I took off at 6:30 am. Through my tiny airplane peephole, the lights of Melbourne started to flourish. Below me, cars appeared in the orange glow of streetlights that lined the Tullamarine freeway. They travelled in the light for one or two seconds, only to disappear for three or four – suddenly enveloped by black, before they reached the next amber checkpoint.

Then, bit-by-bit, a patch of darkness began to cut a swathe across the light. My curiosity was immediately arrested. The darkness was swollen and deep. The bloated black pushed at edges of the light, threatening to monopolise the city. It held my attention in a most peculiar way, this inky mass.

For all the radiant light – brilliant and vast – I was only interested in that growing stain of pitch-black darkness. What was it? Where had it come from? Was it alive? Was it staring back at me with the same curiosity? It took me several minutes to realise it was the bay. Then I wasn’t so interested.

Youse cunts make me mad az. Dis iz no joke. If u wanna live in our cuntry, u better lern the fukin language, no exepshons. I h8 it wen u pooftas say English gramma shithouse. Iz bullshit.

2 help youse fuks lern to speak right, here a list of da stuff ozzies like and da stuff dey h8 and how u can talk good to an ozzie bout da stuff he luvs.

1. Ozzies luv da beach. So dat means me luv da sand. So dont u fuken Arab cunts bring youse camels ova here and trample our sand. Coz I know u luv sand but we h8 da camels.

2. T-shirts dat say da wearer iz “rum injected” r mad funny.

1. Afirmativ akshon is 4 fags. So if an ozzie wont hire u coz u looks like u carry bombs, dont be a gurl bout it. Suk it up like an ozzie. We hard az fuk.

 3. If u wanna be a faggy gurl and wereship sum dum ass god, it betta b Jezuz. Attenshon Muzlems: We h8 Ella, coz we don’t wereship chicks in oztralia, ok?! Likewize, we reckon all jewz are gay az. Exept Mountain Jew, dat shit iz orsum.

 4. We luv oztralian tradishon but we h8 abbos. Dis iz not stoopid, ironik or parradoxical.

Folow deese rools and I wont smash ya.

When: 25th of May, 2067.

Where: Club Retro, Lonsdale Street, Melbourne (the future site of Central Melbourne’s Senior Citizen’s Rotary Club).

Dress Code:

                     Option 1. One-piece, silver (or metallic blue) jumpsuit, with gravity enhancing, padded space boots. Head-mounted flight unit and meteor-busting Power Gloves are optional.

                     Option 2. Worn, moth-bitten cardigan (preferably of a drab colour), conservatively buttoned blouse/shirt (must have a slight yellowish tinge), rolled-down stockings for the ladies and a 1000 year-old beige tie for the gents. Weird hats optional.

If you plan on being dead by 2067 please email me with the approximate time and date of your passing no later than tomorrow. Upon your quietus I will require your next of kin to mentally transfer (assuming we, as humans, have mastered Extra-sensory Perception by the time in question) a copy of your death certificate to me. Alternatively, they can fax me on (1) 11111112. 

BYO A-frames, pacemakers and crazy memories. Defibrillators will be provided at the venue (N.B. Usage will incur a charge).

Due to limited seating those with access to bionic legs will be asked to stand and keep complaining to a minimum. 

Please RSVP by the 19th of July, 2045.

STRICTLY NO DATES OR YOUNG RAGAMUFFINS!

Xue and Burble were two frogs. Though being of the same species, and working and living in the same woods, Xue and Burble were fierce rivals. Xue was a long time inhabitant of the Aging Lily Pond and representative of its furry residents. On the other hand, Burble was loyal to the critters of the Shadowy Mire (unfairly named really, as it was a very nice mire…to look at anyway). Their mutual hatred ran so deep that were it not for the old Hunter who lived by Speaker Glen, Xue and Burble would surely have killed one another. Luckily both feared the wrath of the hunter and gave him a wide berth, and as Speaker Glen lay smack bang in the middle of Aging Lily Pond and the Shadowy Mire, it formed a natural barrier between the frogs.         

One day, Burble was told by one of his woodland friends that a confidential, mythical scroll had been discovered in the wild bracken, beyond Front Bench Lake. Burble’s natural penchant for gossip and intrigue was mighty aroused. Of course, Burble was a busy frog and had not the time to view the scroll for himself. Instead, he asked Skids the Skunk to briefly summarise its contents. Unfortunately, Skids had not seen the scroll either and had got his information from Brim Badger, who in turn had received her information from Turtle Thompson. I won’t go on, but I will say that this exchange eventually turned into a very funny case of Chinese whispers (funny to those on the outside anyway).

What is of consequence is that Burble came to the understanding that this scroll contained information detailing a case of corruption of the highest order. It seemed that Xue had been using his considerable influence to redirect twigs and berries (that should have been used for woods-wide dam building and sustenance respectively) into the private nest of a confused owl named Jorant (pronounced with a silent ‘J’).

Burble called on his friend Harold the Horse (who was very tall indeed) and requested that he carry him to the shared land of Boomerang Clearing, so he could confront Xue on the matter.

Burble opened the debate with a very measured and accusatory “Ribbity rib rib ribgoo!”.

Not to be outdone, Xue quickly responded with a concerned, but obviously self-absolving “Ribbit, ribbit…ribbit”.

Xue’s colleague, McSwan (duh), then upped the ante with some very showy but otherwise perplexing wing flapping. This only served to further complicate what at first seemed a very clear-cut matter.

