The Dark Side of the Internet: A Guided Tour

First of all, before anyone asks, I have no idea how I found any of these. No idea. I follow a lot of random links and then instantly forget how I got there. Just like in real life.

Regardless of where they came from, I have a nice little collection of these online oddities filed away in a bookmarks folder labelled, simply, 'wut'. These are a few of my favourites.

To set the tone, here is the dude with the World's Biggest Chin

.

That is so much chin. It's like four separate chins all combined to form one massive chinny appendage on one poor guy's face. I could die happy if I saw him eating in a restaurant and had the opportunity to say to him, 'Sir, you have a bit of chicken on your... chin,' and it is a whole chicken leg. The poor guy is actually trying to raise money for an operation to have it removed by offering the sale of advertising space on the chin. As my housemates pointed out, this is not a very good offer. Imagine: he finds a sponsor and gets their logo tattooed. Investors grin surreptitiously at each other. Then, he wanders across the street to the hospital and has the whole thing lopped off and tossed aside. Not a lot of bang for your advertising buck. Unless, I suppose, you are promoting an expensive new product that would appeal to surgeons.

So we've started off with a few light-hearted laughs at somebody else's torment, let's move onto something that will almost (if not definitely) knock your socks off.

Time Travel Police

If the title alone hasn't convinced you, you should hurry up and read that. It may be pretty much one big run-on sentence, but it is worth it.

The very first thing the author of this site does is declare that what he is about to say is totally not a hoax. Here's a hint: saying 'THIS ISN'T A HOAX I SWEAR I SWEAR!' before you even tell anyone what you're talking about isn't a good way to convince people that you're telling the truth. Before you have even finished that sentence people will be looking at you with shifty eyes, subtly working out where the nearest exits are.

As soon as the author has established that he is totally not foolin' y'all, he goes on to inform us that the UK government has established some kind of Time Travel Safety Net. Now here's the thing: I don't think that happened. I'm sorry to seem skeptical, mysterious anonymous conspiracy theorist, but I think if a major first world government started spending parliamentary time discussing time travel, I feel like I would have heard about it.

He goes on to say:

You are receiving this E-Mail from the Synchronity Time Police (UK Division) it is a general announcement bringing you News of a New Organisation against Time Travel Crime, our Web Site is still under construction and we are aware that we are the VERY FIRST Synchronized Community fighting Time Travel Crime, but how can we do this if Time Travel is not yet possible? we can't actually arrest any Time Criminals because there aren't any yet but we have set up this service because we think that people should do something NOW to prevent Time Travel ending up in the wrong hands and we don't want it to end up like the internet which is very hard to control and police because it is not owned by one single individual,

I had to cut him off mid-sentence because that last sentence was about three paragraphs of rambling about the internet. First of all, can I just say how much I love the things he chooses to capitalise? Synchronicity Time Police makes sense. But Web Site? News of a New Organisation? Those do not need capital letters, sir and/or ma'am. As for the content itself, well, it kinda speaks for itself, doesn't it? I think any comment I could make would do little but take away from this natural wonder. That being said, I totally call first dibs on doing a Time Travel Police song. Keep your greedy mitts off it, the Gregory Brothers.

Let's move on...

...to the GREAT BAMBOOSICAL.

As far as I can gather, this is a movie musical that aspires to teach people about the benefits of bamboo. Sounds kinda dodgy, but dodgier ideas have worked. The first sign that this isn't one of those comes when you see that their tagline appears to be:

 "You'll laugh the beef right off the menu!"

I... I just... thankyou, the internet. Just. Thankyou.

Despite promoting the apparently hilarious side of bamboo knowledge, this is an issue the producers of Bamboosical take totally seriously. They have a list of facts promoting the health benefits of bamboo-based food products. Hell, they even have a picture of Beck eating a burger, captioned with the phrase 'Beck loves it!'. The best thing about this is that you know I'm not making it up because here is the damn link right here.


But what of the music of Bamboosical? They don't appear to have any sample songs, but here is the product description of their CD:

Ridin' Ranger is the mute hero from the film "The Great Bamboosical." He brings the top secret recipe of the Bamboo Burger™ plant-based patty to feuding Bambooyans and Rednecks. This CD includes 6 cosmically cool cuts from the film Soundtrack for only $9.99 (plus S&H). Profits go towards the cost of filming "The Great Bamboosical". Order your CD today and enjoy a rhythmically rocking ride with Ridin' Ranger!

