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!