Weirdlog

Fight Club - Intro 1

Tue, 03 Aug 2010 11:05:00 +0000

The short story is that I (for some reason) have decided to step into the boxing ring to fight someone. Possibly to the death, I’ll be honest I haven’t read the fine print. But I know this much:
- It’s a proper organised boxing fight
- I am not a boxer
- It is widely regarded from the few failed pub brawls I have entered into that my jaw is more glass than hardened bone. More on this later.

But fight I will. Like a girl if necessary.

It all started a few weeks back when I caught a glimpse of a big black truck with something to the tune of “Fight like a pro – train for 10 weeks then step into the ring”. I was compelled, clearly not compelled enough to take down the number, but certainly enough to start telling anyone who would listen that I had found my destiny. As luck would have it I didn’t see said truck again for a number of months, which gave me a reprieve of sorts. No getting smacked out in the foreseeable future, not in an organised manor anyway. Impromptu beatings in the Gold Coast were a constant possibility.

A few months passed and I had almost gotten away with throwaway comments such as “I want to box but I can’t find the number / I would have dominated in the ring / I’m pretty sure I could have been a professional boxer” littering the ear holes of my fellow meat puppets until my voice became hoarse, my lips chapped and my beer gut bigger. Then fate intervened when my nubile young asshead flatmate Tommy spied the very same truck in all its shining glory. He had the presence of mind to take down the deets and text them through to me. A shiver came down my pretty little spine as I read it. A future beating or two became imminent.

Within 20mins I had located the website and tentatively locked myself in. Ten weeks of training, 6 sessions a week, up to 24 participants, and all culminating in a proper boxing fight. What could possibly go wrong? Aside the obvious: a humiliating and painful pummelling at the hands of some part-man, part-gorilla. Count me in.

I must stress again I am not a boxer. Like most guys I think I am quite tough. I can stare myself down in the mirror with the best of them. But in a room full of stray cats I’m struggling to make the podium in a scrap. And I have no problems punching cats in the face.

So it was done, locked in. 10 weeks of hardcore boxing training and a fight. A fight to be honest I expect to win. This assumption is completely and totally baseless, but then again, I have never prided myself on making well thought out or researched statements.

At least I will get fit in the process.

Stay tuned.

______________________________________________________________________

But don't take my word for it (by 'word' I do of course mean inane ramblings)
check out the website www.elevatefitness.com.au and have a chat to Gav

Weirdo in the wild

Tue, 06 Apr 2010 02:44:33 +0000

A big shout out to Design4Magento for mentioning us in their post about the Top Magento Powered Sites. We are excited to be mentioned in the same category as some of the awesome sites in the post.

You can see the full post here:

http://www.design4magento.com/magento-stores/top-magento-powered-sites/

Peas out
The Weirdos

Snakes in Space

Tue, 23 Mar 2010 07:28:01 +0000

3 of the kiwi weirdo crew awoke to a snake in Lobbies house in the Gold Coast. So we plucked up every ounce of courage we had (and a couple of sets of tongs) and went after it...

Please note - there are no snakes in NZ so this wasn't something we we're well versed in.

Weirdo Hits the Wellington Sevens

Sun, 07 Mar 2010 05:19:28 +0000

The best party of the year. See you in 2011.

Weirdo Rant - 7th March 10

Sat, 06 Mar 2010 12:47:22 +0000

Letter to Anna Bligh, QLD Premier

5th March 2010

Dear Anna,

I thought rather than writing a letter in the traditional sense, I would simply paste it up on our lovely site. I’m sure you are an active user of the interweb despite your age. I imagine you regularly google yourself, just to see what ex-boyfriends and high school crushes might find should they look you up. I hope some of them find the time to stop by here.

My tip is to create your own website, like I did. Although it hasn’t (yet) fetched me a life partner of any persuasion, I feel it is a step in the right direction.

But as much as I would love to chew the virtual fat with you, todays ‘letter’ isn’t all about search engines and my inability to find a girlfriend.

Today, in what I would consider to be very much a bolt out of the blue, I would like to make a formal complaint. I doubt you get many of these in your position compared to say a janitor/cleaner but still I expect this will be treated with all the seriousness that was intended.

Today I was forced to catch the bus to work. I know, I felt sick at the thought too. Unfortunately my poorly serviced Lantra decided that months without adequate oil or water was a real problem. ‘Real’ in that it refused to start. Well that’s not entirely true. It started ok, however then it performed what I consider to be the automotive equivalent of bamboo under the fingernails. I have never heard a car scream like that before.

So off I totted to the bus stop, coffee in hand, laptop slung over my shoulder, healthy perspiration dripping down yonder crack. After a short 20min wait on the 2nd Avenue / Gold Coast highway bus stop (heading north to Miami) one of these so called busses pulled up. Am I saying that right?

Now I am a bit of a planner Anna, so I ditched my banana, fished deep into my pocket (past the bandanna) and pulled out a shiny new fifty cent piece, ready to pay for the short 1.65km trip to my destination. I greeted the driver with a high five and my courteous smile, described where I was going and produced the fiddy cent (the coin, not a CD), and began making plans for the change I was about to receive (it was a toss-up between the instant glory of a 20c lolly mixture versus the long term satisfaction of putting it directly into my savings account).

You can imagine my shock when Mr Bus Driver (not his real name) assured me (it took several attempts) that the fare was no less than $3.90.

A smile crept onto my face when I suddenly realised I must have just paid for a first class ticket on this bus. What the hell I figure, I’ve probably got time to sip down a couple of complimentary drinks, perhaps watch a short film.

But no that wasn’t the case was it Anna? No-siree-bob. For this bus was chocka-block full of snot nose little school kids. Seriously, half of them were covered in boogers. I was forced to dispatch at least two of them through the sunroof. I think I might have twinged my shoulder, but I don’t hold you in anyway responsible for that. I’m not a manic.