Obviously the message of Bamboosical is a subtle one. Also, the hero is mute? Isn't it a musical? Isn't he supposed to be preaching the gospel of bamboo through song? A mute hero in a musical could actually be a really good idea, but I am willing to wager that the idea has not been brought to it's full potential here. There is a lot more to see on that site (I am particularly disappointed that the link marked simply 'COWS' doesn't appear to be working), but I can't possibly go through it all. Mainly because I want to go have a hot shower and a lie down and being on the computer is preventing me from doing that.

And so, our tour ends here.

-Smackie Onassis

P.S. If you haven't voted on my poll you are officially not my best friend.

A Dark Confession

I have a horrible, shameful confession to make.

I once spoke on the phone while I was in a public restroom cubicle.

Of all the things that modern society finds inappropriate, that one is pretty bad. It often surpasses using mobile phones on public transport in lists of people's technological pet peeves. I have sometimes joined in such conversations, nodding my head in agreement and making sure to point out that I would certainly never speak loudly into a phone on a crowded bus. All the while, I remain conspicuously silent when it comes to the restroom* issue.

I'm not proud of it, ok? I never thought I would be that guy. The person creepily going through their address book every time they lock the stall door. Loudly cracking jokes into the phone in between grunts. Sometimes going the extra distance to call someone just to breathe heavily into the mouthpiece, the sound of defecation barely audible in the background.

It wasn't like that for me. Really. I didn't want to do it. If anything, I fought it.

I was preparing myself for my first interview, for the first feature article I would write as a student of journalism. It was to be a personality profile. I had stretched my memory to think of any interesting connections I could possibly take advantage of. Until, suddenly, I'd stumbled across an old phone number in my address books, a rather strange young man I had befriended at a drama camp years before. I remembered his exuberant, ultra-flamboyant personality, alongside his repeated claims that he was a reincarnated psychic. I also vaguely recalled his attempts at white free-style rapping.

This was the guy. This was the guy that I would interview to set the precedent for my degree.

I called a few times, sending a few texts and leaving messages on his voicemail, at first to no avail. With my deadline looming, I started trying to think of alternatives but there wasn't one as appealing as this one. Then, suddenly, finally, he returned my call. I happened to be on the toilet at the time.

I heard my ringtone go off and saw the name flash up on my little Nokia screen. Instantly, I felt faced with a new height of social dilemma. This could be my only chance to actually get in contact with this guy to arrange an interview. An interview that could possible set the bar for my degree, even perhaps my career. But I was on the toilet. And someone else was in the stall next to me. Do I ignore the call and risk missing the opportunity? Or do I carry out polite society's most heinous atrocity?

I chose the latter. And I got that interview. And for the reward I got, I feel no shame for my repulsive actions. Well, maybe a little bit of shame.

If you're wondering, it turned out that my interview subject had started doing psychic predictions on TV morning shows (which I hadn't seen because I was a uni student with a uni student's definition of what consitutes 'morning'). He even went on to feature in a short lived reality show that faced Australian psychics off against each other to discover who was Australia's Most Psychic Psychic. A kind of blend between Medium and Australian Idol, I suppose, although I remember it being cancelled almost instantly. If you don't believe me, his website is here.

So, friends, yes. I have used a mobile device while seated on a public toilet. Shame me if you must. But before I am shunned from society altogether due to this disgraceful confession, I'd like you to think how you would react in the same situation.


-Smackie Onassis



*I'm never sure how to refer to toilets. Every possible word seems inappropriate in a different way. When I was in highschool, I just embraced the fact that everything was going to be inappropriate and just started to refer to the toilet as the 'Wee-hole' but I'm not sure I can get away with that on the internet.

Reality Tv Has Made Me Question Reality And I Don't Like It

I have a lot of opinions about reality TV. I tend to avoid it as a general rule, not because I don't like it, but because I believe that allowing producers to profit from more cheaply produced reality shows could have dramatic implications for Australia's creative industries. Simply put, if the bosses in an underfunded industry realise that people will volunteer to be exploited on camera for free (or the mere chance of a prize) and that they don't have to go through the added expense of hiring writers, actors etc, they won't hire those people. Which, if it goes on for long enough, means no more jobs for writers and actors in Australian television, and no more original content for viewers of Australian television. Bad.

