Pedestrian Complaints

Dear Uncle Randy, 

Pedestrian crossings, it’s just a constant stream of bloody people and the cars have to give way, put lights in so they have to bloody wait, or let me run them over.

Well, there are probably those who would vehemently defend both the value and priority of pedestrian travel, perhaps citing such grounds as climate change, rising levels of obesity, and the general canine appeal of “going for walkies”. Surely, they would champion the infrastructure of such crossings and town planning in all forms.  

But why concern oneself with such trifling forays into law and order? They are but futile attempts to control the deluge of indefatigable disorder inherent to this universe of chaos; Canute-like behaviour in the face of an ever entropic descent toward peril, extinction, and total annihilation! What if, fundamentally, nothing matters, existence is well and truly meaningless, and any number of arguments for or against this or that are as equally nugatory as the next? One must wonder why such entities bother, when the only thing that is certain about this trivial universal condition is death and nihility? Societies and governments and innocent lolly-pop ladies may insist on trying to tame these tumultuous torrents, to mediate and bring order to those wholly irrational forces of contradiction that snarl each other in their constant state of strife; but for what?! Why worry oneself with more rules and regulations and traffic lights, further sterile efforts of containment?

So just fucking do it; run them over! Nothing matters! Unbuckle your seatbelt, throw back a shot of gasoline, and kick existence in the balls from behind! Plough head first into the vortex of pandemonium and embody the high octane bedlam of non-existence! It will be an interesting exercise in asserting the power of your free will in a directionless universe. With no objective values, no absolute right or wrong, all one can do is choose. Turn left, or turn right; accelerate or brake; sit back, wait and watch, or turn on the windscreen wipers as the mass of pedestrian bodies bounces off the hood. All is fair in the universe of war, antithesis, and anarchy, so do as you will. Like a fart in a hurricane, the echoes of your actions will be lost to the winds of eternity.

Find the original in print in some places in Queenstown, and here online!

True Salt

“Dear Uncle Randy, why can you only buy salted popcorn at the movies? There is too much salt and it burns my tongue. Why can’t we have toffee popcorn or buttery caramel popcorn? And who the fuck is eating Choc-Top ice cream?!”

Undoubtedly, salted popcorn on its own is as tantalising as a wet sock on stale bread. It clings pitifully, like sun dried frog spawn, from the lowest rung of the gustatory order; just above ‘plain’, which is on a palatable par with styrofoam packing peanuts. Salted popcorn is as austere as vanilla ice cream, 100 thread-count bed sheets, the missionary position. However, such meek bases are often the antecedents for far finer creations, the starting notes to great symphonies of savour; Triple-Decker Waffle Wonder Banana Sundaes, Egyptian cotton milk-and-honey sateen, reverse flamingo flaming fellatio.

You simply lack the imagination to think outside of the proverbial popcorn box, overlooking the creative possibilities at hand, and in your impotent state of blind aversion, you have failed to create the glorious out of the mundane. Take the celebrated Choc-Top – which you erroneously dismiss so freely – and simply dunk it top-down into your bucket of salted frog spawn. Et voilà! You have successfully conceived the popcorn flavour supreme: sweet and salt. Greater than the sum of its parts, residing alongside such culinary titans as bacon and maple syrup, salted caramel, and French fries and milkshake. As for your frightful lingua salis affliction, just like any other self-respecting movie goer, you should be chugging multiple Mega-Guzz Buckets of Mountain Dew. Not only shall your tongue rejoice in a chilled and tingling, refreshing bath of delight, but the sugar and caffeine content will jack up your focus to ultrasonic levels to aid inflated film critiques whilst vibrating in your seat.

It is widely appreciated that Reading Cinema’s customer service is exemplary. Valiant members of staff may be seen fearlessly taking scolding hot kernels to the neck in their indefatigable duty of customer satisfaction. Tirelessly, they labour! Above and beyond, they strive! Fleece clad and shark eyed, these noble members of staff are forever on the lookout for any opportunity to improve your movie viewing experience, so perhaps put in a request directly.

Find the original online here:


Dear Uncle Randy, The tax year has ended… how do I cook my books?! 

Let’s be honest, no one likes paying tax. Actually filing a tax return is nothing but a laborious campaign into the convoluted catacombs of governmental red tape – fiercely presided over by petty officials, jobsworths, bastard bureaucrats – truly, an administrative ache in the balls. I myself avoid paying tax like the plague and haven’t paid any state levies for over 250 tax years; but, fortunately for me, I’m not really real. You suckers in the real world however, have to pay tax. You must endure the indignant demands of communal contributions, obliged to bear this bitter goitre of civic responsibility.

