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September 18, 2006 | by  | in Opinion |
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My Eyes are Bleeding


All throughout history man has had to deal with several taxing issues. Major human breakthroughs include: figuring out the earth wasn’t flat, the secret of electricity, gravity, refridgerated shipping, the electric car, space travel, the automobile, the internet, several high profile medical cures and vaccines, securing several high profile peace agreements, navigating poles, climbing really tall mountains, running fast…

Y’know, you get where I’m going. A lot of stuff has happened which forces us to kind of sit up and take stock of the achievements of man. All we have to do now is fix the environment and find an alternative source of fuel, and we’re set as a race. But for four million people tucked down in a sleepy hollow in the South Pacific we’ll always die wondering something.

Wondering just how the hell Don Brash manages to continue to find actual alive women to sleep with him.

He looks like a boring, snooze worthy git who couldn’t inspire a redneck to physically harm a person of minority. But somehow he can manage a steady stream of older ladies to take their knickers off for him. Sad though, that such persuasiveness eluded him on the campaign trail.

His secret is elusive, his power potent.

TV3, that ever-powerful news juggernaut set a crackpot team of gung-ho journalists on the story and failed to provide any real answers. It seems that this to solve this we may have to look to the gods of science. So for now, in the love department, Don Brash sits as our parliament’s JFK, just not as good-looking, personable and handsome. Perplexing.


Wow, Maria Sharapova is good looking. She’s the sort of tennis player that makes tennis administrators happy. Because she’s so damn hot. Did I mention she was pretty? Because she is… I’d just like to kidnap her, take her home and make her do my vacuuming for eight years or so before she gained my trust, I lowered my guard, and she escaped…

I just really enjoy how women’s tennis only really gets any coverage when the hot girls win. Because when that girl who looks like a horse wins, or the gorilla twins take it out, all of a sudden it’s not even the lead story on the fourth page of the sports section. But when the pretty Russian jailbait wins, it’s a front-page link to a whole page spread.


The Dominion Post ran a story about 9/11 children growing up without their Daddys, two days before the actual anniversary. It made me really sick. It seems that the only actual affect in my life of twenty funny looking Islamos flying planes into buildings, is that once a year for about four days reading the paper becomes like trying to watch a really poorly directed Steven Spielberg film. On the 9th, you could hear the violins before you picked up the damn paper.

Seedy shots of nameless brown people ran next to dramatic headlines and pictures of the burning twin-towers. Long in-depth discussions were held about whether we had grieved, how we were affected and whether we could ever move on.

Well the only thing I grieve at this time is the downfall of journalism. The only way I’m ever affected by it is when I read poorly realised coverage, and I’m sure we will be able to move on… if you’d fucking well let us!


Oh, I know you all thought it. And it’s not wrong of me to think that of her. Because the first thing I thought of when I looked at her was “wow, she held up well.” And I think it was rather nice of me. You come out into the new world after being locked away by a strange and evil man: would you rather be pitied or checked out?


“Discovered Rock Not an Asteroid” Well, I mean who am I to call someone stupid, but wouldn’t that make it just a piece of fucking rock? I mean wouldn’t it? Some sort of Bruce Willis world saving blockbuster will probably be required to figure this one out. (Moody shots of Bruce Willis holding up a piece of rock in his hand with a tortured look on his face. “What are you?” He yells in a tortured voice. Armageddon II: The Confusion, coming soon.) I was just puzzled, because it didn’t run with the headline ‘Man Finds Rock’. Which was pretty much all it was. And that’s just not news now is it?

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About the Author ()

ABANDONED AT birth, Casablo was raised on the street, honing a never say die attitude and a taste for the blood of babies and puppies. One day Casablo looked up at the newspaper that had so loyally kept him warm at night and was horrified at what stared back at him, making it his life goal to fight the system in the most horribly ineffectual of ways. When not writing – or pretending to be inebriated – Casablo runs a horribly unsuccessful private detective agency with his crime-fighting partner, Fifi Mimosa.

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