But recently I've noticed another side effect of those few, unavoidable viewings of shows like Australian Idol, Search for a Supermodel and all those other talent contest type things. In years past when I looked in the mirror and decided that I looked at least passable enough to go the pub, I believed it. When someone told me I had given a good performance, I believed them. But at some point I noticed that  hey... those hideous creatures who audition for the modelling shows think they look good too...


At first, I shrugged off the idea. Those girls were deluded enough to slather on the facepaint and waltz right on to the set of a modelling show. Those bitches be trippin' right down the catwalk of crazy. I'm not going to go out and do anything like that, I don't need to worry myself with this kind of insecurity.

But then I noticed (it was on in the background, yeah?) just how many people on the reality shows live in a reality completely removed from anyone else's. Even the ones who don't seem overtly crazy (but not overtly talented either) have completely inflated ideas of their own abilities.

And then, through the wonders of television, you meet their family and it all makes sense.

If you've ever watched the earlier auditions on any of the 'Idol' shows, which you have because of course you have, you might have noticed that even the most tuneless, tone-deaf, singing suckhole seems to have at least four or five people around them to tell them that they truly are an amazing singer, that they're going to take the world by storm. These people are liars.

Don't get me wrong, they are well-intentioned liars. They've been brought up learning that a white lie is just dandy when it boosts someone's self-esteem, that self-esteem is always to be right at it's highest possible point, and that encouragement is something you are obliged to give someone. Plus, they like seeing the people they care about feel good about themselves. That's understandable. They think they're doing their friend/child/student the biggest of favours in sending them out into the world with confidence.

Of course it all becomes clear when the aspiring performer steps, alone, into the judges' arena and their whole world comes crashing down around them. They now have the word of industry experts that they can't sing to save their life, and the video footage (often screened repeatedly) to prove it. Not only do they have to deal with the fact that they are hopeless in the one area they've always been led to believe they are uniquely talented in, but they also have to deal with the knowledge that the people they care most about in the world lied to them. And that those lies eventually led to them being humiliated on national TV. You can see why so many of them prefer to cling to their delusions.

People seem to have this idea that 'encouragement' equals blind praise. In my amateur theatre days,  nothing annoyed me more than the way praise and compliments were little more than social commodities. One person would get up to demonstrate their performance and the rest would clap and cheer, tell them they were brilliant, with the promise that if they replied enthusiastically enough, they too would receive the same treatment. Everybody likes to be told they're brilliant, none more so than amateur actors. The problem with this system presented itself if you happened to be the type of person who actually wants constructive criticism. How can you improve your performance if no-one will even tell you it wasn't your best yet? Believing that you have nothing to improve means that you don't work on it and, in extreme cases, leads to the kind of delusion you see every season of any given reality show.

So now I'm in a complicated position where I can no longer truly believe that a compliment is genuine. Did that person really like my singing, or do they just want a compliment in return? Do I really look nice, or is that person just telling me what they think I want to hear? Does it really require the risk of national humiliation (or at least smaller scale humiliation) to know if you really are good at something?

Welcome to the world of limitless insecurities, friends. I'm sure you will make yourself at home.


- Smackie Onassis, who assures you she is not fishing for compliments.

On My Mysterious Ethnic Origins

People seem to have a great deal of trouble picking where I'm from. I get mistaken for a tourist quite a lot while wandering around the Adelaide CBD. Admittedly, this is probably because I get lost very easily and pronounce 'dance' in a way that seems to make the souls of all South Australians wither up and die. That's the test you can do to see if the person you're talking to is an SA native. Pronounce 'dance' or 'graph' with a hard 'a'. If they immediately start clawing at their skin and writhing in agony, they're South Australian.

Admittedly, I do have a strange accent. I don't know what it is. It's not anything. But for some reason, people never accept that as an answer. People have pegged me as American, Canadian, English, Italian, South African and New Zealandian*. I've given up trying to explain it. For a while after I moved to Adelaide, I tried to pretend that this was just what people from Newcastle sound like. I stopped doing that after I gave that answer to a regular customer at the cafe where I used to work. He was a fingerprints expert from the State Police Headquarters, which was across the road. Most of our regular customers worked either there or at one of the nearby law firms. Nobody ever tried to rob us, even when we started stocking a coffee blend we called 'ROBUS', written on the jar in all caps above the cash register.

Fingerprints Doug, as we shall call him, stopped me when I brought him his tea one morning to tell me he'd been trying for a while and couldn't pick my accent.

