It's Frolfing time, bitches

As you look over the vast array of mindless activities that make up the sporting world, you'll see that horse racing is the sport of kings, and golf is the gentleman's game. Try as they might to hide themselves beneath these archaic disguises, I can see right through them. In the 21st century, horse racing is the sport of women and transvestites with large, funny hats; and golf is the fat lesbian's game. Times have changed folks, it's time to get out of the country clubs to where the real action is.

There is a game the real men play. A game that only an elite few are qualified for. It is their sport of leisure, played in their breaks between stopping bullets with their steely gaze and hunting bear purely by pointing at them and saying "down". That game is: Frolf.
I don't know who created the game, nor whether it was in an act of genius, madness, or pure drunkeness, but it would change history forever. My future was sealed in laminated concrete the day those prophetic words were uttered: "you know, we should combine frisbee with golf".

The Game: That's right, Frolf is the spectacular result of a romantic rendezvous involving a Frisbee, some golf clubs, some Barry White and several bottles of wine. Sure the morning after may have been a little awkward as the frisbee spoke not a single word to the golf clubs as they called a cab, but the spawn of that night made up for any regret they may have shared.
The rules of the game are simple. Taking most of its cues from golf, the aim is to get your frisbee from the tee off area - indicated by a concreted area on the ground - into this:

Which is what constitutes "the hole" (only in a purely sybolic sense though, as it is obviously a cage) in as few throws as possible. Now I know there are some of you out there going "pfft, is that it? That's piss easy. I could do that with my testicles on fire". Well, while I don't particularly care what you do with your testicles in your spare time (and if you're female, why you have testicles at all), I cannot help but laugh at your arrogance and niavety. There are many trecherous hazards that will try their darndest to impede your task. Gale force winds, nearby backyards that fence in vicious (possibly mutant) dogs that are just waiting for their chance to maul you and urinate on your frisbee, random people walking through the park, creeks more than willing to swallow your frisbee and refuse to spit it out, and of course who can forget the people sniffing butane on playground equipment and park benches. What an atmosphere!

The Equipment: The is only once piece of equipment you need for the prestigious game of Frolf, and that is of course the frisbee. And there is only one frisbee to have: The Aerobie.

This flying ring is the stuff dreams are made of. At least any flying ring related dreams, of which I can only assume you all - like me - have many. Fashioned from black magic, unicorn blood, and probably some form of rubber and plastic, it is the only apparatus worth having in the no-holds-barred world of frolf if you're serious about competing - the Excalibur of the frolfing world, if you will. If you're not serious and just want to make a fool of yourself, then go steal a hubcap. And beat yourself over the head with it for an hour. Just stay the fuck off our course.

The Location: Do you really think I am going to reveal that to you? Frolf is an exclusive game, and only the most worthy can compete. You will learn the location if us competitors deem you one such worthy person. We have yet to see other people on our course, and so it remains that way we have placed land mines around the course that only we know the locations of. Am I serious? Do you really want to find out? Is turtle wax really made of turtles. Very good questions, now let us ponder the answers...

The Players: These are the elite few, the champions of the field. From different walks of life, we have battled through adversity and fabricated long winded, drama packed origin stories for all of us, so we sound cool. Of course you will not hear these origin stories now, because the level of cool may cause your heads to implode, and don't need something like that resting on my shoulders. Ha! Get it, on my shoulders! Hahaha, oh I kill me. Now after a lengthy hiatus from the Frolfing world due to scheduling conflicts, and an entirely fictional fued between two of the competitors, we're back and better than ever (more likely worse)!

Scott 'The Shaman' Strange

That is me, myself and I, although I do not usually refer to myself in triplicate. Short on height but high on skill (occasionally) I am the one and only frolfer to have not suffered the loss of an Aerobie into the clutches of the dreaded creek, and having just jinxed myself with that statement I shall expect to lose one in the near future. Hell, I won't be surprised if the creek shows up at my front door to requisition it (actually I will, how the hell does a body of water make it all the way to my door? Baffling). Nickname derived from my attemps at using voodoo to enhance my frolfing skill. So far it has only resulted in ressurecting several zombies and cursing a nearby childcare centre. It's a process that involves a lot of fine tuning.

