How Harry Escaped the Cult

Regular readers will know that I joined a cult in Cairns, and not just for alliterative purposes.


Now that I am free of their clutches, I feel safe to tell you how I was able to escape.

It turns out that over the last eleven years I have inadvertantly been conditioned to resist the first step of cult indoctrination: brainwashing.

Those of you who know my best friend and psychologist/teaboy Lord Mattresshammer will know that he is possibly the most annoying man on the planet. What you don't know is that he has been engaging in an intrepid and ingenious program of brainwashing via reverse pyschology to convince us that he _isn't_ the most annoying man on the planet.

His revolutionary idea is to take an innocuous, non-annoying, basically unfunny saying and by constant repetition make it annoying yet hilarious. The brainwashing is there to convince listeners only of the humour component.

Sceptics will point out that it hasn't worked yet, but proof that his trail-blazing concept works is shown by one CrazyOldAna who, after several years exposure, now complusively tells me that there is a possum living in a flower pot on her balcony.

Anyway, it was the second day of brainwashing, and the cult had managed to extract $12.50 and a small amount of my dignity, when Matt called me on my mobile.
His voice instantly activated my anti-brainwashing defenses and I was cured!

"I..I.. hello? Let's go to the pub."
"I'm in Cairns."
"How about tea then?"
"The Cairns that is in Queensland."
"I don't want excuses; I want solutions!"
"We could go to the pub next week?"
But Matt is not one to compromise anything but the moral standing of girls on the cusp of legality.
"Damn you, Harry. You hear me? Damn you to hell or sixteen episodes of Crossing Jordan - whichever comes first!"
"Y.."
"I'm not finished yet!!"
"Well?"
"My mum says 'hi'."
*click*

So, you see: the cult leaders didn't have a chance.

Lord Mattresshammer?
I salute you.

Whizzo!

Alpine Adventurererism

Declared a criminal by the Romans for the sack of Saguntum, Hannibal took his army from Spain over the Alps to Italy. It's the equivalent of raising an army in Geelong to invade Sydney, with the Snowy Mountains being vaguely analogous.I

have no doubt that if Hannibal was leading such an invasion that it would be a success right up to a certain point.
Being unfamiliar with our geography and slang, Hannibal would be half-way through the Snowy Mountains before giving the order "Sack Crackenback!"

And that wouldn't turn out at all like he was expecting.

Saving the World Part 2

In realising my destiny to save the world by butchering reclusive academic types I have been inspired by many other heroes, not the least of whom are the newest batch of heroes: the heroes of 'Heroes'.

And not the least of whom is the cheerleader.

Now, I know what many of you have instantly and erroneously assumed.

Yes, she is a gorgeous young beauty in the full bloom of womanly fecundity, but what stirs within me is not base rutting instinct but the desire to protect her from all harm. Yes, I know she's indestructable and I'm not, and that I wouldn't actually...

Look, to use a grossly insufficient metaphor, she is the new tightly-curled rose bud; I am the attentive gardener; and all other men are aphids.

She is a rose, or a perfect sunset, or a baby deer - and, as I have stated before, I have never had sex with a deer.

It is therefore my sworn duty to ensure she is free of all lustful advances and dies a virgin.

That is unless she wants to be double-teamed by the Veronicas with strap-ons.

Saving the World

Lord Matresshammer (Sage, Friend and Recipient of the 2006 'Most Dubious Reasoning' Award) told me about some monks.
These monks devote their lives to discovering what God's real name is.
Surely if the good lord has kept this hidden from us, then it's for a good reason. And that reason turns out to be if anyone finds out his name it will undo the whole of creation. Yep, destroy the entire universe. The whole kit and kaboodle like some all-powerful Rumplestiltskin.

Yet, in his infinite wisdom, at some point he _wants_ his name to be known because it's all part of the divine plan.
I know it sounds stupid. That's because it IS stupid.

These monks spend their days working their way through all the permutations of the thirteen letters that make up God's real name, pause to see if they feel creation ending, then try another.

But this does make me think.

What if God's real name is "I am homosexual"?
Or "Jews were right"?
Tingles McPube?
An Evil Toaster?
Or (and Ive been saying this for years) Michael Bolton?

Monk: I feel a bit stupid, but how about "ZowZhangKapow!"?
God: You guessed it!!! You win the end of everything. Congratulations!

