Post Number Twenty

“How Alistair Gets the Dough”

I am still fuming with leftovers of last week’s rage, and the cause of my still-raging fumes is a certain P.R Guy slash former best buddy slash current MORTAL FOE by the name of Alistair Vivekenanda. Oh, I should’ve known better than to socialize with someone who’s been my friend for fourteen years! Because once again the schweinhund has gotten me into the sort’a trouble I almost NEVER get myself into without his help. Remember how I said he made slightly exaggerated claims about me spruiking a book I haven’t even written on a T.V show I haven’t even appeared on? Well, one of those things I hadn’t even done (back when I said that) has become (allegedly) “do-able” now (he said) thanks to Vivekenanda’s underhanded string-pulling. “Somehow” (I say sarcastically) the bastardo got me a spot on that same show– but it was more than just a little harmless “pulling of strings” that saw me thrust head-first into Morning Sun Beams, I can assure you. In order for me to get on the programme I had to “get on” something else first.

Namely, the notorious MORNING SHOW CASTING COUCH!!

In other words, if I was to hawk my wares, there was another “ware” somewhere that had to go through some wear ‘n’ tear first: namely, my DICK. Worst of all, the person I was expected to (shall we say?) “Midnight Cowboy” in the Green Room of the T.V station was one KERRY-ANNE CAUDILLO of “Morning Sun Beams” fame. Heard of her? Well, you should’a! Because she is the oldest living creature– not only on television– but perhaps even On Earth. Some folks have said that she may even be older than Hair. I don’t mean the nineteen-sixties musical– I mean THE STUFF THAT GROWS ON MAMMALS!! (And if you need further scientific proof-of-age, then go to Southern Africa where a team of palaeontologists have recently unearthed some of her Early Poo.)

(NOTE: In case this is being read by an unworldly innocent unaware of the doings in-, on- and around Australian morning T.V here’s a bit of biographical back story.)

For many a lightly-frosted winter, ladies of the Talking Head persuasion had belly-ached about getting boned (though not in a good way) in the prime time of their lives by male television execs who prefer their female stars to be bone-able (this time in a good way) for the good of the ratings. Which meant that old lady talking heads would usually be given the CAROUSEL when they reached a certain vintage (like, I dunno, thirty-two or something). And so– in the same way that the wise old men of the Navajo tribes are banished for committing the crime of Oldness, never to be seen (or smelt) again– so too were the old ladies of the Talking Head Tribe given (roughly) the same rough punishment– and for precisely the same crime.

That is, until the Weathergirl Riots of ’95.

The person who triggered those riots (resulting in seven dead. ‘Though nobody really noticed because they were only sports reporters) was– guess who– KERRY-ANNE CAUDILLO. Of course, the rioters (like they always do) got exactly what they wanted: compassion and understanding (oh, and easy-to-carry electrical goods). Indeed, they got so much compassion and understanding that their chief Rouser of Rabble (Kerry-Anne) was given the highly sought-after Morning Spot– and that wasn’t only on one channel, either. Oh, no. Kerry-Anne Caudillo’s rabble-rousing ways created so much compassion and understanding (and Fear) amongst all the male execs that all of ’em (even the public broadcasters) gave her the same job! Thus it was the first morning show in the nation’s– perhaps even the whole CONTINENT’S– entire history that was not only syndicated in every state, but also on every channel. So the viewing audience for “Morning Sun Beams” was pretty friggin’ big– as it would have to be to fill an equally big Morning Slot.

And that was the same Slot I would soon be strolling into.

The proud owner of the abovementioned Slot gave me her invite through the medium-ship of a certain Vivekenanda schweinhund. He told me that if I really wanted to get on the show then I would have to service Ms. Caudillo’s needs in “special ways”– one of which involved a (quote) “little” (end quote) gift-wrapped package I would have waiting in her Undressing Room when she came back from interviewing a chick lit author (female) and a Piano-Playing Online Puppy (male). Here were my instructions: I should be standing there, clad only in a singlet (AKA “tank top”) and wearing a pretty pink ribbon tied in a bow… TO MY PORK SWORD??


THAT’S not what pretty pink ribbons are for, dammit!!

I registered my resistance (re: this whole unethical casting couch thing) with Vivekenanda, who said:

“Hey, listen. If the chick lit author and the Piano-Playin’ Puppy had t’ fuck her to get on, why shouldn’t you?”

Uh-yep. Once again Ethics had been trumped by Reason. Which, of course, left me no choice. To cut a horror story short, I waited in the room (as per instructions) ’til Kerry-Anne came in. She popped her false fangs in a glass on a coffee table beside The Couch, sat on said couch, prised apart her thighs with a rusty sort of creaking sound and said she wanted my “Roman Nose” to be Roman ’round her Mons Veneris (whatever that meant).

Fast forward to ninety-three torrid seconds later (yes, that’s how long it took her– AND I had a bendy one!) as I discreetly inquired exactly when my interview would happen. That’s when she dropped an absolute BOMB-SHELL– which is what she called her Post Coital Fart. After she dropped that bomb-shell she gave me some devastating news. She said I wouldn’t be appearing on the T.V show I have (according to the billboard) already “appeared” on!

Gasping from shock (and also from the stench of the bomb-shell) I demanded she tell me what this “couch thing” was really all about. She said:

“Stop fussin’, Boy Toy! The dosh t’ pay for your billboard and the new business cards will be in your P.R Guy’s bank tomorrow.”

At this news, I gave out Gasp Number Two. “What ‘new business cards’?” I wheezed. In reply, she handed me one, which said:


You want a little

‘Man for all Seasons’?

Well, I’ve GOT ONE!

And I’ll send him to you


Just phone Big Alistair

for Details.”

Then it gave his mobile number– which I won’t supply ’cause I don’t wan’a drum up any more business for the prick. (I don’t mean my prick… I mean that prick of a P.R Guy who’s paying for all the stuff I didn’t actually want by pimping me off {or “out”… or whatever) to rich old sabre-tooth cougars, with promises of more to cum.)

Well, don’t fret– because I know (more or less) exactly where he lives. And when the time is right I shall hunt him down like a Blind Man’s Labradoodle and use this very same pink ribbon here to STRANGLE HIM DEAD WITH!!

After I’ve untied the thing and gotten it off, that is… grrrr…