Shane McBogan. Orright!

McBogan is BACK! No bullshit this time round!

2007-05-16T13:05:00.000+10:00

Mate, I know what you’re gonna say...

WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN, SHANE? IT’S BEEN TWO FUCKIN’ YEARS, EH?!

That’s what me mum said when I rolled into town a few days ago, anyhow.

She also added:

"Fish fingers for dinner tonight, and don’t go thinkin' you’re getting more than two, ya bloody sponger. Did you pick up anything Duty Free or what? You know I like Red Door by Elizabeth Arden."

And, no, I forgot the Elizabeth Arden, but I did buy Dad a carton of smokes only to find out the old man has quit, discovered the joys of oxygen, and started joggin’, for fuck’s sake! So, aside from dipping into the family's protein coffers of Birds’ Eye fuckin’ frozen marine life, it put me into the bad books even more when I shouted:

"TA-DA! Here’s two hundred of Dr Winfield’s finest for ya to suck on down into ya tar-laden decrepit old man lungs, Daddio!"

So there I was, wavin' em round like a fuckin' magician to show my all-round benevolence of coughing up the dough for a carton of smokes when I'm flat fuckin' broke, and the old man said:

"Shane, you mongrel, if you ever bothered calling home you'd know I quit 18 months ago. You’ve been here two minutes, and already you’re giving me the absolute shits. Sit down, watch A Current Affair, and learn somethin’ for once, will ya?"

Reformed smokers, eh? They’re the fuckin’ worst, I tell ya, mate! I never said that to Dad, but.

So let’s back-back a little.When I say ‘rolled into town’, I mean I fuckin’ walked half the way home, didn’t I? From the fuckin’ airport! Tulla-fuckin'-ma-fuckin'-rine. Mate, you know the one! See, what happened was, I flat-out refused to pay the Citylink toll to the taxi driver because he wouldn’t take the backstreets like I fuckin’ told him to.

"Listen, mate," I said all plaintively and shit. "I might look like some continental prick on account of living in Europe for two fuckin' years, but make no mistake, this is me old stompin' ground, eh? The McBogan knows his way around, mate! That's for fuckin' sure! Forget this paying for Shittylink bullshit, cos that's what it fuckin' is, or I'm fuckin' walkin, I am!'"

And so I was!

So, where the fuck have I been, Mum? Oh, and you blokes. Cos I’m not really sure whose askin’. What a fuckin’ question, eh! Both in an Existential sense, and the real fuckin’ deal!

I know, you're out there wailin' like a fuckin' banshee:

EXISTENTIAL? McBOGAN! HAVE YOU GONE ALL PHILOSOPHICAL ON ME FUCKIN’ ARSE OR SOMETHIN’?

Well, I didn’t spend two years in Europe for nothin’, did I? And, as those buxom barmaid birds on the right-hand side of the page might indicate, it was like Oktoberfest for twenty-four fuckin’ months.

Orr-fuckin'-right!

So, what happened?

See, one arvo two years back, I woke up, watched Bold and the Beautiful, got pissed off that it was a fuckin’ repeat, AGAIN, and thought to meself:

"E-fuckin’-nough with this shit! It’s time the McBogan became an international bastard. What have I been doin’ with me life? Sweet fuckin' all, mate, that's what! I’m fuckin’ outta here, aren’t I?!"

And the answer was 'yep'.

So, the McBogan went down to the Department of Foreign Affairs, or wherever the fuck it was in some building in the city, got his fuckin’ passport, sold the Commodore to some haggle-happy cunt who wouldn’t know a good deal if it smacked him in the fuckin’ head (as I kindly advised), and fucked the fuck off, didn’t he?

Or do I fuckin’ mean ‘I’?

AGAIN!

That fuckin’ Existential shit coming back to bite me on the arse. Am I ‘he’ or am I ‘I’ or am I fuckin’ ‘me’? That’s what two fuckin’ years in Europe will do to ya!

Fuck me, I’ve gotta go lie down. I put on a load of washing like Mum asked, so that’s me done for the day. And, while I’m there, lying down, I might think about how to get me hands on a new set of wheels. Time to get this party started, eh?!