Look, these monks HAVE to be stopped.
Monks are supposed to devote their time to reflection, piety, good works and becoming astondingly good swordsmen.
What is the point of a bunch of monks whose only job is to undo creation?!

There are only two things we can do:
1) Ask God to change his name to a squiggle like Prince did. (Unlikely)
2) Hunt down and kill these monks. (Potentially hilarious)

So, I'm off to slaughter some holy men.
My name's Harry.
And I'm going to save the world.

Adventurerering with Women (attempted)

I'd like to take this moment to highlight the importance of remembering the Harry "DYRF" Imperative when asking a girl out.
DYRF?
Do
Your
Research
First

A good strong start that shoots straight from the hip or nearby groinal region. And, by being in note form, shows that I am too cowardly to speak to her directly ie sensitive.


You see the problem here?

Look, I had heard some talk around work about D, but it's a gay bar and they don't really pay attention to that sort of thing around here, so I didn't place much credence in the intellegnce gathered in such a way.
I suppose I could have found out the pertinent information by myself. After all, I have worked with her for over a year and we have had several conversations in that time.
We've talked about how I'm cool because I've met Joss Whedon.
We've talked about how my taste in music is superior to hers, and also about how impressive and strong I am because I can lift the full gravy pot off the stove whilst she can't.
Her marital state just hasn't come up before is what I'm trying to say.

So, people, learn from my error here.

I work at a gay bar in Redfern called Mr Mary's.
One of the other barman asked why it was so called.
I didn't know, but suggested that since our first birthday was on Bastille Day and Mary Antionette featured prominently on the posters that perhaps the gay community or drag queens identified strongly with Mary Antionette, and thence the name.
He looked unconvinced, and I don't blame him - but it was the best I could come up with.
I tried again.
"Mary Antionette is known for one thing in particular: saying 'Let them eat cake' when told that the populace didn't have any bread to eat.
Maybe they thought she said 'Let them eat cock'?"

Funnily enough neither Cock o'man nor Penis Schnitznel are on the menu.

And neither am I, so back off.


I remain a towering man-meat monument of heterosexuality.

Harry the Great (Gardenerer)

Aha! I went and spoke to the culinary herbs. They have all acknowledged me as their overking.
Well, except for the Taragon.
I said that I'd prune it if I walked over there.
It replied "if!"
I've spoken to many plants in my time and Taragon is the most laconic. Which was surprising, but it is so stubborn.

I have received full support for my plans to eradicate the asthma weed from the furthest reaches of the front yard. My most loyal supporter was that most proud and loyal hero Coriander.
And they have bestowed a new title on me which means "King" in plant-language: Basil.

So that's the story, cut and dried.

Backyard Adventurerering

I have just finished reading a history of Alexander the Great.
Suitably inspired I decided to do some weeding.
Now, I know there are people who talk to plants, but I figured it would be more appropriate to taunt the asthma weed as I pulled it.

"For too long," I told them, "You have been on land that is not yours. No longer! For I am Harry the Great!"
I also undermined their morale by chanting "So don't touch me cos I'm electric. Ah, don't touch me cos I'm electric. Don't touch me cos I'm electric. And if you touch me you'll get shocked."
And I totally routed them.
At one point clouds of their asthma-inducing particles assailed my nostrils, but I rallied magnificently and sneezed loudly upon them with contempt.

I should also acknowledge the part played by Australian hiphop in my victory with Hermitude and The HilltopHoods bawling from the open doors to give me spirit.
It occured to me that if hiphop was around in 334BC Alexander would have listened to it.
Then it occured to me that hiphop is so cool that it would have been around in 334BC only if Alexander had invented.
And he would have.
But he would have called it Alexander.

Ptolemy: Hey, that sounds awesome! What is it?
Parmenio: It's called Alexander.
Ptomely: Sweet.
Parmenio: What are you doing with that thing in your hand?
Hephaestion: It's called smoking an Alexander. It goes really well with that Alexander we're listening to.
Parmenio: What's an Alexander?
Hephaestion: Well, it's paper rolled around buds of that plant called Alexander we got in India.
Parmenio: Hey, Cleitus! What are you drinking?
Cleitus: Brandy Alexander.
(pause)
Ptolemy: Cleitus, I don't want to be rude, but aren't you dead?
Cleitus: Yeah, but so's Parmenio.
Hephaestion: Bitchin!