What I am though is a mildly handsome human of 6 feet and 2 inches (in the old language) - which in man speak means I am actually 6’1 (As a side note if half a subway sandwich is 6 inches I’ve got yet another serious problem to add to my list). Regardless my knees were pressed up against the plasticy bit of the chair in front of me for the entire 6 minute trip. I now know what pushing a boulder around in hell for eternity must feel like (except you don’t have to pay money to get into hell).

Now, I’m no fancy pants calculus professor (cue audible gasp from you the reader) but I did a little bit of computing of my own on my Amstrad PCW (green screen, with upgraded 512Kb of pure unadulterated RAM). A recent flight to NZ cost me $139. If I was to catch one of your buses back to the land of the long white cloud it with come at the princely sum of $17,472. Ok I confess I made no such calculation, these numbers are plucked out of the sky. My point (if I had one) is that a bus ride to NZ would be pointless, on high tide at least.

FYI I have scanned the ticket below, as proof of purchase – just so you don’t think I am a complete nutter. How did they know I was a single adult by the way – just adds more weight to all the murmurings about big brother tactics – the conspiracy theory, not the reality TV show.

In signing off Anna, I would like you to know that this is not a personal attack. Your name is simply the only one I know. Except for the Ruddmeister, but to be honest I don’t even know if you are even on the same team. Are you in the red or the blue team? Actually there was that Lawrence Springboard chap, but he seemed like a bit of a knob to me.

I don’t think I am asking for much. In fact I haven’t asked for anything. I guess if I had to define the whole point of writing this letter it would simply be….urrm….I think I just want some money.

Yes.

Can I have some free money please?

Thank you for your time. Now get back to gifting QLD’s assets to the Chinese (I accidentally caught the news whilst channel surfing one time).

Love and hugs,
Maitlacker.

Crazy Norwegian Dudes

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 07:14:43 +0000

This is an amazing video of some crazy Norwegian's

wingsuit base jumping from Ali on Vimeo.

1st song: Contact - Violence
2nd: Diz Organ & Sackcloth Fashion - Under Man
no green/blue screen in this video
ⓒMatchstick Productions

The Robots are Coming - Be Scared.

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 05:01:32 +0000

Be careful out there in the wild world, you may just find yourself in a fist fight with one of these

Article #7 - No Easy Beats

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 21:46:12 +0000

Some of my clients are CEOs or Senior Management and often they will ask me how they can identify future leaders from the endless sea of young business graduates who invariably apply for entry level positions. These ‘fresh-fish’ swamp businesses with applications immediately after finishing their programmes of study. Often medium to large organisations get 100- 200 recent graduates applying for a single open position. From there perhaps only 5 – 10 will be interviewed. It can be particularly difficult to recognise true young talent when only conversing with them for a short amount of time.

Interestingly, I do have a way to quickly identify aptitude, hegemony, and flair by way of a story which occurred in my teenage years. As a result many of my clients will ask a young interviewee the following conundrum: Picture yourself as a young 14 year old martial artist in an open men’s full contact competition. The competition is graded by rank, not age, and you are to fight a 78 year old man in the same ability grouping. You are told by the elderly man’s club mates to take it easy as he is more of a club mascot than a competitor; that he enjoys the involvement but has little strength or ability. However, you are undefeated and he is an opponent none the less, one who shares the same grade as you. What do you do?

It is my belief that anyone who answers similarly as to how I actually acted would generally be a future highflyer; someone able to make tough decisions based on logic, balance, fairness, and weighing up opportunity costs.

Those were my considerations as I buried my foot deep into the old boy’s midriff. My straight thrust kick was easily my most potent weapon at the time and when he advanced with an open stance I took the shot. His defences were inadequate and his core stability was woefully left wanting. The match was barely 4 seconds long.

He sank, clutching his abdomen as if he expected his innards to spill out through the bellybutton. Unable to continue I was awarded the win, although I initially couldn’t hear the referee’s explanation over the crowds jeering hiss. It was bedlam and all manner of items were getting thrown – bottles, burgers, shoes, chairs, the lot. The officials hastened to remove me from the dojo and I was instructed to remain locked in the club manager’s office until order was restored.

If faced with the same situation today I would respond with equal ferociousness. I see no other solution. Had I taken my elderly opponent lightly I risked injury, fatigue, or worse still, shock defeat. I was young and had my reputation to think of. Also, I think of his mind set too. He knew the risks when he jumped on the mat. As the old saying goes ‘If you’re chewing a lemon don’t complain that it’s sour’.

It turns out that his club mates gave me one hell of a hiding in the car park that night. Ten of the cowards rampaged me, although I knocked three of them out before they got me properly. I heard that old bastard yelling to hold me still just before I lost consciousness. That doesn’t concern me greatly. I was more annoyed that I was unable to get medical clearance to continue in the competition. Still, I remained undefeated.

Any young graduate or apprentice prepared to make the same sacrifice I did and cut that old man down like felling an ageing Eucalyptus tree has the gumption and bravery to prosper in any environment.

Life’s a fight so knuckle up.

Franco Skinns
Life Expert

Weirdo Rant - 24 July 09

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 21:35:04 +0000

Growing up as a young small male human on a semi-farm in NZ I saw a lot of things. But what stuck with me the most (apart from my cat Cheese dying of cancer and our ram Baghdad committing suicide) was the tale of the eventual demise of our two goats, Bo and Luke.

Imaginatively named due to the peaking popularity of the Dukes of Hazard, Bo and Luke spent their days mincing around the farm causing general disruption to some of the more delicious animals in our stable including the succulent cows, sweet juicy lambs, and rich tender eels. Among their generally pesky nature was that fact that they ate virtually everything in their paths.

Not tin cans though, I can tell you right now goats will draw the line at tin products (yes, cartoons have been lying to you). Don’t get me started on cartoons. I mean seriously, Ninja Turtles walking on their hind legs under the tutelage of a talking rat fighting against the ungodly evil of a robot and a brain in a jar. For fuck’s sake.

But I digress.

