Dogshit Killers - Interlude

In a paragraph or so you'll see the next instalment of the Dogshit Killers debacle.  In the meantime I'll explain that we had a Chaz Day in Sydney last Thursday.  We ate steak (cooked by ourselves, drank beer and did a mini walking tour (pub crawl) of The Rocks.  Friday was hangover day innit.

To set this DSK chapter I had to take it offshore so that I could put in an explosion.  I needed an explosion seeing as how FKN Havsy has been pretty fucking lame on that score with his fanfic gear and as usual, if it needs to be done do it yourself. The main character is based on a real SAS bloke who I had beers with once and will be catching up with in March.  I just hope that the bugger doesn't read this.  The details of his service are accurate and he actually did come up with the trick of following the small groups of herdsmen as described below.

Dog Shit Killers – Interlude


Alan “Owly” Blake motioned to his signals operator to come further around the rock which was hiding his patrol from a group of goat herders. The herdsmen were two hundred metres to the north of Blake’s hidden forward observation post, heading east across one of the many hills in this area of the Pakistan/Afghan border. As part of Operation Mountain Lion, Alan Blake’s SAS patrol was a key component, engaging in Special Reconnaissance tasks and often coming into contact with enemy forces. One of Blake’s specialties was sorting out which targets were worth following. Quite often a smaller group of “herdsmen” would split off from a larger group, like a bad boy crew wagging from a school excursion. Owly would leave the bigger group to the U.S. Special Forces teams and follow up on the smaller band, a tactic which was often rewarded. In previous missions his team had successfully called in and directed air strikes as well as the insertion of Coalition forces, resulting in the capture of large supplies of weapons and ammunition and the elimination of enemy fighters and leaders. He knew he’d probably never get to put a bead on Bin Laden but his sense of professional pride was constantly rewarded. His men had come through their tour unscathed and his regiment had once again earned the respect of its NATO counterparts.

His radio operator moved up beside him and Owly said,

“Once those blokes get up the hill call in their co-ordinates. I confirm twelve of them and I reckon they’re off to go and have a cuppa with their boss. We’ll stay on site.”

The radio man went back to his post and started working his set, checking the aerial and frequency before dialling up the operating base. Owly kept peering at the herdsmen until they slipped behind an outcrop, most likely into a cave.

His radio operator sidled up,

“The Yanks have two 18’s with JDAMS and 500 pounders on board, and another two set up for ground attack support. That’s all they had immediately available. The cunts asked for credit card details before confirming delivery of the order.”

“Smart arse Seppos. Didja ask for garlic bread and coke?"  Blake looked at the rest of his team,

 "Dopey cunts. Fucking JDAMS are a bit over the top for this one aren’t they?”. Owly hitched his pack,

“ Ah well, who gives a fuck eh Sparks? Hope they don’t want us to count all the bits and pieces afterwards. It’d be like doing over the Kiwis batting averages. Best off getting downtown a bit and start pointing the bone.”

‘Pointing the bone’ was Blake’s description of activating laser designators on a target, ensuring that air dropped munitions would arrive accurately and provide the most efficacy to his ongoing problems with bearded nutjobs. He named his two “bone-pointers” Kurdaitche One and Kurdaitche Two, (K1 and K2), after the traditional Australian Aboriginal “witch doctors” who used human bones in their rituals to sing sickness and death to miscreants.

Blake slowly and carefully withdrew his team two hundred metres further along the valley and waited for the U,S. Navy FA 18’s. Fifteen minutes later they arrived, two flying cover and two strikers. From his vantage point Blake observed, felt and heard the blasts. His team stuck fingers in their ears to compensate for overpressure from the munitions, a combination of 500 lb bombs and JDAMS. The JDAMS landed, penetrating the north side of the outcrop dislodging tonnes of earth and rocks as they bored through the subsurface strata of the rock formation. Once they had penetrated twenty metres the warheads ignited, causing immense eruptions of earth, rock, body parts and mangled jihadi caveman artefacts. Plumes of smoke and dust and a virtual hail storm of rocks cascaded with drumbeat thuds onto the injured land. The secondary pattern of 500lb munitions worked the tortured piece of earth into an even more catastrophic state.  It never failed to impress Blake just how destructive people could be if they really applied themselves to the task.