You know, in a few days or some shit. When I can be fucked.

End of fuckin' story.

Orr-fuckin’-right!

Some bullshit about a music meme. Or some bullshit.

2005-05-18T22:49:00.000+10:00

Mate, I had this ex-girlfriend who was always sending me shit on me email, even when she could've asked me direct, all these questionnaires n' shit that said shit like:

Use three words to honestly describe the person who sent you this email.

So I'd write something like:

GOT. GREAT. TITS.

And then I'd get in trouble for being fuckin' honest and, apparently, an insensitive prick, wouldn't I?

Mate, I hate that sorta shit, like a simple email that's trying to trick me into saying deep n' meaningful shit when I don't mean it, not to mention chicks who can't take a compliment.

Anyway, me cuz sent me this 'music meme', and she's okay for a bird who can only drive auto, so I guess I'll answer. Even though I fuckin' HATE this questionnaire shit, mate, no matter what name ya give it. HATE! There, I've said it again.

Total volume of music files on my computer:

MATE?! What sorta fuckin' nerd listens to music on their computer? I'm laughin' at the thought. HAHAHAAAA! Not me, mate, that's for sure! I've got a six-stacker Alpine in the Commodore, and that's all that matters, hey? Orright!

The last CD I bought was:

The Big Bang, The Best of the MC5.

Metal, mate, before metal properly existed, back when it was shrouded in psychedelia and rock and blues and fuck knows what else, mate. Sort of. Back in the days before Beezlebub himself looked at the clock in 1970 and decided:

'MAAAATE! The 60s are done and the kids are wild n' randy with the long hair ready and hankerin' for the good shit. It's fuckin' time to spawn Black Sabbath by Black Sabbath, for the real fuckin' deal, mate.'

METAL! HEADLESS FUCKIN' PIGEONS N' SHIT FOR THE MINIONS N' ALL!

Bow down to the fuckin' master, mate. Don't you forget.

Orright.

Song playing right now:

None, mate. I'm on me fuckin' computer, aren't I? And I'm not like one of you fuckin' nerds listening to music on the computer. Nerd.

Five songs I listen to a lot/mean a lot to me:

Number one, has got to be, for me, Ace of Spades by no other than Motorhead. It was the first song that turned me from a skinny little bastard in black Michael Jordan Nikes and white socks and shorts in Year 8 listenin' to NWA like all me other mates to METAL LORD OF FUCKIN' DARKNESS. And it all began when I saw Lemmy programming Rage one Saturday night.

That song is seriously fuckin' influential, mate. No jokes.

Next, it'd have to be a selection from the Big fuckin' Four:

1. Metallica - Master of Puppets
2. Anthrax - Among the Living
3. Megadeth - Architecture of Aggression
4. Slayer - Die by the Sword

And:

5. Guns n' Roses - Mr Brownstone.

Plus, Judas, Maiden, Sabbath, AC/DC.

Ken oath!

I know I cheated.

Five people to whom I am passing the baton:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

No one, mate. Do you blokes really reckon I know anyone that could be fucked typing up this shit? No.

Some bullshit about my brilliant fuckin’ career

2005-05-05T19:02:00.000+10:00

Mate, back in the McBogan Archives, right back in the days before I was ridin’ the lone McBogan freeway purveying the joys of cash in hand and all round tax-free livin’, mostly thanks to me mum, I use to work for the man. No, not me old man, Dad, I mean workin’ for the man as in workin’ for the Australian Government. And mate, workin’ for the Australian Government as in … Look … you might well say that I’m workin’ for Centrelink in a figurative sense nowadays, pullin’ bongs and getting me deposit every fortnight, thanks to fillin’ in me form all dutifully and shit, but back in 1996 I was, quite literally, workin’ for fuckin’ Centrelink, orright?

As a public servant.

It was me job.

At Centrelink.