As a young lad of 11years I watched these goats wreck havoc across all four corners of our farm. The final straw was when Bo ate a large section of the old man’s electric fence. And it wasn’t just the $4 worth of fence that was to ultimately cost Bo his and his brother their lives, it was the principal of the fact that they were like a couple of little slow motion cyclones. And what does one do when a cyclone hits? That’s right you get the rifle out and shoot shit out of it.

And let’s not forget $4 back then is probably more like $7-$7.50 which in itself really qualifies as a reason for the goat genocide.

So coincidentally the day after the unfortunate fence eating incident, the old man grabbed his trusty 22 rifle, got his two boys in tow and set off to a grassy knoll that overlooked the main, goat inhabited paddock.

I’m not saying our family was a bunch of blood thirsty kill-aholics. What I’m saying is, we had to show these goats that when you eat someone’s fence, electric or not, you have to face the consequences. With or without evidence, this is how shit goes down on Waireka Road.

So we nervously followed in our father’s slipstream to our vantage point and lay down in position.

It was one of those father son moments that will never be forgotten. Our strong, commanding dad demonstrating our total dominance at the top of the food chain – with a gun. He took steady aim with the rifle (which he later claimed to have a bent barrel – I believed him for nearly 10 years). As his finger slowly tightened over the trigger, and in total control, he turned to me and spoke in the confident dull monotone that only a man about to kill a helpless (fence eating) animal from a distance with a loaded rifle, can.

“Say your prayers goat” he muttered before turning back to the site and firing his first shot...But nothing happened.

Now to this day I have no doubt that the majority of these bullets hit either Bo or Luke. I know this for a fact as after several bullets collided with Bo’s skull causing zero damage, the old man decided pot shots into the stomach and legs might be a better angle. After exactly 21 shots were fired Bo took a knee. He then rolled over on his side. His courageous and rather nonchalant last stand was over. His last fence eaten. An unceremonious death for one the Waireka Roads most unassuming pests.

We then turned our attention to Luke. Luke had started to cotton on to this ‘desert storm-like’ display of brute force and had moved all of 3 metres away. He was now engrossed in consuming what looked like an old tree stump.

35 shots rang out before Luke started to sway like a prize fighter after 12 rounds. But Luke had one last show of defiance in him. With his last steps he moved to the edge of the gully that ran down to our pump shed, and then he rolled. He rolled with a commitment and determination I had never seen in a goat, or any other animal for that matter. He hit his target. He took out our pump shed.

On top of the grassy knoll there was silence, well, silence if you don’t count the steam coming out of dad’s ears. Forget the fence, those goats had just caused what was to be $1000 ($29,000 at least by today’s standards) worth of damage to not only the pump shed, but the pump pertained within. The psychological damage could not be measured; it was off all the conventional scales.

They won the day. In the crazy topsy turvey world of man and rifle versus goat, the goats had sacrificed their lives in search of the ultimate victory. Those mother fuckers.

But I never forgot these ancient nemeses of the farm. In fact as the ultimate tribute to Bo and Luke I swore never to ever shoot them again. This is a promise I have so far kept.

Hot Dog!

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 08:09:55 +0000

David Brent at his best

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 22:51:18 +0000

Weirdo Rant - 04 June 09

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 11:12:00 +0000

I want to see a national day for hippies.

Yes that’s right, those smelly little weed smoking weaklings. I want a national day of respect. Not that they will know (most of them sleep all day as far as I know) but at least I will feel like they have been honoured.

Think I can’t back this up? Then maybe you should lay off the hashish pipe one moment and allow me to elaborate further, dick.

Hippies have it way tougher than most of us actual humans. Adhering to the hippy code is a lot like joining the army (except with very few push-ups). There are rules and regulations that must be obeyed – fail to do so and you will be cast aside, expected to find a job, to contribute to society in some way. Here is what your stock standard freaky beatnik hippy must abide by. The hippy code if you will.

1) Little or no washing. This includes your clothes, your body, and most certainly not your dreadlocks (cranial or pubic). I once saw a hippy so dirty he had to peel his homemade hessian sack pants off at night. His nickname was the human grease-ball though I question the former part of the name. Hippies are completely and totally filthy. They stink, period.

2) Strict dietary constraints. True hippies won’t eat meat. Correction they don’t eat meat that comes from dry land. No chance of a juicy steak from a humanely killed cow (possibly replace humanely with ‘violently’ if you must), but yesiree I’ll have a slice of that freshly killed cod thanks. What the one that got dragged from its own habitat via a sharp hook in its mouth to get thrown in a bucket of ice and slowly suffocate. And don’t get me started on the lentils, the chick peas and those little brown nugget things. Could be sheep shit for all I know. No one likes eating that stuff. That’s why they stay half-baked all the time. And the hippies who say they don’t eat fish either – simple – don’t trust them.

3) Limited vocabulary. The hippy’s top five most common words (according to Forbes magazine – in an issue back a few years... in really small font... right at the back somewhere) are: Dude, man, groovy, joint, and dole. The study further concluded that if you removed these words from the hippy vocab, the average tree hugger would only speak on average 25 words per year. Hey don’t have a go at me - these are the stats – what did you I just plucked these out of thin air? Ungrateful.

4) Little or no meaningful opinion on anyone or anything. Ever tried to start a fight with a hippy? I have. It’s not easy. The hippy code requires a strictly peaceful existence all the time. The dirtier my moves got, the more this weedy little hippy tried to turn the other cheek. Even when both his cheeks were bloodied and bruised... Pointless.

Anyway, if I were to attempt to make a point (I’m not) it would be that we should all stop Hippy bashing and try a bit of hippy pashing. I won’t be... can’t tolerate that bionic hippy breath.

Oh, and sorry about the whole “wasting the last 3.5 minutes of your life” thing. Probably should have pre-warned you.

Article #6 - Climbing the Ladder

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 10:38:09 +0000

The two most common requests I get from my clients is to advance their career and/or contract their waistlines. The third most common is to learn the skills to become a stuntman (or woman) in the sack.

