Archive for March, 2013

Getting To The Bottom Of Things

Every so often people ask me if it’s true – all the stuff I write about, about my amazing ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time – or just to be doing the wrong thing.

My answer is always the same: come and live with me. See for yourself. Although you might end up regretting it…

Case in point. I decided to get the wife to film me, sneakily, as I went to get my colonic irrigation. Why? Well, why not? I knew the people there would refuse to let me if I asked, so I went ahead and did it anyway.

And suffice to say, it wasn’t pretty.

But that’s not the strange part.

Oh, no!

What’s stranger than a grown man being filmed whilst enduring a rectal invasion paid for by his sister?

Well, it started like any other day. We stopped at the pharmacy to pick up our malaria pills, and there happened to be a special promotion on a product that seemed disturbingly appropriate:

Anusol

No, I don’t know what it does either. But I can guess where it goes.

So, on to the Perth Colon Wellness Centre, where I planned on having gallons of water pumping into my areshole. Just for, you know, shits and giggles…

So the lady behind the desk was very nice. She got me to fill out all the paperwork, and sign a disclaimer informing me that “I am responsible for the insertion of my own rectal tube”.

I was quite relived about that.

Colonic Disclaimer

Then I was shown into the room with a big plastic bed, designed to keep you in a position most familiar to women who have given birth. I was shown the pumping apparatus. It was all very scientific.

Then I was given a lollypop stick full of anal lube, and left alone to apply it.

Awkward – especially with the wife not only watching, but actually filming the process (discreetly, of course) – but I managed, and hopped up onto the machine.

Then I very gently, very, very gingerly – pushed the probe into my bottom.

Apparently I made some odd faces during the process… but luckily I’ve decided to spare you all from the sight of such things. You lucky, lucky people!

making facespre colonic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anyway, the nice lady wandered back into the room and turned on the water. At this point was braced for anything from a tickle to agonizing pain – but felt nothing. Nothing. I told the lady – so she twisted the valve a little further.

And was rewarded with a face full of bum-water!

“Ugh!” she moaned, recoiling from the spray.

“Is that… supposed to happen?” I asked.

“Ugh! No!” she said, wiping her face on her sleeve. “It must be… broken!”

And it was.

“I didn’t do anything, I promise!”

“No, it’s okay. The lady before you has MS. I think she might have kicked it.”

She put her hands between my legs, and fiddled with my nozzle.

“Yes, your nozzle is broken, I’m afraid.”

I guess there could have been worse news. “Oh. So is it fixable?” I tried to keep the hope out of my voice. Couldn’t have her think I was actually terrified of having this done.

“I think we can fix it,” she said. “Hang on. I’ll just get Gerry.”

She nipped back to the front desk, and suddenly there were two of them, stood “oohing” and “ahhing”, as I lay there, legs akimbo, arse in the air.

“Have you had a look at it?” Gerry asked – presumably referring to the broken nozzle, rather than my exposed undercarriage.

“Oh yes,” came the reply – and then both of them had their hands down there, tugging back and forth on something, up to their elbows in the trough between my knees.

At least ‘Gerry’ was another lady. I half expected some paunchy, bearded maintenance bloke in steel toe-cap boots to come and have a rummage beneath my towel.

“We’ll just get you to hop off,” said Gerry. “We’ll leave you in privacy, of course…”

And the two women disappeared, allowing me the small mercy of de-impaling myself with only my wife watching. I can’t decide who had the more disgusted look on their face – her, or me.

We retired to a small adjoining lounge to wait, while the two women re-emerged armed with a variety of adjustable spanners and wrenches.

“Do you need a hand there?” I offered.

“Well, yes, actually…”

And so it came to pass that I spent the better part of an hour on my back underneath the shit-sucking machine, attacking the underside with a pair of spanners.

Me fixing colonic irrigation machineMe fixing colonic irrigation machine 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me fixing colonic irrigation machine 3

Roo works on machine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poor Roo ended up there too – just as the staff had given up, and were on the phone to Jim the repair man – the faulty nozzle gave, and came out of the machine. I screwed a new one into place, and hey, presto! Fixed.

