We Don't Need No Conversation.

Mike: You look uncomfortable.
Me: *nods*
Mike: Why?
Me: Happens.


Guy at Party: So where are you from?
Me: Canberra.
Guy: No, I mean, what group are from?
Me: I, uh, group? *points at Emma-Jean and Mike* Them...?
Emma-Jean: He goes to Chrome.
Me: Ohhhhhh! Yeah, sometimes.


Polling guy: Name?
Me: Perrie.
Polling guy: Ok.
Me: That's P E double R I E.
Guy: Got ya.
Me: Might make it a bit easier, heh.
Guy: Indeed. First name?
Me: Robert. *points* That's me.
Guy: Have you voted before--
Me: YES!
Guy: --In this election?
Me: Oh, no, haha, like I said, I have voted before, just not in this election, though I have voted before. I know what I'm doing here.
Guy: Quite. Next!


Co-worker: Hey, Rob, you busy?
Me: Not really.
Co-worker: Ok, could you--
Me: UGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!
Co-worker: I'll ask someone else.

What's YOUR Problem?

About a year ago my father told me a story.

29 years ago, give or take, my mother was pregnant. With me, obviously. There was some... Thing, I don't know specifically what but both her and I were in trouble. She was induced in an attempt to prevent death or something (details are sketchy at best) and I entered the world with the umbilical cord around my throat. Tight.

I was put into one of those plastic boxes with the holes in so the doctors can poke the baby to make sure it's still alive for like, 3 days or something. Was touch and go for a bit. Doctors said that if I survived I'd have brain damage.

So here we are.

Years of head injuries and alcohol and drug abuse haven't exactly helped my case.

A few months ago I started imparting this knowledge upon people one on one, as some sort of quite literally retarded 12 step program but in my haste I missed a lot of people in the process. So now you know.

I have trouble concentrating, learning things (hence my problems with education) and basic social interaction.

A while back I told my good friend Kate about this and she suggested getting tested, scanned or whatever to find out exactly what is wrong. This scared the shit out of me. Ignorance is bliss, people.


What I'm trying to get at is this is why I'm kinda odd sometimes. I don't want pity, just understanding. I want you to know that this is why I am, finding out why does not change who I am, I've always been me, I'll always be Robert.

That's the truth.

Thank you.

You Have 140 Characters To Comply

As I'm looking back at the halfway point of what is now going to be 48 hours without my phone I realise that I miss the shit out of Twitter. Not having my phone means I can't bore you during the day while I'm at work.

So for those of you that are ape-shit retarded for the stuff I have to say, here are some thoughts that occurred to me today that if I were able to, I would have tweeted:

-Robocop 2; I know we've had our fair share of forgettable sequels but whose pissed aunty thought this was a good idea?

-Even though I've been getting it near 15 years now, whenever someone has called me Bob recently I want to respond with "My name is Robert."

-Simon's missus is apparently having some trouble with the latest bun in the oven. Will people ever learn? Answer is no.

-I miss my phone. A lot.


That'll do.

Dastardly Plan Weekly Recap for July 3rd

It's ok, some of my best friends know immigrants.

You see an ad for a Chinese restaurant featuring an Asian family eating spring rolls, wontons, rice, etc, no one raises an eye brow, however when an ad for a fried chicken restaurant features black people eating what's on offer it's RACIST AND HORRIBLE AND EVERYONE SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF THEMSELVES!

If this is what advertisers are after, and I can only assume so from reactions to them, maybe I can help them out:

INT- Fried chicken restaurant.

A clean, well kept restaurant, at the tables are a caucasian family, a Vietnamese family, an Italian family, all enjoying their fried chicken.

Over this scene, there is an all of sudden gun-shot, followed closely by the sound of broken glass.

Cut to- A black man holding a shot gun in front of a broken front door.

Black man: Alright, you honkey gook dago assholes! I want some fucken CHICKENNNNNNNNNNNNNNN! Or I'ma pop a cap!





Yeah, this is why I don't get paid for my writing.

Mundane can stay where it belongs.

People say "I had such a weird dream last night!" far too often. The vast majority of dreams I have myself and those that others share with me would be considered weird if they actually happened, but in the realm of the subconscious, it's par for the course.

I recently had a dream that I was running away from church conspirators in San Fransisco, something I don't really do in my day to day life, but not too much of a stretch for Bob's dream land.

If I were to have a dream about paying bills or driving to work I would consider that a weird dream. Weirdness in dreams is inversely proportional to that in the real world.


That'll do.

The Lonely Ballad (AKA- I want pussy)

If Spring time is when a man's thoughts turn to love then why is Valentine's Day in Summer (or Winter, for those on the other side of the ball)?

Furthermore, why is there a certain time of year for this? I don't really look at the calendar and think to myself Oh, shit, it's September! I need to fuck! If I'm horny, I'm bloody horny.

I can't say hayfever is much of a turn-on either. Sniffly and blood shot eyes, shit yeah, I'm all on that. Or rather not. Ever.

I had more, but it's gone. Whatever. Ignore sayings and stuff. Fuck when you want to.