Now is not the time for Franco to turn you into an Olympian at the bedroom decathlon. Nor is it to give you a washboard stomach usually only enjoyed by a heroin junkie. Now is the time to offer several key points to get you up the corporate ladder quicker than recoiling seatbelt.

You might think it’s a bit rich for me to provide advice to employees. I’ve been an entrepreneur my whole life. Coupled with that, I’m a pretty savvy financial investor. Never forget though, I’ve had almost a dozen employees over the years. I’ve seen the good and I’ve seen the bad. I’ve even had a guy call in sick due to bad sunburn only to find him at the Harry Potter movie premier. I made him wear a wizard costume to work every day after that. He didn’t last much longer and now works in a service station.

Here are the top five ways to crash through the glass ceiling and reap the looty fruits of senior management. Rule one – be mister (or missus) reliable but don’t show up the boss. It’s a tricky balance. Your boss will want you to be a star but also to know your place. No employer will want you to go further than they will; rather they want you to work your fingers to the bone to advance their own career. Bide your time, cover your responsibilities, and wait for your opportunity. When it comes you slide in there like a silk ferret. It could be a rare adjournment with the CEO in the staffroom, sharing your stationary with the chairman, or with a moment of relief with a director in the urinal. Discreetly hint at the work your doing, the statistics you’re amassing, the connections you’re making, or the sales you’re nailing. Remember that you are the only one that has your best interests at heart so you have to sell yourself. It’s not as important to anyone else but you. Make it count without looking like a nut job.

Rule two – remember everyone’s name. Everyone loves it when people remember their name. From the CEO to the stingy old tea lady, people love to have their existence noted. The closer they are to the top, the more they love it. Don’t worry if they don’t remember yours. They will be so impressed that you remembered their name that they will note your face, if not your name, for next time. Well, actually, they will be so impressed with themselves that they made such an impression on you that you can’t help but remember their name that they will be squeezing their little nipples for hours. Don’t worry about that. Stroking egos is a must for career progression. Never underestimate how far people can get their heads stuck up their own assholes. Ram it up there further I say. They’ll thank you for it.

Rule three – Offer anyone with influence a free massage. It’s a risky strategy and I’ll leave it to you as far as the content of the massage. Some prefer to keep it therapeutic. Others infuse suggestive movement and dance. Some even go at it like they’re trying to save the species. Each solution has an up and downside so choose wisely and be warned – get it wrong and you’re gone.

Rule four – Snitch like wildfire. If you can’t climb the ladder, scuttle up a hill of vanquished carcasses. There are two ways to the top – outperform the competition or hack them down at the knees. I prefer a combo of the two, which I call the ‘the slash and dash’. You won’t win the respect of your peers but I find a luxury apartment far more rewarding. Plus, when you’re the boss they’ll lick your boots spotlessly clean for an extra day’s annual leave.

Rule five – dress nicely. Jeans aren’t appropriate in the office.

Take it from there and when you hit the big time give Franco a call and I’ll take you to billionaire status. That’s what I do. I give you a little flint to start the fire and then I stoke the embers and pour petrol on your soul. Together we’ll warm our feet on the inferno.

Life’s a fight so knuckle up.

Franco Skinns
Life Expert.

Article #5 - Concentration Camp

Mon, 11 May 2009 09:15:45 +0000

In my role as a Life Expert I am often asked to host team building exercises. Usually, this includes only the company’s ‘top-brass’ as my pricing structure is such that it is too daunting to commit a company’s capital to over-skill middle, lower-middle, lower, and subterranean-lower staff. I prefer it this way as employees should be on a ‘needs to know’ basis and up-skilling is the same. Plus large groups are disruptive.

I have recently returned from the Cook Islands where I hosted a team building event, the third such event for strategic management for this particular seafood conglomerate. Each year this event has brought more interest, more managers, and more dosh (money) for me. Satisfied customers return – business 101.

It very nearly didn’t work out this way. My methods are extreme and not to everyone’s tastes. The first such event perched teetering between revolutionary and catastrophic. I was attempting to break new ground – would the ground break or would Franco?

It all began when I noticed that boot-camps were becoming popular in fitness circles. People were paying good money to be yelled at, bullied, and tortured into physical health. Often clients, who were paying premium gym memberships, paid even more for fitness sessions outside their gym! Moreover, they were going to these boot camps at 5am or earlier. My initial reaction was ‘book in for an MRI scan because you all have brain damage’.

My next reaction was ‘cut Franco a slice’.

I’ve never walked the beaten path. In fact, if you are currently walking along a beaten path it was probably I that beat it, savagely into obedience. It’s in my nature to dominate. With that as forethought, how would I take boot camps to the next level? Introducing - Franco Skinns Concentration Camps.

To direct you back, the first time I ran one of my Concentration Camps was the first team building event I ran for the afore mentioned conglomerate. I rented a ranch in a remote rural area. I converted the primary barn into an impenetrable fortress and stripped the interior of anything of sustenance (people will eat strange things when starving). All windows were blacked out and all lights converted to super-bright bulbs. No insulation was present meaning that, due to the dessert-like environmental conditions, days would be incredibly hot while nights shivering cold.

Upon arrival the clients were noticeably reluctant to commence. I explained that the exercise was not intended to cause any harm and that these extreme conditions would reduce them to their base instincts. Should they bind together as a team they would succeed and become a group so powerful that nothing could hold them back - not in the business world, nor the animal kingdom.

After much discussion they agreed to enter but only after the introduction on a safety word – ‘noodles’. Should, at any point, anyone of the party yell ‘noodles’ all excises were to cease immediately. I agreed.

I lead them into the barn and secured the door. I then instructed my staff – ‘If any of those fuckers says the word ‘noodles’ blast them with the fire hose.