I was rather proud of myself, in a smug, masculine kind of way.

Until the ladies reminded me that now I could get back onto the thing.

And they left me another lolly-stick of lube…

Thankfully, the rest of the procedure went as planned.

Apart from the bit where, just as I was thinking ‘Thank the Goddess, it’s nearly done-“ – they returned to demonstrate their gratitude for my patience and assistance – by giving me an extra-long session.

Oh MAN, was my colon cleansed by the time that was done!

And for those brave (but foolhardy) few who have ventured thus far throughout my narrative – as kind of a reward/punishment…

Well, you’ve got to be curious, right?

I know I was.

So here it is – the (carefully edited) footage.

Of me.

Having what little remains of my dignity well and truly stripped away.

So to speak.

Enjoy!

:0)

VIDEO BLOG!!!

Yes folks, here it is – my first ever video blog! Please don’t judge it too harshly – I feel like a proper plonker as it is, just from talking to the camera. You know when I said I was crap at acting? Well, I wasn’t lying… I hate seeing myself on film. Partially because my nose is bigger than most peoples… um, noses… and… well, other things. But before I put you off with too much whining, go ahead – check it out!

Please do let me know what you thought of it in the comments!

All the best,

Tony

My-Grain Headache

As some of you may know, a few weeks ago I did the unthinkable; I turned traitor. Yes, folks, I broke my solemn vow, taken at the end of 2009, to never again work for anyone else – and I got a real job.

Well, kind of.

In my defence I’d like to say that, firstly, I thought it was a voluntary position when I applied for it, and secondly – they’re paying me a shitload of cash for the privilege!

Now, you could be forgiven for wondering, just what it is that I do at this job.

As it happens, I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.

I’ve been working on the show for three weeks so far, and I still haven’t got a clue what I’m doing. But it does seem to involve a lot of rice.

The Rice Show

Basically, I’ve been hired to be part of the art installation ‘Of All The People In All The World’, created by British theatre company Stan’s Café. Quite how I landed a job as an artist is a matter of debate. I’d just like to point out that at no point was I required to sleep with anyone. For any reason. Unfortunately.

So this is what happens: we use one grain of rice to represent one person (whether it be you, the Prime Minister, or Michael Jackson). Then we build up piles of rice to show off different numbers – the population of Australia, for example, is represented by a large mound containing twenty-two million grains of rice!

It’s very nearly as big as the pile representing all the registered gamers of World of Warcraft

Big Pile Of RiceIt’s this kind of juxtaposition of different statistics which makes the show what it is. Once you can see a hundred million of something in one place – and with a grain of rice in your hand as ‘you’ for comparison purposes – you can actually understand something about the scale of these numbers. Otherwise, I find any number containing a big string of zeroes to be a sort of abstract concept. I hear it, on the news for example: ten million people… blah blah blah… and I think to myself, “Wow, that sounds like a lot.” But without the ability to visualise it, a number that big doesn’t really have much meaning to me. Now, after not only seeing ten million grains of rice in one place, but actually counting the damn stuff out – I can fully appreciate how big these numbers are.

I can honestly say – they’re really, really big.

Maybe even bigger.

So, I pour rice. I started off by carrying and stacking sacks of it (which weighed 25kg each) – in assorted pyramid shapes to form the largest piles of the exhibition. It was bloody hard work, and I sweated so much I decided to wear underpants the following day. So it didn’t look quite so much like I’d pissed my pants, y’see.

Pyramid of rice sacksEight hundred and six million grains of rice.

And no, I didn’t count them one at a time…

I counted the bags though. 348 of the buggers! And one trip to the chiropractor, to get my spine to bend the right way again afterwards. It’s been through so much, it’s got more kinks than my Dad’s CD collection.

Anyway. With the stacking and the pouring mostly taken care of, my job has devolved to that of a sweeper. I constantly roam the piles, seeking out dust and dirt to remove (as no-one wants to get a face full of fluff when they crouch down to appreciate the number of people who had plastic surgery last year).

