Saturday, November 15, 2008


Tim Freedman

For me, he's like custard.

Delicious but makes my skin crawl.. just a little bit. Not sure why custard has always had that affect on me. But can kind of understand why Tim Freedman does, might has something to do with the fact that he's old enough to be my father, but I think it's more than that.

There's something about his singing voice that just makes my hair stand on end, not in a bad way, but not necessarily in a good way either. In a way that makes me feel slightly....... sick.
No freaken idea why. All I'm sure of is the only other time I felt sickly attracted, 'custard feeling' was when I was bout 8 years old and sleeping over at a friend's house out in the bush. We got up [see: I made her get up) to go for a bike ride at 2am. We rode for maybe 10 minutes before she wanted to go back to bed. Instead we crashed in front of the TV in the lounge room and started to watch whatever was on. It was a very cheap animation of a Gulliver's Travels story. And something about Gulliver made me ill, maybe it was the pony tail, maybe it was the shitty storyline, or the almost crudely drawn cartoon itself..... but I'm still not entirely convinced. I felt that curious ill/fascinated feeling round the moment when Gulliver yelled at his companion, a young boy for some mistake he made. Maybe there was something about that that struck me as unnaturally, disturbingly sexual, or frightening, I have no idea. Whatever it is/was was a pretty sickening feeling that I also got on the rare few times I ate custard (even though I like the taste, I just hate the way it looks and feels in my mouth).

How the hell has that feeling become entwined with Tim Freedman? Might be something to do with that fact that he's clearly a good looking (older) man who has something.... something kind of not quite right, I guess, about his eyes. Either way the weird arse feeling is there and maybe one day when I start seeing a shrink again I'll get them to elaborate (will probably just open a whole other suppressed kettle of fish memory though).

But I like enduring that uncomfortable 'custard feeling' if it means looking at him and hearing his voice. *shiver*

Saturday, November 1, 2008

Drink till he's pwetty

With them setting up my man bar, life just feels so empty.... unless beer is involved.
That is all.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

The Rart Stuff

Just scrolled down and saw I didn't get arse-fucked around to finishing my Tassie story...

*considers it*

Yeah... that shit has gone stale in my brain now... there's some stuff I know you kids would've gotten a hoot out of.. stuff that happened that I should blog. But I can't be arse-fucked.

There's just a little something I think I need to address, seeing as I seem to be getting so many more hits these days (used to average a couple a week if i was lucky, now average that on most days). I began this blog to serve no other purpose to me but to act as my punching bag on which to both vent, but also to practice. Practice the writing I was told I had potential in but would end up in a gutter somewhere if I didn't work my tits off at it.

Since I've been about 14 years old I wrote pretty much everyday; it began as my only way to vent the hell that was eating away at my insides. Soon it was my only coping mechanism; pages became the only place I could scream, cry, laugh and dream. While my exterior gradually closed further and further in on itself by interior was still able to clutch onto some small aspect of feeling alive even though I felt so dead.

The journals from back then I still have, but I can't read them. I get a childish joy about flicking through the pages and seeing my young self's writing scrawled across every square inch of paper, but I can;t read the words. I don't know how that wound can still be so raw. I believe that time can heal all wounds, but I wish there was some kind of manual on how much time is needed for the intensity of each traumatic experience.

But through that shaky start I started writing as a habit. A habit I needed to be able to function in the everyday world. Using the paper as a means of feeling the opposite of how the world and the people in it made me feel. Writing was the only thing that ever gave me a voice. I'd be able to sift through my torrent of thoughts and extract an articulation of things that astounded even myself. The paper showed me what I was capable of, gave me hope of something bigger than what I currently was. Through the writing and no other aspect in my sad life I ever so slowly grew.