Legally, I am not allowed to discuss what went on but I can offer an overview.
• They were locked in that barn for three days and three nights without water or food.
• They didn’t sleep due to extreme heat during the day and dazzling spotlights working throughout the night
• They were brought to the brink of human limits before uniting, succeeding, and gaining a bond unrivalled by any company in the seafood industry
• It was four hours into the exercise before someone used the safety word ‘noodles’ and was blasted with the fire hose. This occurred five more times before they were too terrified to ever use that word again.
• Exercise completion was celebrated with a seafood smorgasbord
• Twice more I have run this event – they bloody love it now.
• Franco got paid

That’s how to get results, Franco Skinns style. Life’s a fight so knuckle up.

Franco Skinns
Life Coach

A rare photo of Franco Skinns taken unawares by a Cook Island local.

Weirdo Rant - 17 March 09

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 11:53:11 +0000

Amazing Tales of Survival

I just finished reading “A Fortunate Life” by A. B Facey. What an Incredible book. I would highly recommend stealing a copy from one of the bigger book stores. Watch out for those magnet machines though... Robots I think they call them.

Anyway, part of the book is based on Gallipoli during the First World War. I’m sure you know how it goes. However, throughout this section of the book I found myself gasping audibly as pretty much everyone got shot dead (including two of his brothers) except him.

Then I realised that he had written the book. Of course he survived – he wrote the friggen book.

So compelled by this I further concluded that this contributed so heavily to me reading this book with such enthusiasm (resembling one of those cartoon flicker comics that make a stick man die horrifically) – hang on I just lost my train of thought.

Speaking of lost, I once lost my Masters of the Universe ‘Beast Man’ figurine when I strapped a make-shift parachute (shopping bag and string) to him and launched him with all my might into the air. Realising there was a pretty good chance he was going to land on my head I dived for cover. I swear to this day that little fucker never came down. Crafty little things those plastic toys... just watch Toy Story...

Anyway, I realised that amazing tales of survival often made for the best reading. If I ever wanted to make these little articles even semi-interesting then I had to start taking some risks.

So I took the 9v battery out of the remote control and licked the end of it.

Fuck it hurt. Don’t ever do it.

You Wanna See Tough

Thu, 05 Mar 2009 23:39:02 +0000

Not to be messed with. There is a lot of shame and pain in this first guys eyes...

Probably my favourite You Tube Vid of all time

Weirdo Rant - 6 March 09

Thu, 05 Mar 2009 23:29:55 +0000

Shock Horror

I decided it would be in my best interests to hit the gym first thing this morning.

I must admit I do quite enjoy it in the morning, the key I have found is to not push it too hard otherwise you’ll be buggered (as in tired, not physically buggered) for the remainder of the day.

It can be quite a friendly and social place at times. Not like a pub, however it is good practise for such places. Smiling and nodding where appropriate, not staring too much at someone, keeping well clear of the roid munchers. Today was no exception.

Imagine my absolute terror when I clamber back into my car afterwards to realise I have a solid yellow booger hanging out of my nose. Well, technically it was more sort of pressed against my top lip. My initial thoughts were ‘surely that’s only just happened now’ until the realisation hit me like a ton of bricks (hitting me) that I had earlier done that rather ‘male’ ritual of blowing snot out of my nostrils only moments before entering the gymnasium. Those of you who believe in karma may well find that an amusing example of the mystical force at play.

I tried to scrape together some reasons as to how this booger could not possibly have been stuck to me the entirety of my time in the gym, but then within an instant my razor sharp memory (which deserts me in more dire times of need) whipped up several poignant moments that only really solidified my worst fears.

Like the screwed up face that met me from behind the reception desk. “Mouth like a dogs arsehole” I sniggered to myself, not knowing the joke was firmly on me.

Or the total lack of amusement shown by the hottie when we did the “I go left, you go right, no left, right” shimmy step thing where you nearly walk into each other. Apparently she didn’t fancy sharing a brief moment with Dr Grossman Snotface.

Or the general feeling of isolation and disdain I picked up on from my fellow athletes – well slightly more than usual anyway. I thought it was because of my robot boardies I was sporting... if only.

I guess that is why there are so many people constantly looking into the wall to wall mirrors at such a place. They are all on high booger alert.

No I know how the hunchback of Notre Dame must have felt – well without the horribly disfigured bump on the back, having to ring that bell, and the weekly lynch mob beatings.

Think I will cancel my membership today. I hope they don’t ask me for a reason why.

Article #4 - Attack of the Sharks

Wed, 04 Mar 2009 22:25:38 +0000

Sharks are running humans out of the water. It’s bedlam on the sand. Mankind is terrified once again to dip their toes in the salty abyss for fear that it will get forcefully removed like a nightclub bouncer with razor sharp teeth.

Are you surprised? I certainly am not. This has been on the cards for far too long. You see, we live in a politically corrected snooze-fest of a planet where we are expected to all be right, all be equal, all care for each other, and all live and let live. Never ever hurt the feelings of another animal or organism even if they deserve it. Accept assault, like we accept failure, rudeness, crime, and taxes.

Somewhere in the mid 1990s the Tree-Huggers got on their high horses to save foliage. The world laughed but decided to let the little buggers spout on until they had another hit from the bong and went back to sleep on the futon. What happened next? Go cut down a tree on council land and see for yourself.

The problem is that those little stoners didn’t stop campaigning when they got the munchies. Quite the opposite in fact. They were highly successful and changed modern culture so that organics had rights. But they didn’t stop there. They turned their attentions to the animal kingdom. This is where it all goes a bit topsy-turvey – they decided to save man eating beasts instead of animals slaughtered in their millions, such as chickens, ants, and seagulls.

Make no mistake, man was once the most feared predator on earth and animals knew this. Animals understood that to mess with man resulted in death (sometimes tortuous). Man would then eat the flesh, wear the skin, mount the head on his wall, and feed the bones to his dog. The animal kingdom didn’t want a bar of this and left man to his own devices, only engaging in combat when unavoidable.

