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.

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.

After a morning of intense shopping at KLCC Centre in Kuala Lumpur, my friend Niki and I retreated to a nearby park to rest our legs and eat some lunch. We had already attracted stares everywhere in KL – mostly from the Indian men – but now we really seemed to be the main focal point in the park. Every few minutes, we were approached by somebody wanting to take our picture. Others simply took sneaky shots of us when they thought we weren’t looking, or pretended to take photos of their friends while clearly pointing their camera lens at us.

“This is great!” I told Niki as I struck a pose and smiled winningly while a Chinese girl photographed me. “I’ve never been to a country where everyone thinks I’m so hot!”

“They don’t think you’re hot,” Niki explained, “They think you’re a whore. A white western whore who will spread her legs after three margaritas by a cheap motel pool.”

“Oh.” I said.

After that, I scowled whenever anyone asked to take my picture. And if I noticed somebody photographing me without my permission, I twisted my face into a snarl and raised both my middle fingers towards the camera. If I was going to be uploaded to some seedy Indian guy’s Facebook album and tagged as his girlfriend, framed and placed on somebody’s bedside table, or possibly even masturbated over, I sure as hell wasn’t going to do it smiling.

A few years ago I was lonely, bored, depressed and rarely left my bedroom. After too many white wines one night, I created a profile for myself on RSVP and sat back to watch my inbox fill with eligible young bachelors. One guy in particular sparked my interest. Let’s call him Gavin, because that was his name, and still is his name, assuming he hasn’t died.

Gavin and I exchanged a few emails and chatted on MSN. He was smart and funny, and looked cute in his profile picture.

I asked Gavin if he wanted to meet up for coffee. (Like I said – I was extremely single at this point in my life.) He agreed, but said I’d have to meet him in Penrith because that’s where he lived and he didn’t drive.

Alarm bells began to ring softly in my head, but I ignored them. Unlike today when a single spelling mistake can disqualify somebody, back then I was a lot more tolerant. I liked to think that I would never judge a person based on where they lived.

And so I made the long drive out west, found the shopping centre Gavin had nominated, and located the coffee shop he wished to meet at. It was closed, so I sat outside on a bench and watched the local ageing men walk past. Suddenly one of them stopped in front of me and asked, “Annik?”

I considered denying my identity, but I’d already hesitated too long and confirmed it. Gavin bore an uncanny resemblance to Mr Burns from The Simpsons. He was completely bald, hunched over, and had rotting teeth. He smelled like cheap cologne and was wearing a block-colour charcoal track suit. He embodied every physical Penrith cliche.

“The coffee shop’s closed,” I stammered.

“That’s okay, we can just go for a walk,” he replied.

We strolled slowly to the side of the carpark as he babbled awkwardly about a holiday he once took, I can’t even remember where, because my brain was busy going “JESUS FUCK I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE.”

As we approached the road, I turned to Gavin and said, “You know what? I have to go.”

Then I walked over to my car and drove home.

When I got there, I had a text on my phone from Gavin saying, “Sorry if that was disappointing.”

I didn’t write back. I blocked him on MSN and changed my email address. I removed my profile from RSVP and showered thoroughly. Then I burst into tears.

Never before had I felt so incredibly shallow. I’d enjoyed conversing with somebody and exchanging stories, then as soon as I knew what they really looked like, I wanted nothing to do with them. I was a bitch and I was going to hell.

Later that night, I related my online-dating experience to a friend’s mother.

“Am I totally horrible?” I asked her when I had finished.

“God, no,” she replied, “You can’t fuck an ugly person.”

My friend Mark is one of the most important men in my life. A nurse by trade, he has the privilege of fielding all my medical questions (“Okay, so I was in the men’s room at Q Bar, and stuff was happening, and then I fell…”) A mechanic by hobby, he also has the joy of fixing anything that goes wrong with my car. In return, I introduce him to hot chicks who he might be able to convince to sleep with him.

It wasn’t always smooth sailing though.

My friends and I first met Mark at the beginning of Year 11. He was new that year and his parents had sent him to our conservative Anglican school after he’d been busted with a knife too many times at his old place of learning.
“Hey laydeeez..” he drawled, sidling up to us behind the science block at lunchtime, “Where do you girls go to smoke around here?”
“There’s an abandoned house across the street,” we offered, “And we’re having a party this weekend if you wanna come.”

That Friday night, as we passed a bong around my friend Kim’s backyard, Mark burst through the side gate and waved a bottle of Passion Pop above his head. “LET’S GET WASTED!” he suggested, and spun the bottle on the ground hopefully.

“Ew, slow down,” and we rolled our eyes as Mark went around the yard, sussing us out one by one.

Later we reconvened to share our experiences.

“He said I had an arse from heaven,” Kim laughed.

“He didn’t say anything at all to me, just went in for the kill,” I shuddered.

“He followed me into the cubby house,” my friend Bryony admitted, “And when I offered him a cigarette, he leaned over and whispered, I wanna suck you dry.“

“Good god, that’s fucked up!” we agreed unanimously.

However, it was at that moment, in the early hours of the morning, that we realised none of us had seen Mark for quite some time. We searched the house. We searched the yard. We walked up and down the street, calling his name. We found no trace of him, except his shoes ,which lay on top of the BBQ next to his car keys.

“Shit!” Kim’s mum wasn’t happy, “I’ve lost the new kid. The Christians will kill me!”

We sat up for a while wondering what to do. Then we passed out.

I woke up at sunrise to find myself on the couch on the back deck. As I mentally assessed my hangover, I heard a groan from beneath me. Slowly, Mark crawled out from the small space underneath the couch and turned to look at me.

“Hey, gorgeous!” he said.