The thing about rants is that, by nature, they are never very concise or even conclusive. They are more like instances of un-constructed thought, spewing forth with no desire to persuade their audience of anything, but to simply introduce themselves as theories and not-so-well-thought-out assumptions. A rant is more than often a brief attempt at expressing an emotional reaction in its 'raw' form, and due to the previously stated nature of rants you end up with opinions thrown in your face and nothing to support said opinions.
"I HATE EVERYTHING!" - Ranty Ranterson
Well, that's nice, Ranty. But, would you care to explain as to why you hate everything? Perhaps we could gain some insight or perspective on the matter if you took the time to enlighten your audience. If you're not willing to communicate then I'm sorry, but, you'll just have to go on being misunderstood and thus 'hate everything' because everything thinks you're an illogical fuckwit without a leg to stand on. Perhaps if you'd stop being such a self-centred cock-faced jerk for a few seconds you could stop, look around, think, and realise that maybe you don't actually hate everything, and in fact you are just manifesting your own narcissistic insecurities onto the world around you.
FUCK YOU RANTY!
Monday, March 23, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Concise, conclusive.
Do you ever get the feeling that you're amazingly self centered and that you're too often only seeking to benefit yourself? I don't.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Everybody needs good neighbours.
March 1st, 2009: The Day Carrington Street Stood Still
Well, to more accurately describe the situation, it was more like the day that Carrington Street residents stood out on their front lawns intently watching an ever escalating domestic dispute.
At approximately 02:00PM on March the 1st, the sound of one screeching tire could be heard as an unidentified red car bearing no license plates or badges made it way quite slowly and unimpressively down Carrington Street. I quickly recognised the sound as what the locals referred to as a ‘burn out’ and hurried to my front door anticipating some much desired excitement. But, to my dismay the attempted ‘burn out’ had resulted in only one of the back tires spinning in a ball of refreshing smoke, the other back tire just quietly making its way around at an awkward pace.
After making its way about fifty or so metres down the road the car span around and came to a complete stop, the engine had died and each of the first five attempts at turning the engine over had proved as futile as the last. A man from a nearby house came rushing towards the car and gave an encouraging “You’re fucked, mate!” as he hurtled out onto the road. It appeared at first as though he was trying to help the man in the car, from my vantage point it seemed as though he was pushing the car in an attempt to get a rolling start, but I quickly remembered that you don’t usually get a running start in reverse and then keep driving in reverse for quite some distance. The driver of the vehicle eventually stopped in the middle of the road then casually drove away.
I had first intended to take down the appearance of the car and perhaps its license plate, and report them to the proper authorities. I had entertained fantasies of award ceremonies involving myself being awarded a medal of honour by the Chief of Chief’s, Sergeant Chiefy Chief. I would be heralded as a hero, bringing to justice ‘burn out’ junkies, drug lords and murders alike. Upon noticing nothing of a majorly descriptive nature about the car, especially the lack of any registration, my fantasies quickly diminished into nothing more than wishing I was at least wearing pants. I sat back down at my rickety old chair and thought nothing more of the obtuse lives of my primitive neighbours.
03:00PM (approximately) rolls around and again a noise from the street captures my ever shortening attention. This time the noise was a gang* of local rapscallions, drinking excessively as they leisurely walk from street to street marauding garbage bins and generally disturbing the peace. At first I had assumed the young gentlemen had wandered their way from a nearby bowling club, merely lost in a haze of self-satisfaction, but it quickly became clear to me that it had been no coincidence that they should stumble upon my humble street. After several minutes of unarticulated slander, I began to notice that these men were in fact directing their attention, along with their insults, to one unit in particular.
In my naivety, I had hoped the men would ultimately become jaded with their ostensibly futile attempts to create some kind of conflict with the inhabitants of the unit. As fate, or more likely stupidity, would have it, the inhabitants of this particular unit were not entirely satisfied with letting these obvious drunkards escape the scene without first giving them a piece of their mind. “Have another drink, faggot” still reiterates through my cranium with a flow of gentle sophistication. Such riposte from their foes only infuriated the scholars of intoxication, and in an enraged manner they demanded a duel of physical nature. Inside the house their existed only one male (who we will call Steve) and knowing he was surely outnumbered and that these men were in no mood for a fair fight, he swiftly declined their proposition.
More elegant insults echoed through the ether for several minutes to come. The men outside wandered back and forth between their own home and Steve’s, consuming more alcohol and yelling inanely. Two gentlemen returned, one shirtless and bearing the wounds of a previous engagement (a broken arm), the other seemingly indifferent to what was happening in his timeless, yet stylish, loose singlet and ever trendy sunglasses. As the shirtless man aimlessly taunted Steve with his thought provoking insults, he appeared to briefly experience an epiphany, before yelling “I know where you live, I know where you work. See you at work tomorrow, mother fucker!” and then he heedlessly walked away with his more clothed accomplice, hopefully never to be seen again.