But the more you write the more critical you seem to get of it. Critiquing the words before they're even on the paper. Some days wanting to write so badly but being haunted that what you have to say isn't good enough as though you are writing for someone else.
That is a downfall of blogging. What begins as a means of writing, showcasing what you have to an indifferent audience to gather unbiased, honest views slowly deteriorates into writing for the audience. Thinking about them in every word. Thinking about how many hits you'll get for this post, how many comments. Whether this will be the post to launch you into blogger stardom (aka being on a lot more blog rolls).

I admit that I fell into that trap for a short time. But I think I've successfully shaken it now. I like my blogs to ramble and make little sense. While I don't necessarily want Rusted Gumption to sink into the endless black hole of forgotten blogs, I don't like having a big readership. I can crap on till the cows cum (Pun Fun!!!) about 'writing for myself, not caring what anyone thinks, yada yada yada', but the truth is, while I might generally think that now, some time down the track on a lot more 'favorite's' lists I'll be more aware of my popularity and shy from the raw honesty that has made Rusted Gumption what it is, what I'm proud of.

So to sum up, what I'm getting at, I think, is this. If you are looking for some examples of intelligent, finely crafted, planned blogs, check out my blog roll (yes that includes you Bo), because what I write here I don't write to fit into any of those categories. I use this blog the same way I used those pages back when i was 14. To waffle, ramble, spurt and practice fucking practice. To vent the fucking shit out; being blunt as a brick and as raw as a fly-blown sheep's arse crack.

I don't expect many people to read what I write all the way through, because if they did it'd mean I was doing something wrong (by my own standards anyway).

So I guess that's what I was trying to get out, I think. Or was it? Yeahh.... bugger that thinking too hard crap, I've me some brain cells to go waste.. *runs away*

Monday, October 13, 2008

The Embodiment of Binary Opposition






So's your face

Now everyone can see what I do.

The Embodiment of Binary Opposition

Welcome Trash.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008


Wh-Heyyyy! And we are back!!! Shit. Back on the mainland, down a few hundred dollars (tassie beer is the best!) and a few hundred brain cells. Meh, I've got so many I can afford to throw a couple of hundred of the lil mites out to sea. Bon Voyage my darlings!
As for money.... yeh, well, can't afford to throw much of that away. I'm scared to look at my bank statement. I know it was nudging at 3 grand before I left, but now I'm just hoping it can reach to 3 dollars so I can buy myself the coke to put the bourbon from my flask into (go me for managing to save it- puked up quite a lot on the ship though. Bloody sea sickness. blahh).

I hit the mainland's shores again on Sunday morning, but have been up to my perky lil titties in school work since then. Had my last SAC for the week today, which I could've used those brain cells for that I threw away at sea, but meh, they are at the bottom of the Bass Strait now which is the same place that that blasted SAC is going to go once I get it back. Ohh... unless I surprise me fine self and get a top mark, which has happened before because my talents can surprise even my fine self by their sheer.....ahh......... awesomeness. Yehh..

I was in TassieMania for a week and me Gawd, it was freaken awesome!! To sum the whole thing up a few words... I'll have to go with: beer, camping, driving, farting, laughing and..... ahh..... ghosts. That's right! Ghosts! More on that later...
But those few words don't do my exciting-fan-tabulous-awe-freaken-some expedition to TassieLandingStripMania justice. So reckon I had better run you kids (both of you) through the highlights (briefly though brew).

Despite using sea-bands and taking tablets I was still sick as a dog on the ship and by 3am I was saying fare-thee-well to everything I'd eaten that day and pulling chunks of roast beef out of my nostrils. I'll pause here just so you can truly get a mental image of that.

Got it?

Great. I'll continue.
Our ship sailed into Davenport at 8am on the Monday morning and the first thing we laid eyes on was the McDonald's across the road, so once on shore we made a bee-line for the cultural tassie dishes of Bacon and Eggs McMuffin and Hash browns with chocolate thick shakes. Once we'd overcome the shock of the chairs in the tassie Maccaz being red we settled down and read the newspaper that informed us of the mighty Hawks being in Launceston that very day. A quick discussion later and we on the road to Launceston cracking open our stubbies of Carlton and trying to figure out where all the tassie devils were. I had expected to see people walking them around on leashes, but alas, what locals were up at the ungodly hour of 8am were walking their mothers on leashes. Paa-poo!

