Went to Rottnest during the week: it’s still there. Seats over a bit cramped, though, as you admire “just water and more water”.

Did see esky action at Cott, though. Was not tempted to help self.

Say hello to my friend Yogi BarleyMaxMan, cereal superhero with the wired and gaint digestive tract.

BarleyMaxMan sez: “The cold hard facts of chronic diseases in Australia highlight the need for practical, effective diet and lifestyle solutions that can help lift the burden of chronic disease impacting so heavily on our Nation.”

But some think BarleyMaxMan’s endosperm is “somewhat disappointing…a little dry”.

Love on the tracks? Ain’t no surprise. Buy me a ticket, and I’ll tell you you are a flower.

Either Tim Winton told Luc Longley to throw away his shoes, or a fisherman’s wife is barefoot in North Fremantle.

Remember that patsy Orbea saying in September there wasn’t a CHOGM tie? What a rube. The CHOGM tie maketh the man. I will scorn and mock Orbea as I sit with my blonde trophy wife at my glorious table that groaneth with sweetmeats and Moet and that fucking beetroot and feta salad.

Happy Hanukkah goyische!

Instead of one malapropism in The Echo this weekend, there were two.

How dumb are the Twilight film people for failing to tie in locally with the TWOP tipple of choice? No wonder Simon Miraudo described it as “generic melodrama, in which not a single moment rings true”.

How dumb are Woolworths? They can’t even spell chicen. Again we think of Spengler: in his Preußentum und Chicenismus he argued for an organic, nationalist version of poultry authoritarianism, and convincingly expedentiallised Weimar was lost because of $10 chicens.

I love this feature window at a Shenton Park building site. It could be a western suburbs Stargate.

And this Claremont phenomenon reminded me of Justin Langer’s latest Monthly essay. A new culture starts, JL holds, when persons in a dying, static, or purposeless society – at first only a few visionaries, often widely isolated – begin to see their surroundings from a new perspective.

Static? Expedential? A new dawn breaking? This bloke may be on to something, and I may not be able to post next week, as I will be at Curtin Uni’s Hayden Williams Lecture Theatre on Saturday. Forget Spengler – Michael Tsarion is the one to hold our hands along the difficult road of discovery…

“Ten years ago, in his first book on the Juliet balconies of Atlantis, Michael Tsarion predicted that by the year 2012, we will be in possession of the major truths about our origins and destiny. Ten years have elapsed, and fortunately many can indeed say that they have made progress along the difficult road of discovery. However, clever people also know there is still a long way to go. Man remains a mystery to himself, and this supreme mystery must finally be illuminated for true change to occur. Human 2.0 is on its way. He is the wet dream of the hidden controllers. Humans have been gradually reduced to the level of dugongs, so we need to find out what lies in store for us, and what action we can take to offset the age old war on consciousness. Man is ultimately his own savior. He can choose to think for himself or to wait until he is given permission to do so. Soon he may need permission to exist. Nevertheless, as I have emphasized many times, evil contains within itself the seeds of its own destruction. Michael believes that we may be living in the last days of universal evil and $10 chicens. Michael’s presentation closely examines where we are, how we are, and what we must take with us on the dangerous road toward 2012 and beyond. He will also reveal in great detail the symbolism used to subliminally imprint this agenda, and many others, into mainstream culture.” Only $92.79, and discounted ticket price for David Icke attendees!

Try and make meat out of this, Coles: if you do you’ll have to go to West Swan.

Coles are so dumb they had an ad in Teh Werst yesterday referring to Mossman Park, Mandrah, and Kalamanda. Bloody t’othersiders. You know why Jesus wasn’t born in Perth? They couldn’t find three wise men from the east. Ha ha ha ha ha!

Filthy disgusting envelopes from Sydney and Melbourne are no doubt why this is required somewhere in Nedlands.

Your retch-making mail is the reason why we have CHOGM and you don’t.

Ah, well: forget about the eastern states. It’s the weekend – put your feet up.