'Tightrope' Tim Vella

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Ever elusive of the camera's lens, some people have suggested that he is nothing more than a ghost of a frolf player long since passed. Admittedly, most of those people are the ones that have been inhaling butane on the swing set for the past hour. Know as tightrope as he is constantly waking the fine line between "highly skilled" and "drug cheat". While there has been no rock solid evidence either way, I shall keep slipping performance enhancing drugs into his food until someone catches him and puts an end to his immoral and unsportsman like behaviour.

'Raging' Ross Warner

Contrary to what this picture might suggest to you, on the course his anger and agression knows no bounds. While this emotional instability can provide an added edge to his game, it also harbours unpredictable results. Seven dogwalkers, three small children (one was fat) and one shifty looking tree have incurred the wrath of a Ross who feels he has suffered an unfair penalty or produced a sub-par throw. But as they were far to honoured to have been physically assaulted by frolfing royalty, not chargers were laid.

Brendan 'Mad Dog' Murdoch

The wildcard of the bunch. An enigma, wrapped in a t-shirt and shorts, holding a frisbee. Calm and collected one second, firing a shotgun into the air the next (where the shotgun came from, nobody knows). This unpredictability is probably what has made him the most frequent winner. Either that or he made a deal with the devil. Oddly enough though, the nickname has nothing to do with his wild nature though. Instead originating from the time he unexpectedly mauled a passer by in the middle of a game. But after we pushed the injured man into the creek and made him get his rabies shot, many laughs were had.

Hayden 'Hangman' Brake

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The newbie of the group. The amatuer, he's green as grass and needs to step up and prove to us that we haven't made a mistake allowing him join the league. With his first game tomorrow, his entire frolfing future is about to be judged, with us taunting and mocking him all the way. If he performs well, there will be rapturous applause, high fives and possibly the gift of a Chupa-Chup. If he fails he gets hanged from a tree (hence the nickname). Hey, frolf is a cut throat game, and he knows the risk he's getting himself into...actually we haven't told him, but i'm sure he'll be cool with it.


Well that's it folks, I have enlightened your lives by educating you on the wonderful world of frolf (not to be confused with Disney, although that's a pretty hard mistake to make. Seriously, how stupid are you?). Now I shall let you all sit back in envy, as we refuse to allow you to play. So we're frolf snobs, deal with it.

Even the undead need to exercise

People, the moment you have all been waiting for has arrived! It's time to put a stop to those pesky heart beats, develop a good case of rigor mortis and open up some of those good old-fashioned gangrenous flesh wounds. It is time for THE FIRST ANNUAL BRISBANE ZOMBIE WALK!!!

I know what you people are like. I know many of you sleep contently in your beds at night, your minds filled with dreams of living the glamourous zombie lifestyle: You shuffle mindlessly down the deserted road of a nameless suburban city as tumbleweeds and newspaper blow across your path, yet the decaying flesh peeling from your face remains oddly still. You chuckle to yourself inside your slightly functioning zombie mind, happy in the knowledge that you zombies do not conform to the mere pressures of north-westerly gale-force winds. Your zombie bretheren surround you as you continue along the road without direction, seeing as the earlier game of rock, paper, scissors had cause the loss of too many decomposed hands. Suddenly you here a noise from a nearby alleyway, and the scent of delicious human wafts into where you nose used to be before it fell off. You and your zombie clan turn to each other - the head falling off one who tried to pivot far to enthusiastically - and you moan and grunt directions at each other. After realising that none of you actually understand the meaning of the incoherent noises, you progress towards the alley anyway, just in time to see a small group cliched human stereotypes come racing out. You limp after the sprinting humans without quickening your plodding pace and, despite the protests made by the laws of physics, you continue to steadily gain on them. You get closer, closer to your goal of cracking open their skulls and feasting on the gooey mess inside. You are so close you can almost taste, and then...
...and then you wake up. Your dreams of undead happiness dashed by that cursed alarm clock. Yet the hunger for brains still lingers...You meander down the stairs, moaning as you wipe the sleep out of your eyes. Your significant other is already in the kitchen, and they smile at you as you enter, "you seemed to be enjoying the dream you were having an awful lot". Suddenly you are seeing them in a whole new light, and you cannot take your eyes off their head. You are inexplicably drawn to it, the thought of it's contents . They notice you staring and start feeling self conscious. "Oh, umm..." you struggle for a feeble cover story, "your hair looks nice this morning". The worried look is immediately replaced by another smile "Well, thankyou. Now what would you like for breakfast?" A grin creeps across your face as you pull a meat tenderiser out of the drawer.....