Launceston was only an hour or so down the road and by the time we got there the sun was a-burning our skin through the window of Prick-Poo (my mate's Camry). We hit the caravan park, set our tents up on the hill and proceeded to drink more. The boys went into town to get a tarp and a torch while me and Cint lazed in the sun keeping our cameras at the ready for tassie devils.
A few beers later and I suddenly noticed how steep the hill was that we had mounted our tents on.
"Hmm?" came her reply from beneath the shade of her hood.
"This hill *burp* may just prove to ahh..... be a bit of a hazard *burp* later"

More beers later and the boys came back.
"We should go down to the oval soon"
"I wanna get my ball signed by Buddy"
"When we gonna go?"
"After this beer"
A few more beers later.
"We gonna go soon?"
More beers. More sun. A sleep or two.
"Shit we need to go get more beer"
"There's still a couple left and there's a bottle of Bundy, a bottle of Smirnoff and a bottle of Jimmy in Prick Poo"
More beers. More sun. A sleep or two.
"The Hawks would've left the oval by now"
"Ahh don't worry. We'll still get your ball signed. I'm sure they're in a nightclub in town somewhere trying to rape someone."
More beers.
The air became nippy and we hopped inside the shelter of the big tent onto the small fold out table. More drinking, laughing, farting, smoking, sleeping and bullshitting and there was a crack.
"What the..-"
The chair beneath Big Pat snapped in half and the entire table collapsed and we were sprawled on the floor.
"Let's go to the pub"
"Good idea"

Later that night with a carton of VB split between us we were singing and dancing down the main street of Launceston and ended up at Maccaz. I had a burger (apparently), forgot i had it so had another one (apparently) and then forgot I had that one so had another one (apparently), by which point my fellow cow-punchers decided they'd be rolling me back to the caravan park at the rate I was going. So I was booted out the door of maccaz hollering "But I haven't had anything to eat yet!!". And somehow, we made it back to the park.
The others made it up the hill and climbed into the warmth of the tents and out of the freezing tassie night air while I and my portion of VB popped down to the toilets. I then proceeded to climb the hill to the tents and was croaking out "Cinta! Cinta! I can't get up this fuckin hill with these fuckin beers!!" when next minute I was rolling down it, leaving a trail of VB cans in my wake.
Cint stuck her head out the tent flap and found me at the bottom of the hill lying in a gutter of dirt, suspicious liquid and beer cans from that day.
"What are you doing?" she laughed.
I know i woke up the next morning in the tent so not sure what happened in between the rolly-polly time and the morning but I'm trying to stay positive.

Over a brekkie of beers we learnt from one of the thousands of brochures we'd taken from the ship that the Boag's brewery was in that town. We cleaned the dirt out of our ears and nostrils, packed up our tents then set off into town.
We payed $25 to do a tour of the brewery, which I naturally assumed we'd do with beers in our hands at all times or at least be able to stick our heads into the tanks and drink our fill, but this wasn't to be the case. We wandered up and down stairs, through corridors and out into the yards of the brewery all with the smell of hops, wort and wheat in my nostrils while I got gradually thirstier and angrier. By the end I wanted to kill the ugly tour guide and drink his blood just to see if it tasted like beer.

Finally we trudged back to the brewery office where there was actually a bar. I nearly fell over with exhaustion from the wait. The fridge was stocked with all of Boag's beers and I licked my lips, mumbling "Come on you rotten bastard" while the tour guide handed around cheese.
If we wanted fucking cheese we would've gone to a fucking cheese factory! Not a fucking brewery you skinny prick!!
We eventually were given a 'beer tasting' (who honestly drinks beer for the taste?) which gave each of us about one standard drink in total. I was fuming. A half bottle of Boags Premium sat upon the bar still once the other people in the tour group had wandered away so I guzzled it.