"I'm from Newcastle," I replied, casually.

"Really?" replied Fingerprints Doug, "Because I'm from Lake Macquarie, and I've never heard an accent like yours."

This is the problem with constantly dealing with analytical experts. You can't even get away with the slightest, whitest lie. This is the biggest downside to sharing a house with a qualified forensic chemist. He knows exactly when you have or haven't done the dishes.

These days I've changed my response to 'I'm Novacastrian', followed by the silent hope that the asker will be embarrassed about never having heard of it (it just means someone from Newcastle, if you're wondering) and drop the line of questioning.

But apparently, it's not just the accent. After Meattrain decided to start fooling around with some celebrity face match software, we have confirmed that I am officially ethnically confusing. My results were as followed: Jamie Lynn Spears, Rita Hayworth, Paula Abdul, Halle Berry and an Asian actress I hadn't heard of and consequently can't remember the name of. Oh, and Ron Howard? I guess those faces combine for the most ethnically ambiguous face possible.

I actually had an ex-boyfriend who used to insist that I was Italian. I'm not sure why, but I'm pretty sure it can be explained by the fact that he was balls crazy. As in, 'I have to wash your body before every act of sexual intercourse' crazy. It is embarrassing how long it took me to realise that this was a very strange form of foreplay.

For some reason, he'd got it into his head that I was Italian. At first he just asked me about it, on the basis of my appearance. I set the record straight that I had no Italian heritage whatsoever, at least not that I knew of. Yet, somehow, from 'No, I am not in any way Italian,' he managed to hear, 'Yes, I am Italian. Please constantly use it as an explanation for my behaviour, any behaviour.'


For example:
"Geez, it's chilly tonight."
"I'm fine."
"That's just because you Italian girls don't feel the cold."
"I... I'm not Italian. I've told you this. Many times."
"Ha, you Italian girls. I dunno."




-Smackie Onassis


*I'm not going to pretend I've figured out what word to use when referring to a person from New Zealand. Even when I toured the place a few years back, I couldn't get a uniform answer anywhere I went. New Zealand, please call a meeting and decide what we can call you. And don't just say 'Kiwis' this time.

Poll Update

Heat Three of the band name poll closed with 'Randy Bourbon and the Day of Regrets' taking home the gravy.

Heat Four gives you fine folk the opportunity to choose between Sneaky Baldwin, Today's Urban Youth, The Duplicators and Hey There Jimbo What's Cooking.

I'm sure you will choose wisely.

And if you're wondering, yes I do have more of these. So many, many more.


-Smackie Onassis

Are you there God? It's Me, Smackie Onassis.

When I was growing up, my family were quite religious. Not overzealous, door-to-door, preachy religious or anything like that, but my parents went to church a lot. They were both on the parish council, and Vicar of Dibley was my mother's favourite show. If it had been released a decade or so earlier, I might well have been a Geraldine rather than a Sarah Jane. Dr Who is a much cooler show to be named after, right?

The church my parents were members of was quite progressive - their local head honcho was openly gay and had been in a committed long-term relationship with one man for most of his life. They lived in a little cottage adjacent to the church. One of their most popular priests was a woman, and they frequently had inter-faith services where they invited people from Jewish, Muslim and other Christian groups from around the area to encourage religious tolerance. They also had services where you could bring pets. I remember being quite tempted to borrow my friend's python for the event, but then noticed the biblical parralels of my situation and decided against the idea.

Being as progressive as they were, my parents never forced the idea of God onto me, and I was never made to go to church with them. I was taught science and evolution as fact, and then religion as choice. You can see how I came out of childhood with a very different perception of religion to most people. It was only until I set off into the big, scary world that I saw what some people were doing under the guise of religion and went 'WAIT WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU STOP THAT. YOU STOP THAT RIGHT NOW.'

I never really knew how to feel about the whole God thing when I was growing up. What I did know was how to cut a win/win deal, where both wins were for me. There was one particular day when I was young when I really didn't want to go to swim training. I don't know why, but it probably had something to do with it being the middle of winter. So, to test the waters of religion, I got out my prayer hands.

Ok God, here's how we're going to play this, I began, If I don't have to go to swimming this afternoon, I will totally believe in you. For reals, God.