It’s a different story today. Due to inconsiderate laws and protection, these beasts (such as sharks) attack without fear of reprisal. In fact they are protected from revenge. Eye-for-an-eye policies can no longer provide sweet solace for victim’s families. Mankind is under attack and is powerless to counter tactically and viciously as was once his right. Once we would have met a shark in an honourable dual to the death. We would hook our fishy foe up by the tail on dry land, beating his muscular torso with a railway sleeper. Honour intact for all involved - satisfied and fatigued. Today’s society has no room for vigilante justice.

Chickens are still slaughtered in their millions, basted and crumbed, snuggled in-between two burger buns with creamy mayo, and sold to greasy fat teenagers…unprotected chickens.

For a summer in the late 1990s I worked on a Bermuda resort as a personal trainer. I had the pleasure of watching a local biologist, Dr Sinco Vermenza, work with local sharks which infested the beautiful beaches. He would lure dozens of sharks into waist deep water with chum and fish tails. To make himself even more inviting to a hungry shark he would butter himself liberally and apply ample amounts of all purpose seasoning before entering the moist death-marine. The first time I saw this I was terrified. The sharks arrived almost instantly, first circling him, then even nudging him. A frenzied mauling was microseconds away when Dr Vermenza administered an aggressive voltage of electricity into the surrounding waters. The sharks that weren’t killed learned a valuable lesson – beware of man. Dr Vermenza was so committed to the cause that he was also shocked to a point close to death but after several years of this behaviour he grew to enjoy the sensation of electrical current raping his innards. I think similar sciences could greatly benefit Australia.

The moral to this instalment is ‘beware who you protect as today’s minions are tomorrows vanquishers’. That hobo on the street could be your next employer, that shop assistant could be your next Prime Minister, that dog might have rabies.

Life is a fight so knuckle up.
Franco Skinns, Life Expert.

Article #3 - Cocooning

Thu, 19 Feb 2009 22:45:50 +0000

An epidemic is sweeping the youth of the world and its effects could be catastrophic. I write of cocooning.

Cocooning is a term I use for people who remove themselves from the worlds surroundings while remaining physically present. Your classic cocooning teenager will be wearing sunglasses/shades, enormous headphones connected to an mp3 player, hood over their head, and be engrossed in cellphone activity. These actions form an invisible shell force field rendering the occupant oblivious to the activities around them. Thus, they are no longer a part of society. Worse still, when society bothers their activities the cocoonee often becomes uncouth.

Withdrawing from the world is creating a society unable to communication face-to-face. Youths mutter barely a word to each other during school hours but once home on the internet they’re plugged in like Stephen W. Hawkins. Communication rains out via email, text, social networking and connects a single cocoonee with potentially hundreds of thousands of others. That same teen that couldn’t string two words together when you asked for advice at your local department store is likely to be a virtual chatterbox within his bedroom dungeon.

Kids these days…

We can hardly blame them. Today’s youth are hedonistic ragamuffins who believe the world revolves around them. They are selfish, sullen, morose little tosspots.

Case and point, three days ago on the bus I approached a teenage male to inquire of the time. He looked at me like I was mental and continued to play some tennis video game on his phone. Fortunately for him I am an experienced life expert and refrained from overreaction. I did, however, strangle him in headlock so vast in compression that it would defy the laws of modern civil engineering.

To illustrate my point I stole his watch.

But I can’t throttle every teenage cocoonee in this world. I have clients who require my time as a life expert. They pay for my time; teenagers generally do not.

I teach my clients to put themselves first. I also teach them to put their fellow men and women first as well. To paraphrase – you are number one, and so is everyone else. And if we are all first, we are also all last. This is considered revolutionary by my peers and has stimulated much erudite discussion. Applying this to cocooning the lesson is simple- turn your music down, take the shades off, phone on silent, and if someone asks what they time is you fucken well tell them.

So take that lesson forth. We are all human – even in the race of life. Be courteous to one another, say a cheery good morning to your neighbour, offer to help a lost tourist, help an old lady cross the street, share your breakfast.

The state of mankind depends on eradication of cocooning and face-to-face communication is the best paraquat. You can’t impregnate with cyber-sex. We may very well become extinct if we do not act now.

Life is a fight so knuckle up.

Franco Skinns
Life Expert

Article #2 - Get Over Yourself

Tue, 20 Jan 2009 11:39:30 +0000

Get over yourself; you’re not the next Paris Hilton or Brad Pitt.

But so what? If you think gaining the world’s attention is going to save you from low self esteem then you are in for a bowl of cold porridge. True happiness comes from looking within your self, not externally. What you have on the inside is what will show on the outside. To be happy, get confident. If you have confidence it will radiate from your core and then influence your outer shell, i.e. posture, attitude, hair-do. In time, this will influence other parts of your life, e.g. better job, healthier, clearer complexion, sport captaincy.

If you are unhappy on the inside it will smother and choke your shell with weight gain, greasy skin, slipped discs, and mumbling to name but a few.

Basically, you are who you believe you should be. Hippo inside means hippo outside. If you don’t like it you have to change from the inside-out.

There are those, of course, who think they can skip a step and get plastic surgery. Look what happens to that lot. The other day I saw a woman’s breast where one nipple looked like it was emigrating to her shoulder. Frankly, I didn’t blame it. The skin it was on was stretched tighter than a trampoline. Then there are those plastic face monstrosities. You can’t tell me that spending $70,000 on an immovable face covered with kaleidoscopic make-up is sensible spending.

My advice is to work out who you are and make peace with yourself. As long as you aren’t hurting yourself or others, and you leave the world in a better way than you found it, then you have to be you – for the sake of your own sanity.

I want to tell you about a couple of my friends. They are good people, loyal and healthy. Most importantly, they are happy. Now, their idea of happiness may conflict with yours but it’s not for you to judge, particularly as they would never judge you. I ask that you explore their underpinning acceptance of who they are rather than recoil at their preferred pastimes.