You know we’re still booming when Midland fatties are tossing aside their nibbled doughnuts.

And this retail insanity: where to start? One you’re past the quotation marks and poor language – bucket? Is this a bong reference? Can small metal containers really be buckets? Why were there no scales to see how much you’d be up for? Why did the checkout chick’s eyes glaze over when she had to say for the ninth time that day: “Sorry mate the bucket isn’t included.” Bucket? Fucket?

Anyway, once I was home with my pealess peas and corn and my nibbled doughnut and my bucketless bananas I threw them into Woogle – and got this metrosexual atrocity which can no doubt only be eaten with lashings of quince fucking paste while sitting on a balcony. I’d rather have some lightly bussed fruits de la mer in a soupcon of formic acid jus and a bowl of chips thanks mate.

That might have been the heart-rending desperate cry in Guildford yesterday morning (if the mother had been there).

As this sickening sequence of shots shows: Krazy Kym spotted a baby in the grass. It was covered in gritty sand. She deployed the Healing Vet Nurse Hands, but nothing could be done – and two ravenous Labradors moved in for an unexpected but welcome feast.

Speaking of Krazy Vet Nurse Healing Hands Kym, here she is outside a business not a million miles from Teh Arrondissement. It used to be a different place. She noted sexy check mini-skirts and ties are a bargain at $10.

Why pay $10 for a chicen and avocado sandwich in the western suburbs when they are strewn across lawns?

Why buy fancy glassware from Kitchen Witch when it can be found crouching in the shrubbery? (Observant TWOPers may notice a sinister familiarity to this scene).

I drove past the En Cen at a safe distance this week. From Roe Street it looks strange, disturbing, violated. I sat in my Jizz and reflected on the time I saw Dire Straits there with my friend Greg Wildison when we were in Year 11 in 1982. The ticket was $17.90 – I only know this because a slap-up Whopper meal afterwards on Murray Street was $2.10. A redback for a top night out. I liked the band (and was very impressed when Mark Knopfler included a reference to the Don Lane Show in a song), but they never seriously threatened my worship of Pink Floyd and Australian Crawl. Nothing has.

You know you’re in a world-class leading edge vibrant tourism hub when toilet hubs are in other languages.

Just about everywhere sells T-shirts, caps, cardigans, blow-up dolls, fishing gear: there’s even felching apparel.

Where’s Cookster when you need him? He would have been stewing in his own juices at the sight of this delicacy. I was keen to compare this to Rottnest herring but Krazy Kym muttered something about me needing a complete basting…

There were other savoury treats too! Come one come all!

But the fun doesn’t stop there for the weekend. Our glorious mayor is coinciding with a significant leading edge vibrant value-added family-entertainment modality today – see you on the bouncy castles!

I am prepared to suffer such indignities when our toaster regularly produces blackened treasures: Amy Winehouse popped out the morning after she died!

I am a toast reporter anyway. This crowd emailed me about their press card: “Union dues mounting? Cost of membership a burden without any real benefit? OfficialWire’s International Press Card is an affordable solution…you’ll find the OfficialWire press card a useful tool that will grant you access to your next story.” Of course that is just the right tack to take with me so I took advantage of the tremendous offer: only 45 quid a year and 35 quid a year afterwards!

I know TWOPers share my concern about homeless toasters: I saw this one in Shenton Park. I showed it my press card and said I was there to get its story and it said:

From a factory deep I burned with hate,
And I lunched on old disgusting crusts froze.
Vegemite and quince paste caused me strife,
I woke to black smoke under a laminated sign.
When I died they found in me a ferret with no nose.

No cigar smoking near this: it could go up like a bastard!

This laptop certainly went up like a bastard during the Claremont council building fire last year.

I noted someone in the building enjoyed the breakfast of champions: Heinz butter chicen soup and sherry with a nice non-Rupert magazine.

After two bottles of Royal Reserve you just feel so – what?

But on the way home my mood was dampened by seeing this nametag tossed aside, without a trace of uberrima fides, on James Street in Guildford. Sadness.