After a couple of minutes of scoping out the results Blake sighed,

“Fuck me, there’s nothing left. OBL could be there and we’d never know it. He’d be like that strawberry jam K1 keeps on nicking from the mess tent.” Blake then asked Sparks to call up the operating base and grabbed the headset.

K2 turned to his fellow bone pointer,

“How about that K1? Fancy going over and grabbing some Talijam?”  K1 gave a rueful smile,

“ Why the fuck JDAMS as well as 500’s ? Yank navy been to a clearance sale?” K1 shook his head again and rifled through his pack for zip lock plastic bags, waving them at K2.

“Got some baggies here bro’. Maybe they left some hash behind."

Owly removed the radio headset after completing a preliminary report. His bone pointer had a smile on his face, asking on the results of the bombing runs,

“Hey boss, you fix him?”

Blake didn’t let him down replying in his best Marrickville Greek Aussie,

“I fix him fuckee bastard the Taliban bloody!” Owly then retreated into normal speech mode,

“The Yanks’ll be sending in a couple of their own crews for clean up and to tally the results. We’re to move in fifty metres and keep an eye out for jaywalkers. Lets take it slowly, quietly and by the book. K1, you can field at deep fine leg. K2, you take lead, Sparks stay up my arse.”

Noiselessly and constantly alert the four troopers worked their way around the valley, keeping an eye out for curious onlookers and Taliban bench players. One hundred metres away from the blast zone K2 took up a position behind some boulders. Blake crawled his way forward, bringing out his glasses to get a closer look at the wounded earth. His radioman followed behind him with K1 taking a few more minutes to join the patrol.

What Blake saw was a series of rents in the earth with burnt scrub, debris and what looked like a cave-in on the side of the facing hill. Nothing moved and there was no sign of life. What possibly were red smears on the rubble were the only possible clue that anyone had been in the area. He shook his head. He looked at “Sparks” and asked him to call up his headquarters. Once they were connected the radio operator handed the headset to Blake. His C.O. was already talking.

Blake reported that all that was left was “rubble, dust and stains” and that there was no enemy movement. His boss told him to wait for the American patrols then return to the Forward Operating Base for the mission debrief. Fifteen minutes later a squadron of Blackhawks supported by Cobra gunships advertised the arrival of the U.S. Ranger group. A quick exchange of radio chatter released the Australians to head home.

“Okay boys, time to go catch a cab. The Yanks can clean up.”

K2 took another look at the devastated hillside and seemed about to say something. He turned his head once then checked his weapon and the team moved out, heading to their vehicle secreted in camouflage a four hour hike away.

Eight hours later Blake and his team were relaxing at their base after debriefing, showering and cleaning their equipment. The debrief included an update from the U.S. Ranger teams which had searched the bombed hillside. They’d estimated twenty four dead and collected DNA samples. They’d also found the remains of enough destroyed weaponry to conclude that the bombs had wiped out a major staging point. Blake found the whole idea of a reliable count improbable given the destruction he’d witnessed but was willing to go along with it. From his experience the numbers lay in the “maybe possible” column and he couldn’t be bothered arguing the toss. If the Yanks wanted to beef up body count numbers, that was up to them.  To him it didn't really matter as long as there were more fighters to replace the dead.

Blake’s team were slurping away at some Miller Draught which K1 had obtained.

Sparks was appreciative of the illegal beer bounty and looked the model of a contented radioman. He watched his sergeant open up a letter, and asked who it was from.

“My brother, Wayne.”

K2 looked up, laughing, “You mean Sniper? He’s a funny sort of bloke. That night we had beers with him and his mate was a real fucking hoot. What’s he up to?” Blake looked up from the letter,

“Yeah, it was wasn’t it? Him and his feral mate Jacko have apparently put some sort of band together. They call themselves ‘The Dogshit Killers’. Wayne reckons it won’t last but they’re planning on doing a gig. By fuck I’d love to be there to boo the dopey cunts off the stage.”

