Weekend Worstoff 98

Posted on March 6, 2010 by AHC McDonald

Thomo sent in a “burial mound” or barrow. What will archeologits of the future find inside? A green ute would be the modern equivalent of the intact Viking longship.Richarbl liked the symmetry of these doors that invite and repulse entry. (He also got a fabulous shot of the Ranges Inn which will go up next week).Davis saw some tasty Transperth spelling which has a certain symmetry of its own.And a nice shot of the Timespoo box was one of the plethora of worsts sent in by Bob Loblaw this week. Is there stilll a timespool or is this just an antique box? Worst well all.

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About AHC McDonald

Comedian, artist, photographer and critic. From 2007 to 2017 ran the culture and satire site The Worst of Perth
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15 Responses to Weekend Worstoff 98

  1. WAtching's avatar WAtching says:
    March 6, 2010 at 10:41 am

    Well Done Rbl.

    A man of your word.

    Hope you got interior shots of “The Ranges.”

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  2. Hugh Jass's avatar Hugh Jass says:
    March 6, 2010 at 3:30 pm

    I refuse to bye any ticket’s

    That is all.

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  3. Frank Calabrese's avatar Frank Calabrese says:
    March 6, 2010 at 3:39 pm

    See Pam Mossellas Speak on Stateline.

    http://www.abc.net.au/news/video/2010/03/05/2838269.htm

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  4. David Cohen's avatar David Cohen says:
    March 6, 2010 at 5:15 pm

    Phil almost caused a pile-up when he saw the burial mound. He knew it was offensive – look at the poor bloke next door with his nice hedging, for Pete’s sake – but there was something about it that nuanced the memory. As he hurriedly parked so he could look at the mound Phil searched for the recollection, like a nipper seeks his first turbid bombie at Gracetown. It was a hot day, and the sweat started to trickle down his chest as he sat in the warming Holden. What was it…what was it…was it the glare off the old roof tiles, or the smell of the hot tarmac drifting through the window? As Phil supressed an urge to get out of the car and go and lie on the mound, it hit him: Jenny Brown’s hair. He was immediately back in grade 4 in Albany, his hollow chest hammering, as he tried to hand the flaxen-haired beauty an illicit note, unaware the beady mordant eye of the turgid Miss Scolaro had sensed the movement as she scratched away at the blackboard…

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  5. Pfortner's avatar Pfortner says:
    March 8, 2010 at 10:31 am

    When he came to himself again, for a moment he could recall nothing except a sense of dread. Then suddenly he knew he was imprisoned, caught hopelessly – he was in a barrow. A Barrow-wight had taken him, and he was probably already under one of the dreadful spells of the Barrow-wights of which whispered tales spoke. He dared not move, but lay as he found himself; flat upon his back upon a cold stone with his hands on his breast.
    But though his fear was so great that it appeared to be part of the very darkness that was round him, he found himself as he lay thinking about Tim Winton and his stories, about jogging together through the streets of Rivervale, about coasting along the rolling breakers at Yallingup Beach, about the foaming aleheads of the Norfolk Inn. There is a seed of culture hidden (often deeply, it is true) in the heart of the fattest and most thick-headed bogan, waiting for some final and desperate danger to make it grow. Braedyn was neither very fat, nor particularly thick-headed; indeed, though he did not know it, Col and Tinny thought him the smartest of their casual rugby club, and oft reffered to him as ‘the Prof’ in his absence – but now he imagined his adventure drawing to a close, and in such a horrible manner as to require another beer.

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    • Shreiking Wombat's avatar Shreiking Wombat says:
      March 8, 2010 at 11:12 am

      “Tim. Fucking. Winton.” The words tubled around his head like a rolling Aboriginal street arguement down Cockmantle way.

      There was no stopping it. He fell to the ground in a confusion of fear and rage, pounding his head with his fists.

      What was it? The repetitive imagery? The pretentious insights? The great slabs of text that meander meaninglessly on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on like some demented Paul Murray?

      It was all this and more. Relentless. Painful. Arsepit.

      “The horror”, he thought, as he slowly reached for the broken beer-bottle lying by his side, and trembling, stared at his wrist.

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