We went down to the pub for lunch and the other Cow Punchers sat in the beer garden while I chatted to the bar maid somewhat tipsily about being a bar maid. More beers.

Looking at our map of the Great Landing Strip we spotted a large lake in the National Park a few hours drive south where we could fish, camp, have an open fire and make nuisances of ourselves. Back in Prick Poo we headed south. More beers. Sleeping. More beers.
It was strange going through so many towns that looked like they were cut straight from British travel brochures.
"Who needs to go to Europe? Just come to tassie"

It was getting towards the late afternoon when Prick Poo began to climb the mountain that the lake was meant to sit at the top of when we were meeting four-wheel-drive after four-wheel-drive.
"Shit. Hope Prick Poo can make it"
"She'll be right"
Higher still and Prick Poo was growling under the strain.
"Carn Prick Poo" We all began to chant.
The tracks wove higher, became narrower.
"Carn Prick Poo!"
Then one of the four-wheel drives coming from the other direction slowed and wound down his window. He puffed on a ciggie through stained fingers and a dirty grey moustache and looked at me and Cinta in the back with a filthy leer.
"Get's reallllll steep" He slurred.
"It gets steeper?" Big Pat asked.
Filthy Grey nodded and rolled away down the mountain without a word.
We sat on the track and looked up the steep slope of the mountain.
"Reckon he's just being a cunt?"
"I don't want to risk it" Big Pat said firmly.
"He's probably just a cunt."
"All we've met so far are four-wheel-drives. That's a pretty good indication of how steep it is."
"We're come this far though."
Big Pat reversed Prick Poo back down the track and swung around on the elbow, "Well next time we'll bring your car and fuck it up on some mountain."
Spirits dampened we drove back down the mountain trying not to think of the wonderland that could've been waiting for us atop that mountain.

The light continued to gradually fade and and we consulted our map of the Landing Strip again.
"There's no more caravan parks till the outskirts of Hobart"
"Well then."
We cruised into the park at the last light of day and set up our tents in the semi dimness on the edges of a massive lake that supplied us with ducks everywhere.
"Duck for dinner anyone?"

A BBQ dinner and we retired to the semi warmth of our tent for more beer and card games, later finding entertainment in the drunken teenage lesbian show that was happening in the cabin a few meters away. They sang loudly and danced to bad country songs till the owners hurried over to bang on the glass door and yell at them to keep it down. We continued to be loud and drunk with our radio till someone stuck their head out the window and screamed at us to shut the fuck up.

And that's all for now kids. Study calls. By which I mean sleeping in the sun with the bottle of coke.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Red Wine

Oh, and I promise that this is my last post for tonight (wow it's hard to navigate the keys when you're drunk).

Trashy trashy slosh sister- I WANT MY BLOG AND I WANT IT NOW WOMAN!!!!!!

Capesh? You've run outta excuses girlie. Do it or I'll reveal to the blogosphere what you got up to with my 54 year old mum on this fine Spring night in a certain bar in Brighton.

Bahahahaha. That sounds seriously dirty.





Thank Family Guy (my god) that winter is over.
Bastard of a freakin' winter that sucked fat hairy black salty balls. (Not that I know what fat hairy black salty balls taste like...)

But I hear that you're rather talented at the ol' tambourine?


I'll be back in a week and I'll be expecting a blog waiting for me. Capesh?



Red wine.

*whispers* yay. *whispers* yay. *whispers* yay.

I really should go pack now and stop seeking attention from randoms on the interweb.

Wooooooo! TassieCuntMania!!!

Happy Birthday Mamma Goose

Oh yeah. And my mum just turned 54.


Even though she doesn't actually read this type vomit.

Gonna stop drinking now...... and start packing.

Ahh.... who the heck am I kidding?

Frick........ where are my fishing rods? Hmm.....