A shadow appeared at the doorway rapidly followed by a voice,

“Well Sergeant, your wish just might be coming true.” Captain Morrow, Blake’s immediate boss was standing with a sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Seems as though you blokes are needed elsewhere. You’re training on the RIBS means you’ll be getting to play water sports again on Sydney Harbour. Here’s the G.O.”

Morrow sat down and explained how the need for an additional counter-terrorist unit covering Sydney’s maritime gateway was severely itching the Defence Force Chief's skin and Blake’s team was going to be the salve. Blake thought back to the preparations for the Sydney Olympics and tearing around Sydney Harbour in the rigid inflatables, rehearsing tactics for anti-terrorist activities on the water. His team had enjoyed the whole experience. More importantly he thought of his wife and two children. He’d actually be seeing them again very soon and that was a major plus.

Aside from Afghanistan his army service had seen him in both Gulf Wars, chasing Kopassus around the East Timor/West Timor border, serving as bodyguard to Xanana Gusmao in the immediate aftermath of East Timor’s independence and a posting as a trainer with the U.S. Marines. His current deployment was almost three months old and even though he’d enjoyed success against the Taliban he wouldn’t miss their attention. He’d be reunited once again with his family and that lit up a whole wave of smiley face icons in his mind. It also meant he’d find some time to annoy the bejesus out of his brothers, particularly that wannabe musician piece of crap, Sniper.  Fucking Dogshit Killers eh?  Oh yeah, he sorely wanted to see what sort of bullshit that was all about.

He's Gotta Go - No Love For Pup

Go now, get outta here.  Yes you, the grimacing twat just below.  Before you leave, introduce yourself.

"Hi. I'm Pup.  I like being a crap captain, losing,  fashion, crap tattoos, hair product and not sticking up for my team mates.  But most of all I really enjoy spitting dummies and being a shallow prima donna with an overblown sense of self importance.  I don't like Simon Katich because he picks on me.  Now piss off, I have an appointment with my ear wax sculptor."

Michael Clark aka "Pup". 'Nuff said really.  For those who don't know who he is just think of a cricketer who's basing his life on David Beckham but with none of the talent,  Spice Girls or galactic scale paychecks.  I also think Alan Jones likes him which for me is the clincher.

He might like Michael Clarke

 His depth of character is measured in microns.  As a leader he's useless, as a tactician he's worse than DADS Ponting and as a team mate he gets his head smacked against the change room wall.  Funny thing is though that before he started his fashion shoots and stopped hanging out with Warnie he was made a project by Cricket Australia to be the heir apparent to Ponting's captaincy and by jingies that's starting to look like a "Let's Invade Russia" decision.  I reckon the sooner he becomes a crack whore in a trailer park outside of Dubbo the better.  I spent half of last night ranting at the plasma screens down at The Office pub and the other half drinking to forget that Clarke's in the team and is in charge a lot of the time.  This morning I had the Thousand Yard Stare.  Well that's bollocks really, it was just a fuck-off hangover and I blame Clarke.  He's the arse sitting on top of the biggest arse mountain in the Arse Mountain Range on Planet Arse, in the Arse Galaxy of the Arse Universe. Someone please tell him to go to Lichtenstein and sell stamps for the rest of his life.  But enough about him.

If you don't wanna read about something pretty fucking icky involving a man and a dog then hit the escape key right now.

You're still looking.  Oh well, here you go.

Now for the second bit of "pup" love.  For those who didn't know, a Rugby League player has been caught out having his dog, um, how do I put this?  (blunt is good Therbs),  provide some oral relief on the footy player's cock. Joel Monaghan is the chap's name, Canberra Raiders is the team he plays for and I'd suggest he's in the biggest world of shame right now. Probably bigger than Michael Clarke's Arse Mountain. Thing is I just hope he doesn't opt out in a permanent way 'cos that would just add to the hurt already there.