I smirked to myself, considering that all I had to do was believe in something and I could get what I wanted without even having to get up. And if there wasn't a God, what did I lose? I'd have to go to swimming, but I probably would have had to anyway. As it turned out, I didn't go to swimming that afternoon, although I later realised that my mother forgetting to take me to one of my millions of after school activities is hardly proof of a supreme being. This coincided with me realising that this was a deal I could really only use once and I had kinda wasted it.

I guess it's pretty safe to say I never really took organised religion that seriously. The only thing I can really remember about my brief period of Sunday School attendance was the time I took along my favourite doll. It was a replica of the E.C. doll from the old ABC Kids show 'Lift Off' and when I sat down in the little circle of chairs they set out, I put E.C. in the seat next to me. After the roll was marked, the teacher asked if there were any new people there that day, as she did every week. I put my hand up and said,

'Yeah! E.C. is new!'


The teacher probably laughed at first, because how adorable, right? Keep in mind that I was actually the most adorable child ever: 

That's me with the ringlets. Unfortunately for my Sunday School teacher (and all future teachers), the ringlets probably helped with my ability to lead a crowd.

'Ok, seriously though. Any new people today?' she asked.

'E.C! You haven't put her on the roll yet,' I insisted.

Then, all the other children joined in until the teacher was forced to change the subject. So naturally I repeated this exercise every week until the poor woman was forced to change her weekly announcement to, Are there any new students who aren't the doll? and my parents decided to let me sleep in on Sunday mornings.


-Smackie Onassis

Rosie O'Donnell Sucks

Again, I have found myself skimming through the darkest corners of the internet. In the course of my totally normal internet searching, I sometimes find I've taken a wrong turn and veered off course. Before I can stop to get my bearings, I find myself in the red light district of the internet. And it's wonderful.

There is a fan page on facebook under the banner of 'Rosie O'Donnell Sucks'. It's a fair enough idea, Rosie O'Donnell is a terrible, horrifying human being. The problem is, there is nothing more frustrating than discovering that people with hysterically awful opinions hold even one of the same opinions as you do. On the one hand, you want to agree with them. On the other hand, you don't want to encourage them.

To illustrate what I mean, here are some examples'. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Tits McGee PEOPLE NEED TO LAY THE FUCK OFF ROSIE IF SHE HAPPY WITH WHO SHE IS THEN FUCK LET HER BE HAPPY WHY YALL HAVE TO DISCRIMINATE SHIT IM GAY WHAT YOU GONNA DO TO ME OHH DSNGE YOU CANT DO ANYTHING. RUDEEE ASSES FUCKERS SHE DOESNT DESERVE THIS DISCRIMINATION.

01 April at 06:45 · Flag

Tits McGee

I bet you wouldn't say the same thing about Rush L, Sean H, Glenn B, Mark L, or Bill O. Go ahead and say it and I MIGHT have a little respect for your opinion about this MORON. If you refuse than I think everyone will think as I do that your statement is just the ramblings of a hypocritical Dumbocrap Libtard.

11 June at 00:53 · Flag

Let's be clear: everyone here is awful. Everyone. There's not a single word cluster there that doesn't make me want to claw at my brain with my fingernails. I'm really not sure on what grounds Tits McGee there thinks Rosie is being discriminated against. To be honest, I don't think he or she really honestly knows what the word actually means. All (s)he knows is that when (s)he doesn't like what someone else is saying, that's discrimination. I have free speech, darn tootin', and that means that you can't say anything that offends me. What confuses me more is the use of the word 'DSNGE'. Any way I look at it, I can't for the life of me figure out what this word is supposed to be. I can only conclude that it is some kind of synonym for burnsauce and is meant to be pronounced as a mash of letters. I included the reply there for the truly excellent use of the phrase 'Democrap Libtard'. Ooooh, DSNGE!

And we're just warming up.

Tits McGee Thank you for this group, FINALLY. I hate this woman and I hate everything about her.She ALWAYS loves flaunting her FAT opinions about EVERYTHING as if people are listening to her. If I was Elisabeth Hasselback, I would just went in for the right hook, cause that fat bitch deserves it. Love Tits McGee.

25 January at 03:09 · Flag

If there's one sensible criticism I can make about Rosie O'Donnell, it's that her opinions are FAT. Geez, O'Donnell, send your opinions out for a jog or something. Tell them to cut down on the carbs, I don't know. It's not healthy. Fat whore deserves to have boiling water thrown up her to scald her insides. Love Tits McGee.

