1. Wasted by Marya Hornbacher

“I threw up a lot.”

2. Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt

“Dad’s drunk.”

3. Diary of Anne Frank by Anne Frank

“We are so bored.”

4. Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs

“There are shapes in your poop.”

5. The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

“Wank wank wank wank.”

The best part of Poking Seaweed with a Stick and Running away from the Smell is when the kids are so poor and bored that they pull down their pants and run around the house half-naked while their mother tries to insert objects into their anuses, and you feel grateful that you did not grow up in Scotland.

The best part of Sybil is when the mother is angry with her neighbour so she takes a dump on their front lawn during the middle of the night, rather than just eating an entire cheesecake and bitching about them to her Bible study group the way my mother would.

The best part of A Million Little Pieces is nothing, because it is such a turgid steaming mass of literary rape that I wouldn’t waste a match to set it on fire.

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.

I know it’s usually all fun and games and mangled feet around here, but now it’s time to get serious.

*loosens belt*

Sometimes people kill themselves, especially young dudes. And so, as part of the Man Week initiative (which aims to raise awareness about mental illness and addiction in males), Gavin Heaton, who is super nice, and Mark Pollard, who I met once at a conference, have both survived being young dudes and worked really hard to put together this book for men. The book is about all kinds of stuff – what it means to be a dude, how to cope when you’re a struggling dude, and teaching your kids important stuff about being a dude. All the proceeds go to the Inspire Foundation and they’re going to do awesome things with the money, which you probably don’t need anyway.

As a lover of men, this is an issue that is close to the place in my chest where a heart would normally reside. I also know what it’s like to feel crap and not really know what to do about it.

I wrote a story about my dad, who is awesome, and how he taught me some valuable lessons about what it means to be a man. You can read that, along with many better pieces in the book, which is now available for your purchasing pleasure.

You can find out more info about the book here.

If you are shy on cash, you can buy the eBook version for $15 here.

Or if you prefer a more “hands on” experience,  you can buy the soft cover from Blurb and I will read it to you by candlelight.*

So dig deep and get a nice present for your pa or some other dude in your life.

*will not actually read to anyone by candlelight, not even Jesus himself.

Mum: How come there’s no “Level 5″ on that sign? Why does it go straight from “Level 4″ to “Level 6″?

Me: I don’t know.

Mum: Maybe it’s a secret?

Me: Maybe it’s the building manager’s office.

Mum: Maybe it’s like the train to Hogwarts, you know how it leaves from platform eight-and-three-quarters? Or was it nine-and-three-quarters? Do you remember which one it was?

Me: I don’t read shitty books.

Mum: That’s not helpful…

After I failed uni, I decided to give community college a go. So every Monday night, I left my mind-numbing accounting job and hiked over to Redfern to attend a creative writing class.

On the first night, the teacher introduced herself and informed us that she had written three books.

“How long did it take you to get published?” I asked.

“Oh I haven’t been published yet,” she said, “But I will.”

At the second class, we read a Roald Dahl short story and were told to write about a place that made us feel peaceful, then swap papers with the person sitting next to us. I wrote about a garbage dump and then passed my notepad to Austin, the British guy next to me, who I instinctively knew would be a massive wanker.

“This makes no sense,” he told me, “I can’t hear the protagonist’s voice properly. Just read mine so you know how to do it next time, innit?”

At the third class, we were given a handout that was literally titled The Formula for Writing a Story. This included ingredients such as a “seemingly insurmountable obstacle” and a “catalyst for change” as well as “external and internal conflict” and characters that “evolved” and achieved a “worthwhile goal” in the end.

“I dunno about this,” I whispered to Austin, “I just wanna write dick jokes and stuff, you know?”

“If you’re not serious about being a writer, then why are you here, innit?” he replied.

For our big project, we all had to write a short story and then email it to the rest of the class, who would each give personal feedback the following week.

One guy wrote a meandering, pointless tale about a journey to the centre of the earth that never ended and involved stunningly dull characters. He scored a 9 out of 10.

Another girl wrote about a GP who drugged and raped his patients, until one of them went crazy and cut off his penis with a pair of scissors, then proceeded to feed it to her dog. She received an 8.

Austin wrote some bullshit crime scene story featuring a feisty heroine and got an 8.5.

I wrote about this arsehole landscaper I dated during highschool, and how I would intentionally go for average-looking and unintelligent guys so that I could lord over them and bask in my superior looks and intellect. When the time came for the class to discuss my story, I was asked to read it aloud, despite nearly being drowned out by the other students’ laughing at my awesome jokes. When I finished, I received a standing ovation and Austin slapped me on the back.