As is common knowledge, the vast majority of people are getting paid fabulously well. The average joe is much like a financial PEZ dispenser, popping out gold bars like precious candies. And as the hoard of cold, hard cash accumulates, stashed inside bulging mattresses or on one of several yachts, the looming, covetous figure of the Taxman grows ever more sinister. Those filthy rotten stinking commies of Inland Revenue insist on extorting their pound of flesh for such follies as infrastructure, healthcare, welfare, education, foreign aid, emergency services, libraries, and even the cornerstone of that red devil called Socialism, public parks; all in the absurd name of “Society”. Evidently, too much traceable cash has become an all too common problem. So, how best to protect and preserve one’s vast wealth? How does one avoid, evade, non-disclose and deceive?

Legitimate business fronts often prove an effective means of concealing one’s true earnings. Cash based businesses such as car washes, strip clubs, vegan whole-food cafés, are virtually always money laundering rackets. Why not start your own legitimate children’s day-care fight club to convert surplus cash into verifiable gambling winnings, 15-1 on the kid with glasses. Next, scurry those winnings into offshore bank accounts in the Caribbean – alongside those of your local MP – where taxation is meagre and transactions elusive. Then, go global! Conglomerate! Monopolise the markets and hold mere nations economically hostage! Multi-nationals pay practically no tax, exacting billions whilst reinvesting nothing back into those markets and communities they capitalised. They don’t, so why should you?

Find the original original here!

New To Town 

Dear Uncle Randy,

I’ve just arrived in town and I’m struggling to work out why everyone here whinges so much. Help me out here…

Are you blind? Are you on psychotropics? Don’t you get it?! Wake up and smell the hot steaming cup of crap that is life on Planet Diarrhoea! You may think it’s all fairy farts and candied nipples, but it’s not. Life is nothing but an irksome burden: a Lego under foot; a chronic wedgie; one blocked nostril; a video that buffers, and buffers, and buffers . . . but never plays past the ads.  

Life, it seems, is forever falling short of our glossy promises, a drab and vulgar simulacrum of those glamorous, airbrushed desires. It is the disparity in the gleaming wonder-burger of the menu board, and the sad, meaty mess falling apart between your cruddy fingers, flavoured only by the salt of your own worthless tears. Such are the torments of our conditioned dissatisfaction. Because, in reality, our lives are painfully humdrum, deliriously disappointing; deficient. Shouldn’t I be a world renowned man of intrigue posing front page with a harem of supermodels, already? Why are your abs sunken beneath fathoms of flab whilst your buttocks have the allure of road sign? Meanwhile, the house is too small and the car passé – phones, wristwatches, gizmo dongle thingthings have lost their shimmering novelty, only to become frustrating and obsolete, ultimately failing to remedy our deeper, inner voids.  

Our true needs have been hijacked and bastardised! Rather than life purpose and meaning, love and fulfilment, we suffer shallow artifices, sacrificing the authentic for the synthetic, everyday. We build our identities in furniture and kitchen appliances, affirm our existence in a pair of shoes, discover our very souls in a yoga mat. How can we be satisfied with such imposters?! And as sensations of discomfort and dissatisfaction simmer, we heave and retch and project our dismay blindly onto our own privileged existences, spitting with confused and bitter resentment. But, in doing so, pressure is released, inner tensions assuaged, and perhaps even a little meaning is wrested from the day, some substance snatched from the quotidian stupor of what life has become. 

We whinge, in short, because we are yet to discover what really matters to us, what truly deserves our energy and concern. And, ultimately, it just feels nice. Give it a go.  

Find the real authentic true legit print online, here!

Bring the Ruckus 

Printed version available for viewing here:

Dear Uncle Randy, 

Me and my flat mates all work as chefs or in hospo. We’re often up at 4 or 5am. But our neighbours like to play loud music, shout at each other and make a racket most weekends until late. We’ve nicely asked them to turn it down and even had to phone noise control once. They turn up the music and say everyone is entitled to party at the weekend. They say this loudly outside my window, rather than to my face. How can we get some sleep?

Dear Sleepless,

A delicate issue indeed! One which must be approached with the utmost of mutual respect and consideration for all parties. Namely, the actual party, you fun sponging kill-joy!  

Back in my younger days of orgiastic revelry, rowdy Randy and his fellow carousing comrades ran the racket on having a straight up mind-bending, panty-dropping, heart-stopping good time. I was ripping atomic bongs with Albert Einstein, chowing down on lines of powdered plutonium with Ziggy Stardust, and popping pixel pingers with Pac-Man (before he settled down with the wife and kids). Some months were nothing but a brilliant blur of self-induced delirium; whole seasons became a hazy hue of high spirits and spangled souls. Wild women mad men and every hedonistic free spirit in between came together in an exhilarating kaleidoscope of unbridled celebration!  

One particular party was so rampant, so totally riotous, so off the chain out of this worldly raucous, we received a noise complaint from another dimension! The two-storey sound system tore a hole right through the plasterboard of the spacetime continuum and woke up our interdimensional neighbours; the bodacious beats of DJ Shiznizz and MC Flimflam proved just too cosmically seismic. Before we could regain control over our own neurological circuitry, the bureaucrats of Profitable Inter-Galactic Security had vaporised each and every particle of the speaker system to an impound unit in a parallel universe. The party of the millennia had come to a premature and disappointing end.  