Tits McGee WHAT A SLOB, AND WITH A BIG MOUTH TO TOP IT OFF, A FARM PIG IS MUCH MORE PRETTY TO LOOK AT, AND SMELLS BETTER TOO, WISH SHE WOULD JUST GO AWAY, JUST LOOKING AT HER TURNS MY STOMACH ........... NO BRAINS, BUT LOT'S OF FAT, SO STICK HER ON THE GRILL

22 January at 10:07 · Flag

Tits McGee likes this.

I have never seen anything more quintessentially Texan than this comment. Starting off with a farm-related insult, following through with some home-style, all-caps hatred and to top it off, the Universal Southern US Problem-Solver: throw the bastards on the grill.

Tits McGee she is a queer

10 November 2009 at 12:10 · Flag

Keepin' it simple. Keepin' it honest.



-Smackie Onassis

Hat Club 4 Lyfe

It was my birthday about a month ago or so. I'm not really that big on presents, so I told my friends what they could do for me instead. There was a celebration, a 'Hatstravaganza' as I referred to it. Naturally, there were a lot of photos taken on the night, as tends to happen on birthday events.

I told my friends that for my birthday, all I wanted was to be allowed to make a Marshall Eriksen style photo montage about how great that night was, and to be allowed to post it to the internet. They agreed willingly, but probably quickly forgot about it.

Well, they are now being held to that agreement. Mainly because it was raining on the weekend and I was bored. Excuse the poor recording quality, I do not own any nice things.

Hat Club 4 Lyfe

-Smackie Onassis

Thinly Veiled Threats Presents: Chugbuster Sings Classics She Doesn't Know

My friend Chugbuster is basically the funniest person I know. When we first met she introduced herself with a warm-hearted,

Sup, I'm Chugbuster. I'll have you know I wore my killing boots today, because I can't be sure yet that you aren't a serial killer.

I'm paraphrasing, but that's pretty much how it went. We've been best buds ever since, so I guess she must have decided I'm probably not a serial killer after all.

Chugbuster is the youngest person I have ever been friends with. She wasn't even alive in the 1980s, not even for a year or two at the end of it. As such, she often doesn't get some of the cultural references that us older folk take for granted.

After she returned from a trip to the deepest, darkest depths of Broken Hill, I took advantage of our friendship by inviting her into my home and plying her with liquor, before asking her to perform songs that she doesn't know. Her versions are usually based mainly on the titles of the song.

Tracklist:
1. The Big Bang Theory - Barenaked Ladies
2. Blue Suede Shoes - Elvis Presley
3. Eye of the Tiger - Survivor
4. Sex and Candy - Marcy's Playground
5. Rich Girl - Hall & Oates
6. La Bamba
6. Buckets of Rain - Bob Dylan
7. Psycho Killer - Talking Heads
8. Strangers in the Night - Frank Sinatra



-Smackie Onassis, who is also saving the earth one bucket at a time.

Adventures Update: What the hell?

Before I begin, I should start by saying that I just dashed home as fast as I could purely to tell this story. Because it is that amazing.

I've been going for quite a few walks recently, just around my neighbourhood. It's a nice area. I've recently found myself amused by such wonders as the chiropractor around the corner named 'Dr Scarr' (Nominative Determinism perhaps?) and streets with names such as 'Wigtown Wk' and 'Jude La'. If I walk past 'Jude La' one more time and someone hasn't added a 'W' to the end with a sharpie, I swear to god, I will have to take matters into my own hands.

This morning I was out on one of these walks and everything seemed perfectly normal. Until, just a few streets over from our house, I saw a small, old man hobbling around a car wreck. The back section of the car was completely wrapped around a tree, with shattered glass everywhere. Naturally, I rushed over to see if he was ok, and if he needed any assistance. The man gave me a strangely embarrassed look before speaking in a thick accent of indeterminate origin.

"Eh... I try to knock down tree, but it not work..." 

Seriously. There had been a tree outside his house that was obviously not in his good books, and his simple solution for this problem was to back his car forcefully into the tree. Keep in mind, this was a big, thick tree and his car was like, a fiat or something stupid like that. I don't know what goes through a person's head that makes them think the most logical solution to removing a tree from their property is to embrace it with your tiny car, but I am so glad I walked the way I did today.

Also, for the record, I made sure he was ok and didn't need any assistance. He wasn't in any way injured, apart from his pride and his car. The tree remained unharmed.


-Smackie Onassis