One of these friends, Clayton, is a farmer but he could easily be an entertainer. Essentially he is both and any visit to his farm will result in an impromptu show. He has found unique ways to combine members of his heard in his act. This is never more obvious than when performing “Clayton and his cow sleeve jacket”. Some might say the idea of inserting his arms up to the shoulders in the rears of two different cows to be revolting. I can only hope that one day you have the opportunity to see it as I believe you will change your tune. It is a thoroughly absorbing spectacle and hysterically funny.

As if this wasn’t enough, years of practice has meant that Clayton has an astute knowledge of bovine anatomy. He actually located a gland that, when a small amount of gentle pressure is applied, will make a cow open and shut its mouth. What ensues is a ventriloquist act the likes of which you cannot imagine. You can’t even see his lips moving, Clayton that is. The cows’ lips are snapping open and shut like a Venus flytrap. I might add, to any animal rights activists, that there is no infringing cruelty here. Those cows out weight him by more than 100kg and have never struggled under the pressures of live theatre.

I have another friend, Jarred who has an abnormally large penchant for women. No matter what shape, form, colour, creed, or religion, Jarred offers a few free drinks and an evening of passable, enthusiastic sex to one and all. It’s like coital yahtzee. With such an open door policy, or perhaps ‘catch and release’ is a better description, Jarred has quite a reputation. You might think that his ravenous needs would isolate him from proper society but the fact is, while one sector alienates him, another actively seeks his company. Actually, they hunt him down like Saint Bernard dogs in an avalanche. And he’s happy. And he’s not hurting anyone. Well, that’s not strictly true; he’s hurt himself. The man is so clogged with sexual diseases that his last doctor forced him into a remote county paddock and administered drums of antibiotics via a crop-dusting plane.

The point is they are happily at peace with who they are and you can be too. So think about how you can gain similar harmony within yourself. Mark my educated words; that harmony will radiate out through your shell, into your life, and the lives of others.

Franko Skinns
Life Expert.

Weirdo Rant - 20 Jan 09

Tue, 20 Jan 2009 11:32:31 +0000

My friend O.D is coming to visit from London in a couple of weeks. They we don’t call him O.D due to some kind of Anthony Keidis-like pin cushion impersonation though. It’s because his name is O’Driscoll. Not his first name.

Anyway, it should be good to see him.

I haven’t seen old Pozza (as he likes to be known) for some time now, and he has been in the midst of this economic collapse over there. I’m pretty sure he trades domino’s for ANZ... maybe stamps. But he told me not too far back that he was contemplating a career move in the near future. He mentioned a possible shift into the world of stand up comedy. Of course I pressed him for some fresh, cutting edge, up-beat material.

Here is his opening gambit, verbatim.

“Why is it that people say ‘I slept like a baby last night’? Does that mean they wake up screaming every two hours covered in fresh piss?”

“And why is it that when you blow in a dog’s face he gets mad at you, but as soon as you take him in the car he puts his head out the window?”

Essentially that’s the whole routine so far, but I reckon he could pad it out to a full show without too many problems. He actually plays guitar and sings too. Well, replace ‘plays’ with ‘creates noise out of’. And his singing is kind of this weird whispering moan thing that I imagine you would get if you crossed Ben Harper and Carsson Kressley.

He did write one song. It’s called “Me and the Boys”.

I swear to you right now I will capture this song on Video one day and post it here. The lyrics are quite simple (and imagine one string on the guitar plucked at the same time).

“Me and the boys,
Yeahhhhh
Went down to the pub,
Yeaaahhhhh”
Again we would need to pad it out a bit for a live gig.

In fact one of the truly most disturbing things I have ever experienced was being locked in my car as O’Driscoll sang Marcy Playgrounds “Sex and Candy” right up to my ear. It still gives me shivers (in a bad way).

Can’t wait till he gets here...

Weirdo Rant - 18 Dec 08

Wed, 17 Dec 2008 22:03:02 +0000

I drive to the road from the Gold Coast to Brisbane (and back) probably once a week.

Lately I have found my imagination wandering onto one specific (and rather unshakable) daydream. I’m not quite sure what to make of it. And so here it is.

I’m driving up the motorway, and one by one the cars disperse, until it is just me driving. All of a sudden I round a sweeping bend to be confronted with a giant jump ramp. Now, when I say giant, I mean literally 50m high and the full width of the road.

The concerning part about this is my reaction. The corners of my mouth curl slightly (I think the technical term for this is a ‘smile’) and without hesitation I put my foot to the floor.

Its kinda weird methinks. Not as weird as that dream where you go to school but have forgotten to put your pants on. Am I the only one that still has that? Hmmm some seriously deep seeded issues are starting to surface. Best I jam them back down with some fast food and Miami Wine Cooler.

Actually, I’m watching my weight (grow).

PS: If anyone has a few hundred sheets of plywood spare I say we put my dream to the test. I’m sure they won’t mind us shutting down the M1 for a day or two.

Weirdo Rant - 12 Dec 08

Fri, 12 Dec 2008 21:40:12 +0000

One of the most enjoyable experiences in life comes from taking the piss out of everyone and everything outside of yourself. It really is a super way of picking up one’s low self image at the expense of some other punter.

If you feel that way inclined then look no further than Channel 7’s Today Tonight (Aus). It really is a dogs breakfast of a show. More so if you actually feed your dog excrement for breakfast.

(Hmmm I feel better already)

Tonight’s Pulitzer Prize winning masterpiece consisted of a review of the dangers of drinking alcohol with the range of super charged energy drinks available. Vodka Redbull, Yager Bombs, etc. The supposed aim of this story? Well, I assumed it was to paint a bleak picture of the detrimental effects such drinks can have on one’s health (or even social) status.

Here’s how they presented the story.

The intro claimed caffeine is simply a drug. Fine, no argument there from me. Keep in mind that the youth of today (and even the youth of yesterday) don’t seem too discouraged by the d-word. They showed a Redbull contains more caffeine than four cans of coke (Oh so not only is it a drug, but I can get heaps more of it by buying Redbull rather than coke... thanks for the tip).