If this all sounds rather nonsensical, it’s because it was. The futility of it all amazed many onlookers; for all this ribbiting and jumping about was actually reflective of little more than a shared inferiority complex. Although neither Xue nor Burble would ever dare admit it, both felt incomplete. They secretly harboured deep-seated doubts as to the legitimacy of their reign and strength of character. They would take any opportunity to deflect attention away from this insecurity, hoping to present a convincing façade of courage by catching as many flies as possible with their sticky, indiscriminate tongues.

You see, both frogs wished, prayed and hoped – with all their froggy frogness – that they would some day become like the fox. The fact that neither could, or ever would, was a constant source of frustration and despair. Not just for Xue and Burble, but for all the wildlife they represented (whether the masses of beasties realised it or not).

For Xue and Burble, and all those who came before them, the fox set the standard. Her finesse and grace formed an impossible, furry benchmark against which one would be judged. True to her stereotype, the fox is a cunning, wily and surprisingly charismatic mammal. Indeed, the fox has always existed in the zeitgeist as the perfect leader. Nobody knows when it happened, but the fact that she slept in a den smelling of stale urine seemed to have slipped everyone’s mind. Still, the frogs pursued that idealised foxy excellence.

An interesting side note: thanks to those ignorant Warner Brothers, many people now associate the adjective ‘wily’ with coyotes. But the fox was peddling her wiles long before the coyote even learned how to hook up a giant rubber band. So put that in your (probably) comically oversized pipe and smoke it till you die, Warners.

Anyway, as they ferociously guarded their respective territories, Xue and Burble seemed locked in a no-holds-barred Frog v. Frog death match. But the real battle? Well, that was being fought at that most individual level. It raged within their tiny, green froggish hearts. And then they died.

Fin.

What do you think? I reiterate that there is no metaphor, simile or analogy present in this story. If you have read anything into this simple tale, you must be very bored or too intelligent. The point was to provide some light entertainment for all the kiddies.

This story was brought to you by me, famed author of kids’ books, including the award winning Broken glass, batteries and other unlikely play things and Pull on a Rottweiler’s tail, it’s fun!.

In the mid-18^th Century, the US military began working with a primitive Internet (a.k.a. Internet v.1.0 or Internet A) made from twine and tin cans. The designers of this Internet had high hopes, and it was believed that Internet A would nurture an intricate tapestry of cross-military information sharing. To quote General Randalson (overseer of the Military Internet Project), “it will be an unstoppable intelligence nexus, harnessing the lightning fast data-transference-speed typical of A-grade twine and the awesome data-storing capacity of tin. The future is upon us my children”. No one knew who he was talking to as General Randalson was childless, but the soldiers seemed to like his tone and were overall confident. However, no one told General Randalson that data could not be stored in tin. One observer is famously quoted as having said, “too much tin and not enough twine is no way to form an information data network”. Of course, he was right.

In any case, there is a long history, extending beyond the 18^th Century, of the general population being barred from fully entering the kinds of cyber communities typical of Internet A. Arguably, this exclusionary practice is reflective of a wider subjugation – based on race, culture and gender – by those occupying Internet A’s “master position”. Chiefly engineered by Western, white men, this practice of exclusion led to Internet A’s asymmetric and partial understanding of reality. In any case, it also led to the creation of a new, grassroots Internet (a.k.a. I2 or Internet B). Unfortunately, Internet B, though more technologically sophisticated than its predecessor, suffered due to frustrating load times. But this is what happens when everyone gets their say.

In the 1980s a third Internet was formed by a group of radical, feminist terrorists known as the DV (Digital Vaginas). They envisioned the Internet as a kind of global uterus, populated by multiple, interacting ova (read: women bloggers) connected to the uterus via individual fallopian-style conduits. It was this Internet that laid the foundations for the modern, popular Internet – commonly called “the Internet”. Of course, once this third Internet (a.k.a. DVID, Digital Vaginas Interacting Digitally, or Internet 3) was popularised, 97% of websites were dedicated to orgy porn, child porn, poo porn or the Cronulla Sharks. Some successfully meshed all four. Obviously, this conflicted with the views of its original creators. So, in a fit of despair, the DV went to McDonald’s and ate themselves to death.

Implicit in this understanding of “the Internet” is the assumption that currently there actually exist multiple Internets – and thus multiple blogging communities.  For example, the kind of communities as conceptualised by the Internet’s traditional gatekeepers (men) – communities that have subjugated large parts of the population and unfairly devalued the relevance of a plurality of interests and beliefs in cyber knowledge – and that envisioned by feminist theorists – an understanding of the Internet that values “starting thought from women’s lives” and zero tolerance on porn. Although time and space will not permit a full exploration of multiple Internets here, it is a notion that certainly confounds the traditional view of the Internet and the role of blogging.

What is the point of this history lesson?

The answer: to highlight the inconsistencies and technological pitfalls of the current Internet system, and my disenchantment with the cultural division it breeds. Ultimately, my goal is to unite the disparate blogging communities across all Internets (both known and undiscovered). I feel that this blog will be sensible, mature and inoffensive enough to do just that. If you don’t, you can fuck off, penis face.

Not a lot to report at the outset. Except that it’s nearly 2:30am and I am yet to apprehend a single wink. But I know they’re out there. All 40 of ‘em. I set up an improvised wink trap (IWT) made of soap and dust, but it doesn’t seem to be working. Doesn’t matter anyway because 2:30 is the new midnight – if you’re not awake now you’re either 12 or a priest. Deal with it. 

Basically, I’m just going to use this as a platform to wax bloglical. But I suppose that makes sense – not the word ‘bloglical’ of course (it’s made up, you see?).  

Seems to me like blogging would be cathartic, hopefully preventing one from soothing oneself in that most unsavoury way. Naturally, I am referring to homicidal violence. In fact, my doctor says that if everyone were to embrace self-expression in prose, no one would die…ever.

Time will tell.