As I said, I know what you're all like, and you're creepy as all hell you cannibalistic bastards!! I'm most certainly not inviting you to any of my tupperware parties, that's for sure. But this zombie walk is for you twisted people to have your chance to get out that fancy zombie attire you've been saving for that special occasion and wander yourselves around the Brisbane CBD. The devouring of peoples brains is optional.
As for me, I am unsure if i will be participating. Being the perfectionist I am, the only way I would take part is if I was actually brutally slain and subsequently ressurected. It's called Method Acting, bitches!

The dangers of phenanigib

Phenanigib (n): The act of committing shenanigans while intoxicated.

Everyone loves to have a social drink or two, or three, or several dozen. Or at least most people do, I suppose recovering alcoholics probably wouldn't (or maybe they'd just enjoy it a little too much). Regardless, you must take heed of my warnings my friends, as I have come to warn you of the consequences of when phenanigib goes wrong.
Now I wholeheartedly respect phenanigib, and it can be a thoroughly enjoyable part of any drunken evening, but if an evening leads to entirely unexpected and impromptu phenanigib the results can be disastrous. So sit down in front of the campfire and prepare your marshmallows and various small mammals for roasting, as I tell you a cautionary tale for the ages...

The story begins on a fine Saturday just passed, where a plan to head up to the Sunshine Coast for some dinner on the beach with my mate, his girlfriend and a couple of her friends was in place. Sounds splendid doesn't it? Beach & food, what a combination. We also thought that we might split a six-pack of beers between us. Still sounding pretty good isn't it? A few relaxing beers and just hanging out on a beach listening to the sound of the ocean, the makings of a top evening. All we had to do was meet up with another one of our mates beforehand as he was to come along also. Now here's where the tide began to turn. Upon meeting him at his work, a workmate of his was added to our group also, and suddenly the idea of getting a six-pack suddenly changed to "how 'bout we split a carton?" Somehow none of us saw anything illogical in that concept, so a pilgrimage to a bottle shop was made and the money-for-beer transaction was done. Now, with all of us males now drinking it was left to the girls to drive, one of them behind the wheel of my mates car. What were we thinking to have these girls now chauffering us when these beer drinking plans had arisen out of nowhere? Well I think it's obvious that we weren't, the beer was already affecting our brains without even needing to ingest any of it.

So we ventured to the beach, we ate our food, and we consumed our beers (probably too quickly for anyone's own good). By the end of this the sun had set and us mere males had reached a state of mild intoxication. Now this is the portion of the story where it would have been just splendid if someone, anyone, had been willing to pipe up with an "ok, let's head home now", but sadly it seemed that kind of rational decision making was beyond any of us. Instead we decided to head to my mates house on the coast to hang out for a while. This would have been a fine end to the night if not for the next thing, which sealed the fates of all involved. With the two cars driving off, one full of the three guys besides myself and my mates girlfriend, the second with me and the other two girls. Then can number one turned off the road, and it dawned on me immediately where it was going. As the girls questioned "where are they going?" all I could respond with was "oh dear god, they're going to the bottle shop to get another carton." It was all over from there. Sure we should have been about to stop ourselves, but our already alcohol-induced lack of self control combined with what horrible influences we are on each other when together pretty much made that an impossibility.
From this point on more alcohol was consumed, and much phenanigib ensued, and listing it all would take more time than I have. It's not to say we did anything particularly bad, it was just your typical stupid drunken antics. But if I put myself in the position of 3 sober girls, I'm almost certain they become far more annoying. Especially when - although everytime we asked they denied it - I have a feeling they wanted to be gone (and i think they had envisioned their night ending in some kind of girls' night for them). The one defence I can mount is that we repeatedly said to them "Do you want to leave? Just say the word and we're out of here. And remember, give the honest answer, not the polite answer that you think we want to hear." And we meant it too. There's nothing more annoying than asking a girl something looking for an honest answer only to receive whatever answer they think you want (which usually later ends in the female getting mad at you at a later point for not being able to read her mind). In fact if there was ever any relationship advice I could give to a girl, it would be to not do that.