I hunt spiders; I talk to the public, explaining why they would benefit from spending half the day staring at huge piles of rice. I occasionally caution a bad-mannered child, or tackle a drunk who is convinced that underneath our rice is the only place he can hide from the government helicopters…

But most of all, I walk around and around the hall, approaching pile after glistening pile of rice – and sweeping away all the pubic hairs.

Pubic Hair On Rice

Pubic Hair On Rice: Not even popular in Asia…

Yes! Where the hell do they come from? Well, to be honest I’d rather not know. But someone is distributing them, fairly evenly, around the entire exhibition – day after day after day! They’re short, black and curly (the hairs, I mean) – and any more than that, I shall not say.

Other than to wonder – to marvel, really – at how this can possibly happen, in the middle of a wide-open public space, without anyone noticing.

But if you’re reading this, and it’s you that’s doing it – please, please bugger off! Or at least, go trim yourself in the privacy of your own home. And dispose of the evidence in a similar fashion.

Because I don’t care what anyone says – it’s just not art.

I also remove footprints from the otherwise pristine white paper on which the rice piles are placed. No-one ever walks on it while I’m looking, but every bugger in the place must be tap-dancing on the stuff as soon as my back is turned, given how many footprints I get rid of every day. For this task I use my trusty eraser – and I can honestly say I haven’t done so much rubbing out since I worked as an assassin for the British government.

What? No, I mean… um, let’s just forget I said that.

[PICTURE ‘Tony-mid-assassination/uploads/facebook.jpg’ HAS BEEN BLOCKED BY THE OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR GENERAL]

We (by this I mean, my fellow pube-sweepers and I) get asked a variety of questions each day, but there are some that crop up fairly regularly. Like: “What do you do with the rice afterwards?”

The answer, of course, is that giant betentacled robots descend from the heavens and annihilate it with bolts of pure anti-rice from their navel-lasers. Oh, but we get to eat any bits that they miss.

We also get asked, “Has anyone ever taken a running jump into the rice?”

The answer, of course, is “No, of course no-ooOOOOOOOOO!”

*CRUNCH*

Because a four-year-old child had chosen that precise moment to do just that.

And so, out came the brushes.

Luckily enough he didn’t dive head-first – because, as I have a habit of pointing out to people considering it, rice is actually quite dense. Not to mention, most of the piles are cunningly constructed from those fully-packed 25kg sacks, with just enough loose rice drizzled over the top to maintain the illusion. So, diving into one of our piles is rather similar to diving into a large pile of bricks.

But no damage this time. Other than to the OAP population of Europe, which took a beating… I’ve never seen pensioners move so fast. The culprit survived with a vicious tongue-lashing from his mother. His friend, nearby, was distinctly unimpressed.

Disinterested Boy

Working on the show has also given me chance to ponder many of the more sobering statistics we showcase. Like how each day, nearly twice as many people are born in the world as die in it – making it disturbingly obvious just where the our population is headed.

And then there’s the positives; like when weighing out 3,327 grams of rice to represent the planet’s 200,000-person population increase since yesterday (scary, eh?!) – I had a ‘YES!’ moment.

I opened a sack and tipped a load onto the scales – only to get it exactly right, to the grain! In one go!

I looked around in excitement for someone to share my triumph with – only to discover that no-one was watching.

And even if they had been, they still wouldn’t give a shit.

But it made me very happy nonetheless.

And on that note, I shall leave you with a couple more pictures of Megan Fox naked. No? Really? Sorry, my mistake. That’ll be more pictures of piles of rice then… you lucky, lucky people!

And please, use the comments box to exercise your very best rice-based puns, because I hear so few of them. Go on – I dare you!

:0)

 

Rice Show Religious ControversyDunno if you can make this one out, but it’s a fascinating insight into the nature of religion in Australia. In that, the sixth largest religion (according to the Census) – is Jedi. Both Roo and I are in that pile…

Rice Show China

Yet More Big Piles Of Rice at The Rice Show