• one dead goldfish
• four towels covered in blood
• fingerless gloves
• a broken stair banister
• a toothpaste penis on the bathroom wall
• vomit splashes on the cupboard doors
• the garage door no longer opens
• someone drank half my vodka
• my birthday book got stolen
• somebody pooped in our bin



If you haven’t checked out ChatRoulette, I highly recommend it. This kept me and my housemate entertained for no less than 2 hours during last Saturday’s never-ending downpour and at first I was embarrassed to be talking to complete strangers in my pyjamas, but by the end I needed to be prised away from the computer.

Some of my favourites included:

• an old man picking his nose and eating it. “Hey buddy!” I said, “What are you doing?” as he stared us in the eye, picked out a booger and munched on it thoughtfully.
• some college bros in Ohio, just chilling in their dorm room, playing the ukulele and chatting to hot babez online
• a still image of a bathroom splattered with blood
• a replay of our own feed
• being asked to show my tits no less than eighteen times
• being called a dog-whore slut when I didn’t show my tits
• seeing various people masturbate and one girl taking it up the arse
• a group of South African students sitting around a room full of musical instruments, holding up a sign saying “SHOW TITS”
• getting flipped off by a bunch of thirteen year old girls/bitches.

Some of my favourite things to do on ChatRoulette:

• saying “Well hi there!” and then hitting NEXT before the other person even has time to reply
• telling everyone to read this blog
• drinking a glass of water very slowly as soon as I get a new person, and waiting to see whether they like it
• asking children where their mother is
• hitting NEXT as soon as I see the other person’s face.

During 2010 I hope to see this technology developed for IRL so I can take it to the pub and hit NEXT until I find somebody interesting to talk to.

Lorikeets are horrible, horrible people and should not be trusted under any circumstances.

I saw some lorikeets once when I was a child, and then I fell off my rollerblades and chipped my four front teeth.

I also have a birth mark on my leg that looks like a pimple.

My favourite rice crackers flavour is salt & vinegar, but not as many brands are making it lately. I am not sure why.

Sometimes when you live in the Hills, you get gold in your letterbox. This arrived yesterday and I read it from cover to cover.

I’m not sure why, but I really want to know how much rice was given to these asylum seekers to pose for the photos.

Their passion is palpable.

Actually, this whole concept doesn’t even make fucking sense. The last time our household dealt hard, we were arrested and the police confiscated all our pot.

Sadly, this edition of the Hills Negotiator didn’t include a coupon for Jessica Mauboy’s new album. I have high hopes for issue #19 though.

Most people don’t really think about Tim Allen very much. I probably think about Tim Allen once every three years, unless I see his picture somewhere, and then I think about him for roughly four seconds before I get bored and stop. But those four seconds are filled with a vague yet certain sense of hate. And all over the world, people of all shapes and sizes, colours and creeds, religions and other silly things, all share one thing in common: we hate Tim Allen.

The average punter doesn’t hate Tim Allen very strongly, because it’s not a cause worthy of too much emotion. But we do possess a mild collective distaste for the Tool Time man. A slight wrinkle of the nose upon hearing his name. An immediate reach for the remote control. An eye roll. A head shake. A twist of the monocle and a shot of brandy. And a pinch on the bum.

So why exactly do we hate Tim Allen? Nobody knows for sure, but I have a few ideas.

The first question we should ask ourselves is this: what’s to like about Tim Allen?

And, of course, the answer is “nothing.”

The second question is: would you accept a lift home with this man?

Don’t answer that, it’s rhetorical.

I recently went to a Tim Allen support group meeting and the following are just a few of the notes I made. These are real stories, from real people.*

Tim Allen broke into my house, stole a waffle iron and left obscene polaroids on my pillow.

Tim Allen took me out for a nice dinner once, and then got what was later described as ‘mildly rapey’.

I once had to watch The Santa Clause as a child. I cannot say anymore on the subject; the rest is repressed.

Tim Allen tried to pickpocket me while I was on holidays in Thailand, but he was clumsy with Mekhong whiskey & easily foiled.

Who wedged a red crayon between his buttocks and ‘autographed’ my house? Tim Allen did.

Tim Allen attempted to have an orgy with my dogs but I managed to beat him off with a spatula.

Tim Allen is responsible for the life I’ve led; the tears I’ve cried, the blood I’ve spilt.

Tim Allen borrowed my car for the weekend and returned it with a dead hooker in the trunk.

Hello! I am Tim Allen and everybody hates me.**

Now I’m not a biased person, and I want to deliver balanced views on this site, so I spoke to a well-known movie critic to get his thoughts on Tim Allen. This is what he said:

“Tim Allen is a man’s man man’s man. I’ll never forget the first time I met him; I’d fallen down a hill and broken my leg, and he carried me four miles to hospital, telling me hilarious jokes and reminding me why we let him into our lives (and hearts!) as Tim “The Tool-Man” Taylor.

I think that says it all, really.

The following audio and transcript comes courtesy of Jayphen. It was recorded on a Thursday afternoon express train to Hornsby. Just an average day for CityRail, really.

Warning: you may be disturbed by what you are about to hear.

[wpaudio url="http://annikskelton.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/junkie.mp3"]

transit officer: there’s no need to talk like that

junkie: HOW DID I BRK ER 3 EGG? 3 EGG? EDGAR? IN A FUCKEN BAG? NOT IN DIS BAG. NOTHA BAG

transit officer: watch your language

junkie: TWO HANDGUNS AND A TASER GUN!!!

transit officer: we haven’t got anything

junkie: IN DEE OTHER BAG, YA CLOWN!

Pause

junkie: YOU WANNA BE CAREFUL WITH ME

transit officer: I’ll keep that in mind

junkie: OOOUHH! YOU’LL WANNA!

Pause

junkie: WITH PLEASHHAAA

transit officer: we’ll get off here for a second and we can work something out

I once shared a house with an older guy who had gross friends. At least four nights every week, our backyard was full of drunk tradies telling boring stories. However, the following one did interest me.

Damo’s tale:

For my twenty-first birthday, my old man gave me a small box wrapped in blue paper. I unwrapped it and found an old pair of stubbies inside. I was a bit pissed off at getting such a shit birthday present, but then Dad said “Son, these are the shorts I was wearing when you were conceived. I was pretty drunk at the time, but I’ve remembered ever since, and I want you to have these.”

So now I wear them whenever I’m feeling sad, and the Conception Shorts remind me that I’m loved.

I also write down whatever I’m wearing after I shag a chick, just in case I ever have a son, so I can give him his own pair of Conception Shorts.

STOP EVERYTHING YOU ARE DOING.

It has just come to my attention that cats can be trained to defecate in a human toilet. Some even wipe and flush after the deed. I have not done anything since discovering this except watched videos of cats pooping in toilet bowls over and over. Here are some of my favourites.

This little fella gets a bit of stage fright to begin with, but once he gets past the mental barrier, it’s all over. He is very tidy and cleans up after himself too.

This is Chemo. I like the way he maintains eye contact with the audience while he is performing. It’s important to connect with people.

Here we have a rare savannah cat pooping into the can. She doesn’t flush, but her family probably has a butler to do that for her.

Please meet Stanley. He is still learning about appropriate paper-to-poop ratio, but you have to give him credit for effort.