Charlie at Twelve O'Clock

You spot something out of the corner of your eye. A flash of colour, a shrill voice, in any other context benign, today spells danger. Real danger. This could get ugly. You know what needs to be done. Stooping a little you slowly begin to veer away from the menace. If you can just stay out of their line of sight you might get lucky. Something might distract them. You could make a dash for safety. A sense of imminent doom permeates your very being. Past experience dictates that this is going to end horribly. You've been spotted. It's time to move, and move you do. Your step quickens, pack beating against your back to the rhythm of your step. You stumble, recover, he's moving in on you.

Suddenly you swerve, changing course in the hope of throwing him off. Momentarily taken aback by such a bold move the enemy reassesses before plotting a new course to cut you off at the pass. This isn't going well, you knew you shouldn't have taken such an obvious route, what a fool you've been! For the sake of saving a couple of minutes you've exposed yourself. Cold, vulnerable, out in the open, waiting to be picked off like a lame antelope.

'Not today', you resolve.
'You can get me tomorrow, but today is my day.'

Courage is a strange beast. It seems to desert us at the most irritating moments. When you're about to unleash your skateboard down a four metre high ramp, or put your hand up for a penalty kick, or talk to that beautiful young something at the bar. But when courage is truly called for, that's when the men are sorted from the boys. Your courage doesn't desert you today.

You change direction, feigning a direct retreat before spinning 180 degrees to charge the foe head on. Darting left and right and left again you know you have him confused. This is it, the moment of truth. At the instant of impact you pirouette past your adversary and make your dash to freedom. All the defeated combatant can do is stare in disbelief as you make your getaway.

Emboldened by your stunning victory you charge gleefully on, drunk on triumph, entirely assured of you own greatness. Today is your day and life is looking up. It'll be cigars and margaritas tonight baby.

Then you hear it. You should have known he'd call for reinforcements, how could you be so reckless? Words to send chills down the spine of any urban warrior. A friendly hand cast menacingly toward you.

"Hello, have you got a minute to spare for homeless diabetic whale cancer research?" Clutching protectively at the wallet containing your credit card you think, "this really is the last time I walk through Martin Place at lunch..."

How to tell if you're a handwringing pinko leftie do-gooder.

These guys are totally sick for tofu
and Che Guevara T-Shirts.

As an exercise in self-analysis I have identified fifteen surefire signs that you are in fact, bourgeois trash. The truth is often a bitter pill to swallow, but if we can't laugh at ourselves, who can we laugh at? George Bush is always a safe bet. And the survey says...

- Anyone who claims to be 'de-toxing'. You cannot cleanse your liver or heal your body in just three weeks. It really doesn't work like that.

- Anyone who drinks Soy Lattes. Everyone knows they taste like absolute s#it, so why put yourself through it?

- Use of the word 'fascist' as a synonym for 'conservative' or 'right-wing'.

- Emailing friends political articles from the Herald with the subject header:
['Alan Ramsey explains why Howard is going to lose the next election.']

- Anyone who, like me, thinks that owning two Scissor Sisters albums makes them outrageously cool.

- Anyone who claims to be a 'proper bisexual' but has never had a partner of the same sex.

- Any man who moisturises his hands.

- Any wealthy parent who chooses to support public education by sending their child to a state primary school, then sends them to Cranbrook or Knox for high school.

- Anyone who insists on adding 'and the locals were so poor, but they kept smiling' to every second sentence describing their recent overseas holiday.

- People who believe that doing yoga in a 46 degree heated room does anything but make other people's farts smell worse.

- People who only eat organic and describe genetically modified food as 'Frankenstein food' *. These people are very difficult to cook for, and always embarrass you at cafes by insisting that their soy latte be made from non-genetically modified soybeans.

- The drinking of Aloe Vera Juice is a surefire sign that you are completely and utterly pink.

- People who preach religious tolerance, but make an exception for scientology.

- Anyone who writes Haikus.

- Anyone hoping for another interest rate rise before the next election.