They then turned to the effects caused by consumption. Dr Numbnut (possibly not his real name) explained the feelings of high energy and even euphoria you experience after only a few sips of these drinks (which made me want one right then and there). He then went one step further by describing drinking a vodka redbull akin to mixing heroin with cocaine. Ahhh...pardon? What? So are you telling me instead of spending three hunner on a gram of Charles I can get the same hit from sculling a few voddies? Hell, I AM IN!

And finally they decided to interview none other than three hot little blondies about drinking these drinks (in a brilliant move all three had the drink in question in their hands and were sipping away merrily). These girls giggled their way through this interview intimating how much they enjoy going out and getting ‘wired’ on these drinks.

So I take my hat off to this ground breaking journalism by Channel 7. Well done indeed.

And I must be off, as if I get my skates on i’ll be down at the boozer just in time for happy hour. Although I do need a little pick me up...

Article #1 - Life Presents Opportunity

Mon, 08 Dec 2008 11:07:07 +0000

In the 1980s I pounced on the stampeding success of the Karate Kid movie franchise series and opened my own dojo. For several months I turned over a tidy profit. Had I known then what I know now about marketing I would have made a lot more money had I not named it Psychotica Unleashed.

Unlike many Grand Masters of the time, I taught indiscipline and lack of control. Focus was on frenzied, emotional attacks. We often used our weaknesses as strengths. Face-butting is a highly effective example of this, as is a good ‘belly buster’. I believe I am one of only a very few who use the groin to assail. Incidentally, while explaining how this can be effective one student’s pugnacious mother asked if these manoeuvres were more deadly with an erection. It’s unbelievable how vulgar some can be. Nutters come in all shapes and sizes.

“Life’s a fight so knuckle up”. That was our slogan and it is as poignant today as it was back then. But not exclusively does it apply to choking opponents. It’s also fighting o keep weight off, battling cholesterol, blocking unwanted sexual advances, fingering the eyes of sceptical society.

We live in a world of passive acceptance. How often do we hear “my weight is glandular”, “I’m a victim of circumstance”, “I would but I have a bad back”, or “they are raciest, wolfish, thugs”. No one is accountable anymore; no one is responsible for their short comings. What a bunch of PC rubbish. If your life is in tatters, it’s your fault. But that’s ok if you’re willing to change; if you’ve made a conscious decision to fight back, knuckle up, bounce back.

So, these days I’m a qualified, certified Life Expert but it’s the grounding I got in as Sensei in my Dojo that remains with me. I learnt on the job as I shaped my committed fighters/students. The wisdom I passed to them changed their lives. Many became successful sales reps, restaurateurs, florists. The have happy, healthy families. They dress in an appropriate manner.

I won’t lie to you. Two such students ended up in jail, but with their training in high octane martial arts fusion skills, they dominated their cellmates with berserk, calculated aggression. Soon they were pack leaders.

Intermittingly, I will be writing a column on this website. I have a lot to give so, stuff it, I’m giving it away for free. In reality, Weirdo.com.au is giving it away for free. I am, in fact, well paid.

If I can offer one piece of advice it is:
“Be your best and the best will be good”

Franco Skinns
Life Expert.

Introducing Franco Skinns - Life Expert

Mon, 08 Dec 2008 10:59:07 +0000

It’s funny what can happen when you name your site Weirdo.com.au. All sorts of people come out of the woodwork. Take this guy for example, Franco Skinns. Franco just started emailing us randomly through the site, offering his own style of convoluted advice. He is a self confessed “Life Expert”. I question his sanity to be honest. But we hired him anyway.

Strap yourself in. These musings are completely unedited.

Please also note our disclaimer: There is a good chance Franco is insane. Rather than actually following his advice, you would probably be better off doing the exact opposite as a general rule.

Weirdo Rant - 28 Nov 08

Fri, 28 Nov 2008 11:34:03 +0000

So I was flying back from Adelaide yesterday. Well, technically I wasn’t flying, the aeroplane was. I just happened to be inside it at the time.

Anyway, I picked up the free magazine and flicked through in the hope of stumbling across either a child’s level Sudoku, or better yet an article and photo shoot of Ricki-Lee Coulter (hey, we like what we like ok).

Instead I happened across an article on an annual event called the Homeless World Cup. Yes, the Homeless World Cup. A soccer tournament for the homeless chaps of the world. Ok yes I know what you are going to say, it is a truly noble and inspirational event to hold. Undeniably assisting the improvement of society as a whole, however I have a number of issues I would like someone to clarify:

I have sat with many a homeless late on a Saturday night and causally bantered over a shared goon bag and I’ll be perfectly honest with you: I’m not sure these guys are really what I would classify as ‘athletic’.

How do they organise teams? Are there trials or do they just whip around one morning with a cattle truck and corral them into the back, only to cull the herd down later during an intensive plyometrics camp?

What is the prize for winning? Fresh cardboard?

Scotland won it last year. Who the hell gave them passports? And for crying out loud are you telling me they raised the money for tickets? I have never seen a sign begging for money in order to represent their country.

The best sign I have ever heard of by the way was a Canadian or American homeless chap who for years held the sign that said “Father killed by Ninjas. Need money for Karate lessons”.

Mind you: “Need money for passport, soccer boots, flights and accommodation so I can compete in the world cup” – yeah I’d give him a coin or two.

So anyway I’m contemplating running for the team next time around. I just have to get my hands on the qualification requirements. I wonder if two weeks camping would count as homeless.

Anyway, check out the site, its bloody interesting stuff: http://www.homelessworldcup.org/

Sausaged As Bro

Fri, 03 Oct 2008 04:14:32 +0000

Follow up to beached as

Beached As Bro

Fri, 03 Oct 2008 04:13:03 +0000

Scissors - Not for throwing

Fri, 05 Sep 2008 00:00:00 +0000

Amusing - Flight of the Conchords

Sun, 24 Aug 2008 00:00:00 +0000

Right i know most people will have seen this already, but the live version is mind blowing. I couldn’t help but put it up here…