 And I'm not going to pimp the photo either.  Its 'orrible.  More gut churning than the other two I've put in here. So for "Pup" Clarke and Joel Monaghan, and what the hell, for Alan Jones too,  this had to be the one.  Ladies and gennulmen, live here in Therbs Bar, the one and only Mr Paul Anka.  Good night and enjoy your evenings and remember, it may have been a dog of a day but for someone else it was a real bitch. Take it away Paul!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3lwmOEFSZBo

Pomcopaylpso Blues

Here in the eastern bit of Sydney and more specifrically around Bondi we've started to experience the oncoming tide of the seasonal Irish/Brit ratsacker infestation.  "Hit 'em high, hit 'em low, hit with the old elbow" doesn't quell what is a tidal force.  Its gonna be bad this season because of The Ashes.  The Barmy fucking Army are coming back and they are a right fucking bunch of pommy tourist bastards.  Any national group on tour is best avoided, just look at what happens when a Contiki bus rumbles through Rome.  The Caribineri lock and load and wield their machine guns with suitable menace when they that bus full of aussies and Kiwis rock into town.  The Barmy Army is if anything, slightly more organised and more mature but more loud and obnoxious 'cos they know its the last hurrah of youth.  After an Ashes tour its settle down with kids time so its no bends, straight on it and stay on it.  The silly fuckers drink VB.  Just shows you how fucked they really are. Now the problem is we don't have gun-toting crazy wogs in uniform like the Caribineri to scare the poms.  The only gun toting wogs we have are too busy shooting up houses in the south western suburbs of Sydney or playing at being hitmen in places like Rushcutters Bay and Hornsby.  Well, not really Hornsby, just sort of threw it in because I like that name.  Horsnby. Sounds trustworthy, sort of solid.  Anyways our lot are either doing those things or are already serving time for drug and weapons related offences. And the only uniforms they wear are taken straight off the shelf of Athletes Foot. So what to do about summer?  Go to the beach in non peak hour periods, get used to stereo battles and make sure I'm well stocked in beer and whiskey.  And maybe play a couple of away games.  I just hope that Michael Clark gets adopted by England and they take him home with them.  The dozey tosser.
Okay, fuck the spell check, straight to publish.

Sweet Whisky

Okay, this starts with whisky and ends with whisky.  Last night after boozing up in grand style I decided to do a taste test to decide which is best, Jamesons or Bushmills.  For the life of me I can't really remember which of the liquids came up trumps but I'll take a wild stab at this and go Jamesons.  It was the last one I had and by jingies I'm still drooling 15 hours after the fact.

Backtrack a bit to a couple of week-ends ago when the old family home went up for auction.  We smashed the reserve and did really fucking well so my bro and my sisters were very fucking pleased and I was so chuffed I went and bought a bottle of an old fave, Makers Mark.  Its since disappeared.  Lovely stuff.  So last week-end was a public holiday week-end in Sydney and we ordered a big fuck-off rubbish skip for the old house and did some major trashing of the old contents.  It was hard at times as my sis, my bro, my bro-in-law and I went through everything we hadn't previously dispersed.  I'd grown up there and was still going there once a week until the furniture was taken by the Salvos, bless their Red Shield hearts.  I found all sorts of crap under the house.  My bro had this big sledge hammer and by fuck it was fun smnashing shit up.  Really taking big hard swings and releasing all this balled up emotional angst.  It was a hard day both physically and emotionally so on the way back to my shoebox I stopped off and bought a bottle of McKenna bourbon.  Most of that has since disappeared.  This fucking bourbon I buy doesn't last the fight.