- Anyone who thinks its just oh so vogue and postmodern to deride themselves and their own subculture on their blog is a filthy pinko left-wing intellectual elitist.

* No animal DNA is present, though GM food remains a complex issue. Environmentalists have convinced African leaders to reject millions of dollars worth of desperately needed grain donations. Such GM seeds are modified to better withstand the continent's often harsh and arid climates and harvest up to eight times more efficiently. On the one hand, Africans continue to starve as their governments play it safe. On the other, your body is your temple, even if it is a hungry temple. No seriously, there is a good argument to be made against GM food: http://www.greens.org/s-r/34/34-09.html.

All aboard the stabbetycopter

Public outcry and moral indignation are two of my favourte things, so needless to say I've very much enjoyed the announcement of OJ Simpson's new book 'If I Did It'. Simpson, who still owes his former wife's family $44 million after being found responsible in civil proceedings for her death, has stumbled upon a neat way to make some cash - write a book about how he might have killed Nicole Brown Simpson. If he did it. You know, just hypothetically. Might have done it, might not have. Just gonna write a book about it, you know, throw a few ideas out there, stir the pot a bit, make millions of dollars out of murdering someone, that sort of thing. I'm not entirely sure why he'd bother with the whole 'if' masquerade though. Double jeopardy laws ensure that he's completely safe from a second prosecution and I'm pretty confident that 'Yup, I totally did it: and you'll never guess how!' would walk off the shelves.

I have managed to get my hands on some exclusive extracts of this book, and they make for very interesting reading. Here's just a few samples:

- "Say for example I walked in the front door, and she was like there, I like, might have just wanted to talk to her. We're not at the stabbing part yet, that comes later."

- "Maybe Ronald Goldman got in the way whilst trying to protect her. Maybe Ronald Goldman was sitting on the couch eating hot chips and patiently waiting for his turn. More likely he was first though - stabbing practice. That handsome nancy boy model could never take me on, I was the first player to ever run over 2000 yards in one season. Who da man?! Not Ronald Goldman, he's so dead from stab wounds."

- "I might not have been able to find a glove that fitted, so I might have just grabbed one that was a bit of a tight fit. It did the trick. I mean, it might have done the trick."

- "She might have struggled. Then again she might have liked it cause she might have thought it was totally kinky. Or maybe I'm just a filthy wife-beater. You'll never know. Except for that last bit."

- "Now this may come as a shock, but I actually shot her with a sawn-off shotgun... You believed me didn't you? Oh man, you been so Juiced..."

- "Alright, seriously, this is actually what might have happened. I might have stabbed her. Is that what you wanted to hear? There fine, I said it, I might have stabbed her. I hope you've all got closure now."

- "Lemon juice is ideal for adding a zesty tang to any salad. It also blinds people when you squirt it in their eyes, making them more susceptible to a good old fashioned stabbin'. I love that word. 'Stab'. If you say it twenty times fast, it sounds like a helicopter!"

- "Speaking of helicopters, a couple might have followed me as I fled the scene. I was driving along, and I'm like, 'damn, what's that noise, it sounds like someone saying stab stab stab stab...'"

- "I might have got in my white Ford Bronco to flee the murder scene. Or I might have been at home watching re-runs of The Man from U.N.C.L.E. That's a funny show. I might have enjoyed that."

- "The Ford Bronco might have been brown. I came so close to getting the brown one, it was actually the dealer who talked me out of it. He said 'OJ, you're wife is white, you should get a white car.' In hindsight I should have got the brown one. That guy's logic was so flawed."

As Naomi Robson would say, "hmmm, it really makes you think." What a strange thing for someone who's clearly incapable of thinking for herself to say. As Ray Martin would say, "I'm Ray Martin, have a great evening, hope you enjoy your weekend, we'll see you back here on Monday. Goodnight." But he never came back, and Monday's just aren't the same. Stab it.

http://www.smh.com.au/news/people/ojs-revolting-confession/2006/11/16/1163266678010.html