A few minutes of silence passed as the neighbourhood breathed a heavy sigh of relief, the feud had dissolved and a distinct feeling of safety began to wash over me. All of a sudden, like a big watery punch in the face, I was hit with a wave of intense fear. A third man had appeared, screaming as he strode his way hastily towards the domicile, his intent was as obvious as his range and intoxication. He made his way onto the front ‘porch’ of his victims house and began cleverly beating the door and calming asking the man to please exit the building, “Get the fuck out here, you mother fucker!” Again, Steve denied the request. At this point the assertion that Steve was in fact a “pussy” was made and the questioning of his true gender arose.
After futile attempts at opening the door with his fists the third man made his way around to a large window on the side of the house and started to employ a similar technique of entry. By this time the shirtless man and another unidentifiable man had returned to the premises and were hurling objects towards the house. Before long the third man cracked, he’d had enough of these ridiculous barriers keeping him from his victim and in a moment of true drunken genius he struck the window with the full intent of smashing his way, Hulk style, through that shit. Now contrary to what many people under the influence of alcohol think, they are in fact not impervious to harm, danger, pain or even death.
A loud crash was heard as his first entered into private property, and as soon as he’d hastily made the decision, it was apparent that, guy number three regretted it. “CALL A FUCKING AMBULANCE!” was the first thing to exit the man’s mouth as he headed for the stairs, passing shirtless guy on the way, he hurtled down the stairs with such tenacity that he was unable to keep his balance and fell to the ground landing on his newly injured arm. As he, and unidentifiable man, made ineffective attempts to tourniquet the arm with a shirt, shirtless man (in no need of a shirt at all) more effectively opened the window, climbed into the house and proceeded to attack its occupants.
In my deluded state of bravery I left my post at the front door and headed straight to my bedroom where I proceeded to clothe myself in the most appropriate way possible. After doing so, I cautiously made my way out onto the front lawn as a man across the road did the same. Because of my temporary leave from my post I was uncertain how many people entered the house and where the third man, now seriously injured, had escaped to (though the blood trail through my complex sort of gave it away). A female in the house had made her way onto the balcony where she was, assumedly, on the phone to the police as she screamed coherently into her mobile telephone. Like moths to the flame, slowly the neighbourhood began to congregate on lawns and footpaths; apparently I had not been the only unsuspecting witness.
Three squad cars, two ambulances and one severed main artery later and I had been informed that our glass breaking fiend had not made it far before passing out in some bushes nigh on 100 metres from my house. He had he had sustained quite a lot of blood loss after performing his questionable method of entry and most of it ended up on a neighbourhood car. He was stretchered up and carted away to the Queanbeyan Hospital for the Drunk and Disorderly (QHDD).
The police felt it necessary to tape off our entire complex, making it impossible for any of the residents to move their cars, and hang around overnight possibly for some kind of surveillance. The SES showed up at 09:00PM and decided it would be just fantastic to light up the house with flood lights, powered by the world’s most industrial strength noise maker 5000 generators and then stand around smoking in their well lit environment. Just another average day in Queanbeyan...
*At first it appeared as though there were four men, three of them resinate clearly in my mind, though one eludes me.
More photos of the car:
Photo One
Photo Two
Photo Three
Well, to more accurately describe the situation, it was more like the day that Carrington Street residents stood out on their front lawns intently watching an ever escalating domestic dispute.
At approximately 02:00PM on March the 1st, the sound of one screeching tire could be heard as an unidentified red car bearing no license plates or badges made it way quite slowly and unimpressively down Carrington Street. I quickly recognised the sound as what the locals referred to as a ‘burn out’ and hurried to my front door anticipating some much desired excitement. But, to my dismay the attempted ‘burn out’ had resulted in only one of the back tires spinning in a ball of refreshing smoke, the other back tire just quietly making its way around at an awkward pace.
After making its way about fifty or so metres down the road the car span around and came to a complete stop, the engine had died and each of the first five attempts at turning the engine over had proved as futile as the last. A man from a nearby house came rushing towards the car and gave an encouraging “You’re fucked, mate!” as he hurtled out onto the road. It appeared at first as though he was trying to help the man in the car, from my vantage point it seemed as though he was pushing the car in an attempt to get a rolling start, but I quickly remembered that you don’t usually get a running start in reverse and then keep driving in reverse for quite some distance. The driver of the vehicle eventually stopped in the middle of the road then casually drove away.
I had first intended to take down the appearance of the car and perhaps its license plate, and report them to the proper authorities. I had entertained fantasies of award ceremonies involving myself being awarded a medal of honour by the Chief of Chief’s, Sergeant Chiefy Chief. I would be heralded as a hero, bringing to justice ‘burn out’ junkies, drug lords and murders alike. Upon noticing nothing of a majorly descriptive nature about the car, especially the lack of any registration, my fantasies quickly diminished into nothing more than wishing I was at least wearing pants. I sat back down at my rickety old chair and thought nothing more of the obtuse lives of my primitive neighbours.
