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I’m Fred. I like tacos and ’71 Cabernet.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

I hate it when movies purposefully pluck my heartstrings. Like fucking Beaches, with Hershey slowly succumbing at the fucken seashore. Pluck elsewhere, people.

I made a new acquaintance today. He was bald and sweet, with a naïve view of the world. [Disclaimer: it was not a newborn baby.]

Do you ever crump to ad jingles on TV? [Coughs] Yeah, neither do I.

Jealousy seems the Heidi Klum of emotions … tall and exotic, dressed in Halloween habiliments of hurt, anger and superiority.

Is it possible to find morality in others without also finding judgement?

Once upon a brain fart, I had a crush on David Caruso. It only last ten minutes but in the ninth minute, my brother found out. Lived with it. ever. since.

Is it just me or does the word ‘predilection’ seem reserved for serial killers?

What’s with people who ask how you are, then turn away before you can answer? Some fraudulent interest wouldn’t go astray. You started it.

If I were rich, I’d teach puppies to tap dance. Unhushed puppies.

I have a tendency to talk to myself at inopportune moments … such as in dressing rooms of department stores: “that does not look good”.

Look to me in my eyeball.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

Love songs are like a tepid bath. They may start out warm and comforting; but really, you’re just languishing in crap.

Why is Sarah Silverman popular? I prefer silent Snoopy.

My average week is akin to Zallinger’s March of Progress, in reverse. Mondays, I’m a Darwinian dream. Come Friday, I’m hobo erectus.

If I ever make the sequel to Popeye, it’ll center around his older brother – Cockeye.

Gal Gunslinger reads and reveres serial killers. Red flag. Red flag. Stop right there! (To be said in Bourne baritone.)

I looked up ‘titillating’ in my thesaurus and the answer came back: venereal. Sounds about right.

If I were rich, I’d create an underwater movie theatre – where you’d get your dive on and watch the Life Aquatic, aquatically. There’d be a sushi snack bar, mermaids for ushers, and Usher as a mer-man (to be said like Zoolander).

I’ve decided to name my cleavage Fortitude Valley.

Follow me or perish, sweater monkeys.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

I dreamt that Stephen Fry asked me to live with him, to make pale British love and give heterosexuality a red-hot go. It was a confusing time. For both of us, baby.

Why were the seventies so goddamn brown? Anyone?

I once had some dude travel an hour to my party, only to knock on my door and tell me that he wouldn’t be able to make it.

My mortality kept me awake last night.

If I were rich, I’d build a Bill Murray theme park in my backyard: with every ride a different movie and entry counting on congruent quotes. There’d be Murray mandy floss, a Ghostbusters haunted house and a Punxsutawney Pit Stop. Good times.

I hate people who say goodbye five minutes before they leave, then turn to you expectantly (like Lassie about to lead you to the well where Timmy lies) hoping for another round. Umbilical cord, much? Fuck off already.

Noah Wyle’s nostrils are simply ridiculous.

I hate it when I go to the loo and accidentally pick the stall of the chick at the sink, her flush still hanging in the air. It’s a lucky dip with a warm ass-print as my prize.

I preferred Simon Pegg when he was English. (You’ve got red on you.)

The arsonist has oddly-shaped feet.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

I didn’t know it was possible to injure one’s cleavage but have discovered that, yes. If red-hot coffee is poured upon it … it will scream in pain like a thwarted gnome.

Humanity seems like a numbers game to me. Like it doesn’t matter how many of us are picked off, provided there’s someone left to procreate.

Casual Friday and my boss shows up to our management meeting in a pajama top. That, or he killed a Wiggle and is wearing its flannel flay in Hannibal homage.

Sometimes I go deaf but for an electric hum, like a radio momentarily tuned in to another frequency – the kind only dogs or aliens can hear.

I’d rather be hog-tied to William Hurt, in Puff Diddy’s crib, listening to Kelly Osbourne sing country, than visit another fucken port-a-loo in my lifetime.

Do you ever feel like someone else is a better representation of you? Maybe that’s what celebrity is.

If I was rich, I’d design a fleet of robots to clean my house and teeth, thereby alleviating the guilt of asking another human to do so. (And I could unabashedly undie-strut in front of a robot.) Result.

Coffee Guy was dancing to the Blues Brothers this morn, epilepsy style. Little Lord Fauntleroy meets Elaine Benes, yo.

The human torch was denied a bank loan.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

Being a wannabe Snoop Dogg, I once said to my dad: “word to your muther, yo.” To which he replied, “come to think of it, I do need to have a word to my mother.”

Today in the lift, I missed my floor due to pondering Ryan Reynolds’ undies.

I hate food courts. It’s like McDonalds made rampant love to a retirement home and we’re expected to raise the mongrel offspring as our own. I aint down with a place where sinking waistlines and rising undies are synonymous.

Meanwhile, if you’re gonna sit beside me, how about you don’t rub your foot up against me like a mutt stacking a rubber tree?

I think my neighbour is stalking me through the wall. He always watches the same movies, one day later. I hear you, Kaczynski.

My bus driver ranted like Nick Nolte the entire trip to work today. Props for holding down a job amidst the crazy, Grandpa; and crusty congrats on finding a literally captive audience (Tony fucking Robbins of the asylum circuit, yo).

Do you ever get sick of your face? It’s like having your furniture in the same formation for a decade. I just wanna say, let’s see how my nose looks there.

Coffee Guy has cut his hair in a tragedy of running-with-scissors proportions. He looks like Little Lord Fauntleroy (which, if you’re wondering, aint a turn-on).

I fear that aging might be like going from a Rembrandt to a Monet.

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