So on my way home tonight I'm fixing to buy another bottle to go with beers to go with the Bathurst 1000.  Fuck yeah!  This year as always I'll be supporting Holden.  What does Ford stand for?  Found On Rubbish Dump.  Backwards it means Driver Returning On Foot.  Unfortunately for the blue boys they're running out of half decent pilots ever since Craig Lowndes and his homies went back to Holden.  Fuck Ford anyway, go Holden!
Before I forget, props to Dr Yobbo for wanting to tease out the best testicle jokes, given that he's doing a Lance Armstrong over the next couple of days.  Best wishes Doc, recover well!  And we'll definitely crack on about it next time you're in town, down at The Rocks,
Did everyone know that Spy Nat has taken up Scientology?  She's a funny one that chick.
Now its time to go and replenish the bourbon.  Gotta love shopping.  Hooroo!

Burgering in Sydney

Remember that old Readers Digest stuff,  I am Joe's Adenoid, I am Joe's Skeletal Disfigurement, I Am Joe's Hypothalamus, I am Joe's Squashed Testicles?  You can't?  Well, here's the etsts I put to my brain cells and liver.
Wednesday.  You Am I played at the Oxford Art Factory with the gig being "Exile On Main Street" played from beginning to end.  Featured guests were Venetta Fields (sang backing vocals on the original album), Tex Perkins, Nic Cetser (Jet), Adalita and others including some bloke who looked like Rob Schneider.  Timmy Rogers rocked!  The whole gig was a slammin' affair from beginning to end with Tex Perkins adding his Rock God act to the whole thing.  Spotted in the audience was a Wiggle which begged the question were The Cockroaches gonna get up for a surprise special guest appearance?  Nup.  The beers flowed swiftly and we left the venue well satisfied.  On the way home I had to stop in at the side bar of the Teagardens hotel for a quick bourbon settler.
Thursday.  This was the day of the Russian Spy Invasion so I arranged to meet young Natski at the Metropolitan Hotel around 6.00.  I arrived early hoping to catch up with the publican and his wife but they weren't in.  I was hungover  like a bastard, and a couple of boney schooeys later I received a call from the Russian Spy She was somewhere near Jersey Boys or something so I gave her further directions.  She ended up down The Rocks almost at the Harbour Bridge and called again.  After redirecting her I walked down to perform a rescue mission.  Next call was from Natski and she was on teh roof bar of the pub and I was walking along George St looking for spies.  As I walked back I saw her leaning over the railing of the Roof Bar, waving.  We met up and had some drinks, catching up, shooting the breeze and marvelling at the wonders of electronic gaming.  The smoking deck was in the poker machine area.  Nifty huh?  And no, I didn't gamble.  Nat was jet lagged and I was topping up the fuel tanks from the night before and slowed right down. Yep, I admit I was probably struggling a bit.
On the way home I dropped in to the side bar of the Teagardens for a quick bourbon settler.
Friday.  I was feeling fuzzy after a couple of days on the sauce but still up for another night.  This time we met up at the Edinburgh Castle Hotel.  I walked in to find Nat and Abe Frellman at the bar getting a round of drinks.  Great timing, so we set in for a few settlers awaiting the arrival of Doc Yobbo.   Unfortunately Mr Lermontov was unable to join us due to changed travel arrangements. We sat at an outside table for a while debating his likely arrival as he'd been off to Newtown the night before to have beers with some old friends.  Abe went on a mission to do some internet/email/twitter searching to no avail.  We had a final drink and headed off to Diethnes restaurant for some Greek chow.  Just outside we ran into our fave Doc and ventured inside.  The meal was fine, my roast lamb was suitably tender and mouth watering, the others had lamb stew (that right Abe?), a mixed platter for the Doc and Nat went for the Haloumi.  We tried some god awful Greek beer before settling into a more local and palatable brew. We saw The.Best.Combover.Evahh!  Man, it was classy in its ambition and FKN funny in its effect. The second funny bit was that at one stage they had the bloke's dunnies blocked by a chair and some bloke acting like a bouncer.  There'd been some unpleasantness inside, unpleasantness on a large scale it seems, but the antics of the staff gave us some comedy gold.
Our resident Smallgoods Providore, the Hon. Abe Frellman took carte of the bill.  What a man. Many thanks for that Abe, much appreciated.  (Remember to email me the address to send that shirt.).
 Then we went wandered off to a pub.  It was Friday night, they had some loud music, beers poured in plastic cups and an unwelcoming atmosphere, as did the pub across the street which didn't want to let me in.  We turfed that and cabbed it down to the Lord Nelson hotel which brews its own beers.  Ahhh, yes.  Nice choice Abe!
The Lord Nelson closed its doors and we scattered.  On the way home I dropped into teh side bar of the Teagardens for a quick bourbon settler.
Saturday.  A free day, no work, no commitments, sleep in.  Yep, did that, some chores then got a beer call.
Some blokes get booty calls, I get beer calls.  I answered this one, watched football on TV, shot the shit and on the way home stopped in at the side bar of the Teagardens for a quick bourbon settler.
Sunday.  Had to make Avalon beach for lunch at the Starfish.  Beers, bubbly, wine, beers and a walk around teh northend of Avalon to fling flowers in the ocean to remember my dad.  Its where his ashes had been cast a few years ago.  Noice.
On the way home I didn't stop in at the side bar of the Teagardens hotel for a quick bourbon settler.
Monday.  Went to work and am now on my wayyfor a birthday drink, a steak and some red wine, most likely a shiraz.  The beat goes on.
Tuesday will be nothing.  Zilch, zero, blot.  Wednesday we have a bar voucher to work through from a previous pub trivia win.  Oh well, I should be fine by then
One more thing, I'm getting fucking pissed off with this persistent cold weather,  Usually by now we'd have some warm days and mild nights but noooooo.  Someone do a fucking sun dance please and get rid that crap Tasmanian weather which insists on hanging around, sort of like a stinking ratsacker who's camped on your lounge and doesn't like the concept of deodorant.
Fuck the spell check, this is going out live.
Nat, Abe, Doc Y, -  it was really FKN tops meeting you and hopefully it won't be too long before it happens again. Burger get togethers FTW!