“This is an excellent piece,” the teacher announced, “But there isn’t any inner conflict. The protagonist is completely at ease with herself. This is just meaningless fodder, and it needs more substance before any publisher would even look at it.”

“But the protagonist is me,” I argued, “And I don’t have any inner conflict. I feel great.”

“Well. I’ve given you a 4 out of 10, nonetheless,” the teacher said. “There just weren’t enough elements of the formula present for me to mark you any higher.”

“Tough luck, innit” Austin said sympathetically, as I returned to my seat.

“Fuck you,” I replied.

After class, I walked outside and threw my story in the bin. Then I went home and deleted Austin from Facebook. I never went back to community college and I didn’t write anything for two years. I held onto the teacher’s contact details though, just in case I ever do write a book. I want to send her a copy of the hardback edition and sign, “LICK MY BALLS, IN YOUR FACE” inside the front cover.

Last weekend, the Sydney Morning Herald website published Angus & Robertson’s list of Top 100 Books of All Time. The list was compiled based on the votes of 26,000 readers and confirms my long-standing suspicion that people are morons.

Here’s my own little list.

Top 10 Reasons Why the Top 100 Books List is About as Definitive as a Cowpat:

1. The Harry Potter series stole first place. Has the world gone mad?

2. My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult scored 5th. This is one of those books I stupidly read simply because every idiot around me went on and on about how wonderful it was and claimed that it changed their miserable lives. So I read it, and then I tore out every page and wiped my arse with it. The plot of My Sister’s Keeper is based entirely on a single ethical dilemma: is it right to take an organ from one child (against their will) in order to ensure the survival of its sibling? After debating this throughout the whole goddamn book, and including many tedious courtroom scenes filled with ridiculously inappropriate behaviour from the characters, Picoult neatly sidesteps the issue altogether by killing the protagonist in a car accident and leaving all her organs up for grabs. I almost expected to turn to the last page and read, “And then they all woke up and realised it was just a dream!” Fuck you, Jodi Picoult, you wasted four hours of my life and I want them back. I could have used that time to read something better, like the phone book.

3. Rolling in at number 8 was Tim Winton’s Breath. Don’t get me wrong, I totally heart Tim Winton. I would probably have sex with him based on his writing ability alone, and Winton is about as attractive as a dog’s bum. But Breath just didn’t cut it for me. The plot was shaky, the characters confusing, and the ending unsatisfying. The one thing Breath proves is that even if your idea is shitty, you can get by on superb writing skills alone.

4. April Fool’s Day by Bryce Courtney slides in at number 25. Again, I love a bit of Bryce, but April Fool’s Day is hardly his best work. What about The Potato Factory, Jessica or Four Fires? They piss all over a (sometimes) whiney account of Courtney’s son’s death, punctuated by uncensored rants against the public health system. On the bright side, you’ll never shower without a raincoat again.

5. In 27th place is In My Skin by Kate Holden. In My Skin is a great read, but mainly for shock factor. Every bored housewife loves reading about a high class heroin-addict whore. Who cares if she can write? She’s exciting. Idiots.

6. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini is ranked 29th. After The Kite Runner, I was expecting big things from Hosseini. Unfortunately, A Thousand Splendid Suns is about as engaging as a brick wall. I didn’t even finish the fucking thing.

7. In 32nd place is Atonement by Ian McEwan. What the deuce is wrong with people? Atonement the book sucked even harder than the movie! McEwan seems to have taken a leaf out of Picoult’s book too for the ending – after labouring through three hundred pages of meaningless romantic crap, you find out that none of it ever really happened in the first place.

8. Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist comes in at 57th. Oh god, now I’m really angry. The Alchemist is another book I read because everyone in the world recommended it to me. I thought it was a load of horse shit. This is by far the most boring, meaningless, mind-numbing novel I’ve read in the last year. Through Santiago’s journey, we are supposed to realise that no matter how unattainable our dreams seem, if we just have the courage and determination to pursue them, we will succeed. This, my friends, is why so many losers try out for Australian Idol and cry when they don’t make it through. The reality is you will probably never achieve your dream – that’s why it’s called a dream.

9. At number 89 is Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris. WHY THE FUCK IS THIS SO FAR DOWN THE LIST? Sedaris is a goddamn genius. He’s the Einstein of the twenty-first century. In fact, I think SMH’s list should have consisted solely of Sedaris’ work.

10. This is not a list of the Top 100 Books of All Time. It’s a list of the Top 100 Commercialised Crap Published During the Last Fifteen Years With Some Token Austen, Bronte and Dickens Thrown In to Create an Impression of False Credibility.