Much like our disgruntled alien neighbours, you should either invest in some earplugs and sedative drugs, or simply chill out, bro. It’s not the noise that keeps you up at night, it’s your own embittered reaction to it. With every decibel that tickles your irritable ears, you compound your anger and frustration, amassing your very own caustic arsenal of vexation. You sit and you stew. You toss and you turn as you allow your agitation to boil over and scold only yourself. Your suffering is your own creation, so let it go! Relax. Better still, join the party! There’s always room for one more when it comes to communal merry making. Life is one big ruckus, and it’s better enjoyed at full volume.

Parking Bitches

Dear Uncle Randy, 

Some prick keeps parking in my drive – sort that one out Source. 

Yet another example of villainy running riot in a broken world brimming with barbarians; roaming our lands lawlessly, they serve only their own interests – ruthlessly chanting as they go, “Rape! Pillage! Plunder!” These are the scoundrels who, amongst other crimes, hoard financial wealth, poison the environment, and eat babies.  

Fortunately, since receiving your letter, Uncle Randy’s Camel Tow Services has successfully located the prick-car and removed it from your driveway (it is currently being held at the bottom of the lake and will be released to the owner for an immoderate fee). As if by magic, all your troubles have been miraculously taken care of! How convenient that you can remain idly sofa-bound – binging on Netflix, stuffing your face, and scrolling distractedly through Instagram – whilst someone else takes up the reigns and tames the stallions of your discontent. Someone has gallantly run to your aid and soothed your cries like a big milky breast to a bawling infant. Well sorry to fart your candles out but it doesn’t work like that, you indolent slug.

Stewing in lethargy achieves nothing. Surprisingly enough, sharing videos on Facebook does not reverse the effects of climate change and liking a friend’s status does not constitute a meaningful relationship; tutting at the words and actions of politicians does not make them any less corrupt. Passively standing by in a state of expectancy – spectating through a window, via a screen, from a distance – will change nothing. Every one of us possesses great creative potential, the ability to shape our worlds in whatever way we see fit. When finding yourself disgruntled by the present state of affairs, stand up and assume personal responsibility! It must be you to take action! Confront this car – with a brick, with a passive aggressive note, or with an open mind and a diplomatic sentiment. Awaken your latent powers and take active steps to effect the change that you wish to see. Without such action, self-interested scumbags will continue to take for themselves and leave nothing behind, and the world will descend into an anarchic wasteland, with individuals watching on, shaking their heads in apathetic disbelief.



Dear Uncle Randy, 

Is it off limits for husband to sneak around with wife’s best friend? I only found out now it’s 7 years later. We were best friends since school and I thought she was my friend!! She admitted she did it when she was drinking on Friday and now I don’t know what to do as he still doesn’t know I know. Is it too late to do something?

Dear The Betrayed,

Seven years is undoubtedly a rather long time; long enough for empires to wage terrible wars, for chewing gum to finally digest and make your poop all pink and stretchy, and for marriages to turn cold, sour, and “itchy”. Seven years is time enough even for a person’s character to evolve in wonderfully surprising ways, time to learn from past mistakes and revise behaviour accordingly, for regrets to subside and humility arise with the due passing of the years. However, as long as seven years may be, it is never too late to exact cold and ruthless vengeance upon those who have dared do you wrong; the coiled cobra can strike only deadlier with each passing moment of concentrated venom. The question remains: how best to unleash the fury of your seasoned wrath for maximal retribution?

Fortunately, your husband remains blissfully ignorant to your knowledge of his infidelities, like a tiny mouse sniffing curiously at a great wedge of pungent Gruyére moments before the spine shattering crack of metal snaps shut upon its pestilent ways. Let his ignorance provide the fertile ground for sowing your seeds of tasty revenge. Start by identifying his best friend, seducing him/her, then in seven years time confessing your illicit pursuit in merciless detail; show him photos and replay video footage as you bask in the sweet tears of reprisal. MUHAHARAAHAA! REVENGE! Until then you still have a good seven years of insidious spite to exact upon both your husband and your so called “best friend”. Scrawl their phone numbers on the walls of seedy public toilets alongside requests for deviant sexual encounters and illegal substances. Report heinous crimes anonymously with highly accurate composite sketch descriptions. Hire a motorcycle gang to spook them with chains and crowbars. Conceal a small amount of weapons-grade plutonium in their cellphones and watch on slyly as acute radiation syndrome takes due effect. Let vengeance become you, think of nothing else morning noon and night. May malice course through your veins and beat the war drum of your heart. Truly they shall rue their day of betrayal! Or, open an honest channel of communication, lay the cards face up fearlessly and have a frank conversation, accept any outcome and move onwards with life and love. If the bridge has not yet been reduced to ashes that is…