Now, call me a cunt, call me whatever the fuck you wanna call me, mate, but don’t think I never heard that shit before, eh? I worked for Centrelink, remember? I used to pick up the phone sometimes as part of me Governmental duties and wanna say:

“Yep, g’day, this is Centrelink. And this is some cunt that works at Centrelink speakin’, cos don’t reckon I don’t know you’re gonna call me a cunt at some stage in this phone conversation, eh? Here I am, a fuckin’ cunt that works at Centrelink. Life’s a cunt. I’m a cunt. So what the fuck do ya want me to do about it, mate? Orright!”

Except I really said:

“Centrelink Cheltenham office. Shane speaking, how can I help you?”

I might’ve been a cunt, but, mate, I wasn’t no fuckin’ dumb cunt … until the fateful day where I was a dumb cunt, anyway. Orright!

The fateful day:

See, it had been a slow mornin’. I rocked up to work, on time, of fuckin’ course (I was workin’ for the man, remember?), and bummed some smokes off some of the blokes queuing up out front. Then, after me smoko break, I added some more lacker bands to me lacker band ball I kept in me desk drawer, and then I had a coffee break and then, after that, I had a meetin’ with some bloke I was a case worker for. He was a nice bloke, but the time had come for me to advise the stupid fucker that, unless he wanted to get cut off, he had to start pretending that he was applying for difficult jobs, you know, ones that used computers and shit, since there's no point pretending ya can't get a job at Safeway gathering trolleys cos any fuckin’ retard can gather trolleys at Safeway, eh? In fact, at my local Safeway, there is a fuckin’ retard that gathers trolleys. And good on him, eh? I’ve got nothin’ against retards. Anyway, in my time at Centrelink, you can detract all sortsa shit about my degenerate character, or just generally call me a cunt again, like everyone else did, but mate, don’t say I didn’t fuckin’ help people. Cos I did.

So, after me meeting, I was bored, and had another smoke and another coffee then it was just me and me computer. Hittin’ me like a fuckin’ brainwave, I thought to meself:

“Fuck! I know! I’m gonna write letters to me mates on the dole on Centrelink letterhead!”

At the time, I had loads of mates on the dole. So I did a mail merge and printed out about 30 letters, mate, all of them saying the same shit, viz:

Dear __________,

Centrelink regrets to advise that due to your excessive ganja smoking and watching of bad midday televison, your payments will cease as of today, so now you've got no money, you stupid cunt.

Regards,

Shane McBogan
Centrelink Case Worker

And then, laughing to meself, you know, about how fuckin’ hilarious I was, I pressed print, got distracted and went off for another smoke, didn't I?

When I got back to me desk, my supervisor, who found the prints, regretfully advised that my arse was fuckin’ sacked. Not that I really gave a fuck. Well. Maybe I did. A bit.

So how’s that for a revelation, mate?

End of fuckin’ story! Orr-fuckin'-right!

Some bullshit about Christ on a fuckin' big arse hill, mate!

2005-03-30T22:56:00.000+10:00

Now that Good Friday's said n' done, I guess I can say that shit without people gettin' upset, eh?

Orright, well, here I go again: Christ on a fuckin' big arse hill, mate! Thanks for the correspondence n' shit, but I've been a fuckin' busy bastard, haven't I? Drivin', meetin' new chicks with no morals, rootin'. All that crazy shit n' more. So, all you pricks beggin' for more Wise Words from the McBogan will just have wait, won't ya?

If there's anything you especially wanna know, about me, of fuckin' course, then just write there in the comments box. And I'll rack me fuckin' brains and think about whether or not I can be fucked bloggin' about it, won't I?

And if you pricks are gonna be all snobby n' quiet n' actin' like you don't give a fuck, well, I'll just make up me own bullshit. Till then - orr-fuckin'-right.

Some bullshit about yabbying out on Geelong Road

2005-02-04T20:06:00.000+11:00

Mate, everyone's goin' on about how shit the storms in Melbourne are n' all that shit, and to be an agreeable prick n' all that I tend to agree.

"Oh, yeah, mate, it's fuckin' SHIT, those storms n' all!" I say, like an agreeable prick.