03:00PM (approximately) rolls around and again a noise from the street captures my ever shortening attention. This time the noise was a gang* of local rapscallions, drinking excessively as they leisurely walk from street to street marauding garbage bins and generally disturbing the peace. At first I had assumed the young gentlemen had wandered their way from a nearby bowling club, merely lost in a haze of self-satisfaction, but it quickly became clear to me that it had been no coincidence that they should stumble upon my humble street. After several minutes of unarticulated slander, I began to notice that these men were in fact directing their attention, along with their insults, to one unit in particular.
In my naivety, I had hoped the men would ultimately become jaded with their ostensibly futile attempts to create some kind of conflict with the inhabitants of the unit. As fate, or more likely stupidity, would have it, the inhabitants of this particular unit were not entirely satisfied with letting these obvious drunkards escape the scene without first giving them a piece of their mind. “Have another drink, faggot” still reiterates through my cranium with a flow of gentle sophistication. Such riposte from their foes only infuriated the scholars of intoxication, and in an enraged manner they demanded a duel of physical nature. Inside the house their existed only one male (who we will call Steve) and knowing he was surely outnumbered and that these men were in no mood for a fair fight, he swiftly declined their proposition.
More elegant insults echoed through the ether for several minutes to come. The men outside wandered back and forth between their own home and Steve’s, consuming more alcohol and yelling inanely. Two gentlemen returned, one shirtless and bearing the wounds of a previous engagement (a broken arm), the other seemingly indifferent to what was happening in his timeless, yet stylish, loose singlet and ever trendy sunglasses. As the shirtless man aimlessly taunted Steve with his thought provoking insults, he appeared to briefly experience an epiphany, before yelling “I know where you live, I know where you work. See you at work tomorrow, mother fucker!” and then he heedlessly walked away with his more clothed accomplice, hopefully never to be seen again.
A few minutes of silence passed as the neighbourhood breathed a heavy sigh of relief, the feud had dissolved and a distinct feeling of safety began to wash over me. All of a sudden, like a big watery punch in the face, I was hit with a wave of intense fear. A third man had appeared, screaming as he strode his way hastily towards the domicile, his intent was as obvious as his range and intoxication. He made his way onto the front ‘porch’ of his victims house and began cleverly beating the door and calming asking the man to please exit the building, “Get the fuck out here, you mother fucker!” Again, Steve denied the request. At this point the assertion that Steve was in fact a “pussy” was made and the questioning of his true gender arose.
After futile attempts at opening the door with his fists the third man made his way around to a large window on the side of the house and started to employ a similar technique of entry. By this time the shirtless man and another unidentifiable man had returned to the premises and were hurling objects towards the house. Before long the third man cracked, he’d had enough of these ridiculous barriers keeping him from his victim and in a moment of true drunken genius he struck the window with the full intent of smashing his way, Hulk style, through that shit. Now contrary to what many people under the influence of alcohol think, they are in fact not impervious to harm, danger, pain or even death.
A loud crash was heard as his first entered into private property, and as soon as he’d hastily made the decision, it was apparent that, guy number three regretted it. “CALL A FUCKING AMBULANCE!” was the first thing to exit the man’s mouth as he headed for the stairs, passing shirtless guy on the way, he hurtled down the stairs with such tenacity that he was unable to keep his balance and fell to the ground landing on his newly injured arm. As he, and unidentifiable man, made ineffective attempts to tourniquet the arm with a shirt, shirtless man (in no need of a shirt at all) more effectively opened the window, climbed into the house and proceeded to attack its occupants.
In my deluded state of bravery I left my post at the front door and headed straight to my bedroom where I proceeded to clothe myself in the most appropriate way possible. After doing so, I cautiously made my way out onto the front lawn as a man across the road did the same. Because of my temporary leave from my post I was uncertain how many people entered the house and where the third man, now seriously injured, had escaped to (though the blood trail through my complex sort of gave it away). A female in the house had made her way onto the balcony where she was, assumedly, on the phone to the police as she screamed coherently into her mobile telephone. Like moths to the flame, slowly the neighbourhood began to congregate on lawns and footpaths; apparently I had not been the only unsuspecting witness.
Three squad cars, two ambulances and one severed main artery later and I had been informed that our glass breaking fiend had not made it far before passing out in some bushes nigh on 100 metres from my house. He had he had sustained quite a lot of blood loss after performing his questionable method of entry and most of it ended up on a neighbourhood car. He was stretchered up and carted away to the Queanbeyan Hospital for the Drunk and Disorderly (QHDD).
The police felt it necessary to tape off our entire complex, making it impossible for any of the residents to move their cars, and hang around overnight possibly for some kind of surveillance. The SES showed up at 09:00PM and decided it would be just fantastic to light up the house with flood lights, powered by the world’s most industrial strength noise maker 5000 generators and then stand around smoking in their well lit environment. Just another average day in Queanbeyan...
*At first it appeared as though there were four men, three of them resinate clearly in my mind, though one eludes me.
More photos of the car:
Photo One
Photo Two
Photo Three
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