All in all though, apart from the fact that we caused 3 girls to most likely start plotting our deaths, or at least make voodoo dolls of us to be used as some form of supernatural retribution, we couldn't help but enjoy ourselves that night (and for the record my mates girlfriend claimed she wasn't mad at him that night and said she was sorry if it had seemed that way, but can you ever be sure if it's true?). That's not too say we didn't feel guilty about it the next morning. Oh dear god did we feel guilty. Quite frankly we found it horrifically amusing. If it was something that had happened to anyone else it would have just been a dose of good, old-fashioned hilarity. But as we were the stars of this terrible/comical farce, we were simultaneously laughing as we remember dodginess after dodginess, while at the same time being on the verge of breaking down at what horrible people we were. That's the thing with phenanigib though, while the morning after may bring interesting developments, it is always fun at the time. Always.

And my apologies do go out to the girls, who I am currently hiding from under the safety of my bed, armed with nothing more than a loaf of bread (I have no clue on how to defend myself). Hahaha, man how they must hate us...

An uneventful tale of non-existent proportions

All you astute readers out there (read: no one) may have noticed that it has been a while between posts for me. I know the questions must be racing through your head like the roadrunner on speed: "was he kidnapped?", "should I be watching the news for reports of his mutilated body being discovered in a field of barley?", "if I'm supposed to believe it's not butter, then what the fuck is it?". Well calm down you inquisitive youngsters, those kind of questions are going to wind up getting you killed.
Truth be told, the lack of posting has been due to a lack of anything to post about. I live a boring life, as opposed to an exciting death which, according to Corpse Bride, is a distinct possibility. I mean if animated movies aren't factual documentaries to guide your existince, then I don't know what they are.
I don't know why people would ever dream of living a life where they just stay home all day and not work, it really is the most dull and unfulfilling existance. Sure it's fine for a couple of weeks, when it's holidays from something like uni or work, that you know you will eventually have to go back to. In that situation you actually appreciate the free time. But when you're done with uni and your continual job search remains unsuccessful, the novelty of sitting around twiddling your thumbs and whistling a jaunty tune just wears off. Yes, I get to sleep in every morning, but it has reached the point where I do it purely because if I wake up earlier it just leaves me with more time with nothing to do. The lack of money that goes hand in hand with the whole lack of job thing certainly doesn't help. As if I want to keep getting money off Centrelink the whole time. Call me crazy but I actually want to do something to earn me some gold dubloons, or possibly a currency that is more widely accepted throughout Australia.
That be the downside of doing a degree that doesn't lead you straight into a job though, and attempting to get into an industry where virtually every job asks for at least 2 years experience, experience I can't get cause no one will hire me. Talk about a bloody catch 22, damn hippies. Yes all businesses are run by hippies, it makes perfect sense and is not an oxymoron what so ever.

Anyways, now that I am done with my rant about having a completely uninteresting life, I shall move on. This coming Friday I am going to an Alkaline Trio gig, which should be good. Sadly though, they are one of those bands I like that will undoubtedly attract the tried and true crowd of sad little tryhard emo/goths (they are more of a punk band really, but there's that side to them. I just like the music, fuck the image) with their carefully applied eyeliner tears, styled hair treated with black Loreal hair dye, and their diverse appreciation of the colour spectrum showcased by their clothing in various shades of black. What a display of angst it will be, and personally I can't wait...to do my best to avoid them. I do like to challenge myself after all.