This Week In Sydee

Two posts inside a week?  I'm just down at a kwikee-mart with internet gear to ask those coming in later this week to pop in and confirm that we'll be going to a pub which serves food, for those wanting to eat.  I have a couple of venues in mind - The Edinburgh Castle and The Metropolitan.  The big thing for me being drinkiness and both pubs fit the bill, the Metro probably has the better steaks, the EC has beer in jugs if you're that way inclined and for Doc Y they have Uncle Ted on tap.

Nat - I'll let you know the Thursday venue tomorrow.

Wednesday night I'm going to You Am I's recreation of Exile On Main Street at the Oxford Art Factory starring guests such as Nic Cester (Jet), Tex Perkins and others.  Should be tops as long as the tickets came through.

That's all for now, cop yez later.

Slackness and Being

Well folks, I know I'm slack.  Basically I'm fracked for getting into some blogs, commenting on others and doing fun stuff but that's all down to work computers.  Its also because I'm a neglectful and lazy fucker whose motivation centres on having a laugh, a drink and farnarkelling around.

So what's happening?  Doc Yobbo, Abe Frellman and maybe the Lermontovity will be catching up in my hometown of Sydee next week.  We'll have a couple of beers, maybe even with each other and then see who's best at tweeting the results.  Rules me out 'cos I don't be tweetin'.

Now that I've rediscovered this blog stuff I may even post something a tad more substantial.  And ya gotta know that the motivation for this reanimation of Therbs on line is due to the aforementioned pissup.  Hats off to Doc Y and Abe Frellman.

And Nat if you're lurking, hope you got my email.

Now if anyone wants to stir up Hav leave him be  I just sent him an email, part of which took the piss out of his cricketingness and wonky deck.

Shouts out to those mentioned above and also to Yankee Dog whose page I visit but can't lodge comments, similarly with Moko, Nat Spy, Doc Y, Mr Barnes, Bangar, GBob, NBob, Jennicki, Big Bad Al, and a heap of others.  If yez are in Sydney next Fridee come and have a beer with us.   Should be fuckin' tops, ay!

That's it, I'm off to the boozer to practice for next week.