning over at a perilous forty-five degrees—but then a sudden upward thrust from God almost levelled them and a sonorous stream resounded from the angel choir, enraptured with the gain, layered melodious and ringing through the spitfire pit.

The wizened face met the Devil’s gaze with a stunning compassion, piercing into the latter’s soulless core with unhesitating warmth, an aeonian embrace, a tidal yet tender affection. Satan parried with a lone raised eyebrow, casting all the vicious cynicism of history back upon this font of benevolence.

“You may win this battle, Nick,” God intoned, in a rich basso somehow free of the strain of galaxies discharging through his arm. “But you can’t fight Love.”

“Fight it?” Lucifer rejoined with the flash of wit, “why my good man, Love is my willing puppet.”

The Heavenly Father smiled indulgently, then heaved the clotted weight of mortal sin up a notch to the hymnal jubilance of his flock. The demon throngs slavered up cankered gobs of blackest rot, awrithe in their anxiety amid the curdling spawn.

It seemed as if Zion had turned a corner and was on the ascendancy—when a raucous hacking hurrah erupted from the hordes as God’s arm faltered for a second, his gnarled, knotted hand struggling against the black-clawed might of Mephistopheles. It was Satan’s home crowd, and he was putting on a show, almost toying with his opponent for their vile delight.

“Surely,” Lucifer sundered, “in your infinite wisdom, you foresaw Love’s debauch?”

“Perhaps, but in my infinite charity I forgive myself the lapse,” God replied, “along with Man’s.” And with the colossal strength of omnipotence, he wrenched them level.

Lighted grace duelled the swagger of night … brimstone rocked and the earth quaked … and Satan bore back down on God’s right hand as the gruesome Medusa slapped and scoured her scaly thighs in furious delight.

After innumerable biennial armwrestles, the Dark Lord was ahead by only thirty-six; but from the look of things he was set to claim another win to the wracked clamours of his underlings. Thankfully, only a small contingent of angels had flown down to the Inferno to watch the match this year, as the Apocalyptic arm had been somewhat out of form these last few decades, and moreover the match had clashed with a Friends marathon.

Of course, there was a time when the triumphant din of hymns stopped up the ears of every demon in hell when the Man Upstairs was regularly winning his away games. During an antediluvian winning streak, some of the more fiendish organisers had even suggested a thumb-war to break the infernal drought. But the dull spectacle of jousting digits was poorly received, and they shortly reverted to the armwrestles that had been putting bums on seats for the last eternity and just might for the next two or three to come.

This year, however, it was only a few of the newer and more enthusiastic saints who had journeyed down from the plush heights of paradise, along with a coterie of lesser angels. (Saint Anthony hadn’t been the least bit tempted, while Gabriel was in a tizz about the recent dearth of Annunciations, and had offered only terse encouragement from a nebulous couch.)

But the newbies were giving it everything, Teresa foremost among them. The palimpsest of wrinkles that hung about her face rustled with zeal as she shrilled forth war-cries and pummelled the air with lilliput fists. Next to her, a doddery ex-pope made a mental note to move a few rows back during the next divine breather, his devotional avidity having waned since the days of the Inquisition; and from his box-seat below, Noah wandered off for a spot of limbo with Socrates, his ears still ringing.

Ironically, it was precisely when dear little Mother Teresa blasted out an aria that Satan’s arm crashed down upon the empyrean hand, smashing it into the craven table with the clangour of damnation—a flash of black lightning—and a crack that shuddered the globe. A babel rumpus erupted; Cerberus unleashed a herculean stream of barks and snarling, the Minotaur’s phlegm-thickened bellows convulsed the very air, and the scrawl of voices from venal legions thundered across the pit of hell. The damned masses howled for the headsplitting noise, and all but the legless lumbered forlornly to the mohel-slicks, to jam up their eardrums with spent ringlets of flesh.

Ecstatic goblins were jigging, gimlets whizzing in the air; the harpies hacked and cackled with a beady rasp; the spawn festered with pulsing glee. And a six-eyed slug oozing mustard and pus fell off its rocky perch into a slurp of lava, hissing and spitting a noxious steam of moribund ecstasy.

The Archfiend simply leaned back – eyes agleam, a curl upon his lips – and smoothed his pinstriped waistcoat. He’d been shocked by God’s lack of form, and had drawn out the armwrestle for a few weeks simply to entertain the hordes, as well as spare the divine pride. But in reality, he’d hardly broken a sweat. God bowed his congratulations, noble to the last.

“You’re looking old, Jehovah. I have a large contingent of cosmetic surgeons down here; I’m sure we could arrange something for you.”

“Don’t get too cocky, or I’ll make Mormonism the eighth deadly sin.” Satan grimaced, inwardly, at the thought of shortsleeved doorknockers proselytising the streets of hell. The Rock of Ages continued: “Besides, there’s always next time, old friend.”

“Quite.” But they both knew it would take more than just another a miracle to resurrect God’s wrestling prowess sometime this century. Omniscience could be such a burden.

“Well, I’d best be off. See you at Saint Peter’s birthday do, I suppose.”

Lucifer winked in confirmation, and watched as his rival heaved from the great stone table, stretching heavily with his robes weary around him. They each made a slight nod of acknowledgement, as deities are wont to do, before God ascended off with his heavenly entourage.

Veritably, it was a strange old game, Satan mused. He sometimes wondered how it had all begun. A schoolyard tiff? A row over a goddess? Satan couldn’t remember for the life of him. He rather suspected that God had forgotten also.

Nevertheless, he would certainly enjoy the spoils of the armwrestle – having already sketched out two years of suffering and corruptions – even though he would’ve preferred more of a contest. The Prince of Darkness rapped his nails with satisfaction and decided on some milk-poached vegans to celebrate the occasion. Or perhaps he could serve up that awful Dr Atkins with some mashed potatoes? At least there was enough of him to go round the demon multitudes hungering in the bedlam of hell.

And so the Dark Lord sauntered off to indulge in the exaltation of his minions, strutting between underlings with eyes atwinkle, the glimmer of sin in his stride.

…