But, deep down, mate, I'm just thinkin' about how fuckin' kick-arse it would be to cast some yabby nets out on Geelong Road.

I mean, Werribee's quite literally a fuckin' shithole at the best of times, might as well turn it into one big yabby-totin' billabong in my fuckin' books, hey?

Fuck I love yabbies!

Once, when I was a little tacker, me granddad Granddad took me out yabbying and gave me a pet yabby that I decided to name "Yabby". Anyway, I had Yabby in a bucket, poked at him with a stick for a while, and thought about how fuckin' grouse it was to have me own pet yabby. Then, me granddad took Yabby and poured him into the boiler, along with the other yabbies he'd caught. Next thing, I was eatin' me yabby, Yabby, and me dreams of having a yabby to take to school and show off and pinch people on the arse with were suddenly over.

But fuck me if Yabby didn't taste good, even if he was me pet!

Orr-fuckin'-right!

Happy Austraya Day, ya bloody mongrels

2005-01-26T13:34:00.000+11:00

So, I woke up at 7 o'clock, fully intending to fang me Commodore down to me local council's Austraya Day Brekky, right, for some free eggs n' bacon with a bunch of fuckin' Rotory bastards, but then I looked at me alarm and thought 'fuck it, mate, it's 7 o'clock! What sort of dumb prick gets up at 7 o'clock? Not me, mate, that's for sure!' So I stayed in bed till me mum got me up just now with a bowl of fuckin' Coco Pops and a kick up the arse for being unAustrayan.

Unemployed or not, mate, a public holiday is a fuckin' public holiday, hey? Orright!

So, after that Austraya Day Brekky debacles, today, I can't be fucked doin' shit all. And that's how I'm celebratin', by doin' nothin'. It's the Austrayan fuckin' way, mate!

Oh yeah, to those two blokes who commented in me last post (ta, fellas! Or fella and lady, I mean), and all n' sundry who might be readin' this bullshit that just keeps on comin':

Happy fuckin' Austraya Day! Don't be an unAustrayan cunt like me, go cook some fuckin' damper or some shit to celebrate, why don't ya? And, if ya can't be fucked cookin' it yourself, just go down to those smilin' singin' little happy bastards at Baker's Delight and they'll fuckin' hook ya up, no fuckin' worries.

End of fuckin' public address!

Orr-fuckin'-right!

Some bullshit about some fuckin' bastard in the McDonalds fuckin' drive thru

2005-01-21T20:58:00.000+11:00

I dunno if it’s me fuckin’ Scottish heritage or what, but when the McBogan needs sustenance, he usually nips in to Mickey D’s, you know how it fuckin’ is. But when I say ‘nips in’, what I’m really sayin’ is I pull a few mean-arse fuckin’ donuts in the carpark for anyone whose lookin’ then it’s straight to the fuckin’ drive-thru for me, mate. I’m a bloke with places to go n’ all that shit, hey? A bloke on the fuckin’ move. Orright!

But today, mate, there was some fuckin’ dickhead who spent at least three fuckin’ minutes putting in his order before me, and fuck I was pissed off! After the first 30 seconds, I could see this shit was goin’ fuckin’ nowhere fast, so I started barping me horn, shakin’ me fuckin’ fist, callin’ him all sortsa fuckin’ names under the sun. Then, I got outta me Commodore n’ fuckin’ went up to the drive-thru speaker meself. Someone needed to take fuckin’ charge, hey? And so I said into the drive-thru speaker to the bloke at the other end:

“No wuckin’ furries, mate, the McBogan’s here! This fuckin’ bastard will have five fuckin’ upsized Big Mac McValue meals to go, orright! And throw in some strawberry McSundaes and some McApple pies and whatever other fuckin' lard-ridden McShit you can think of. Oh yeah, and some McDonaldland cookies for the little tackers, hey?”

Then, I turned to the bloke in his car who looked, I dunno, either really pissed off or like he was completely shittin’ bricks (like I gave a fuck), and I said:

“Christ, mate, you’re obviously a fat fucker, and so’s your fuckin’ missus, no offense, lady! And it looks like you’re well fuckin’ versed in the ways of Ronald Mcfuckin'Donald, hey? So what gives with fuckin’ takin’ so long? They don’t fuckin’ give numbers to this shit for nothin’. So, next time, don’t be a cunt, and make it fuckin’ snappy! Decide be-fuckin'-forehand, orright?”

I know, you might be thinkin’ to yourself:

“Fuck, Shane, you’re a judgemental prick, aren’t ya?”

Well, that’s what me Nanna said when I got back in the car, anyway.

And the answer is no, Nanna, I’m fuckin’ not. I might eat this shit everyday, but I’m a fuckin’ skinny bastard, so I fuckin’ can, can’t I? I take fuckin’ care of meself. And, I ALWAYS know what I wanna eat, Quarter Pounder McValue Meal for everyday use, and a fuckin’ Fillet O’ Fish for Good Friday, you know, for Jesus’ birthday n’ all that fuckin’ shit. So don't take me on, or it'll come to fuckin' blows, I tell ya.

End of fuckin’ story!

Orr-fuckin’-right!

Some bullshit about me fuckin' fuckless guinea pig I once had named Bruce

2005-01-16T22:24:00.000+11:00

Orright, well, I've been rackin' me fuckin' brains and I can't think of shit to tell ya, except about me guinea pig I had when I was a kid, right? This was no fuckin' normal guinea pig. It was a gay guinea pig. A fuckin' poofter, me dad said. Which, as me mum explained to me at the time, was a man who held other men's hands. Right. Now, I've got nothin' against gay guinea pigs or gay people or whatever other weird fuckin' shit you wanna throw at me, but I was right pissed off when I found out this guinea pig was gay cos I bought him and his missus together, hopin' they'd root and I'd get some baby fuckin' guinea pigs to sell to me mates at school. I was a forward-thinkin' fuckin' kid, you know? Thinkin' about me fuckin' future. Problem was, this guinea pig well, the little cunt wouldn't fuck, would he! Sitting there, twitching his fuckin' nose on my fuckin time, I tell ya.

I'm like: "Maaaate, your missus is good lookin', as far as I can tell in guinea pig terms, so fuckin' go for it! No need to be fuckin' coy round me, hey?"

And I was fuckin' nine years old, mate, so I knew nothin' about this shit other than I wanted to buy some Scanlan's footy cards with the proceeds from the babies. You know, Warwick fuckin' Capper and all that shit, cos it was the fuckin' 80s, don't you forget, mate.

Anyway, Bruce, the fuckin' fuckless guinea pig (cos that was his fuckin' name), he never fucked and I had to go down to pet's fuckin' wonderland to buy a new boyfriend for his missus. I felt like a fuckin' pimp, even though I never knew what a fuckin' pimp was, hey? I asked the bitch at the counter if this new guinea pig would fuck a lady guinea pig I had at home ... except, I think I said 'root' cos I was being polite. This lady, she told me she'd ring me parents if I used such bad language again, and I said "Mate, what the fuck would they care?!".

Anyway, I digress. Bruce 2 and Bruce 1's missus, they fucked like crazy and I bought meself a shitload of footy cards from the proceeds from selling the babies, didn't I? Once, I gave the shithouse Scanlan's chewy (fuck that shit was devoid of fuckin' tastiness) to me little sister, just to be nice for a fuckin' change, and, what do you know, she fuckin' got it stuck all over her face and in her fuckin' hair. Fucked if I know how. I think she was trying to blow a bubble, thinking that this inferior Scanlan's shit was like Hubba Bubba. You know, the good fuckin' shit. Anyway, me dad went off his fuckin' nut at that one, mate, I tell ya.

End of fuckin' story.

Orr-fuckin'-right!

For real?

2005-01-16T03:35:00.000+11:00

Fuck me dead, I've got me own blog! I'm fangin' it down the fuckin' information fuckin' super highway. And that's one big-arse mother of a highway, hey? Now I'd better start thinking of some shit to tell ya.

You know, tomorrow or some shit. When I can be fucked.

Orright!