Special Father's Day edition!

Okay, so with Father's day coming up I thought it would be ideal to hustle on the "backyard structure formally known as the studio". After all, I worked out that most normal dads spend their weekends doing stuff, with the toolbelts and the hammers and the building and the power tools and the hurrrrr-ting...

So I did those exact things. I needed to get off the couch, since I've been watching way too much TV on the war in Lebanon, and the mass media / UN outrage over Israel's "disproportionate" military response to Hezbollywood's attacks.

Too right, and I hope those bullies Israel have learned their lesson: the next time Hezbollah rain 4,000 missiles down on them for 12 months, they should jolly well respond more proportionately. They should send some very stern mobile phone text messages telling them to please stop, maybe even resort to some name-calling. It would be almost as effective as a UN disarmament resolution.

Reuters headline: "World outrage as Israel targets small furry animals"

Okay, sorry for the rant. I've just read the Protocols of Zion. It's all true, of course. Every word. Those darn Jooos. There's a Joo behind everything, you know.

Speaking of Joos, a quick message from our sponsors

This week's post is brought to you by philanthropist, Billy Gates. Did you know that Bill Gates provided more than $10 million to hand over 1,000 acres of highly productive greenhouses in the Gaza Strip to Palestinians after the Joos were evicted? The Palestinians trashed them all, of course, and now they're worth nothing. But it's the thought that counts.

Now back to more important things. The "studio's" roof was mostly finished, complete with razor-sharp ridge capping. Remind me to never climb up onto the roof or touch it ever again. Naturally, it required a test period of rain. Victorian weather duly obliged and provided me with suitable roof testing periods. I should be happy that it only leaked in ONE place.

All visible mistakes have been digitally edited out

Meanwhile, I bought a brand new door jam on Ebay for 20 bucks! Saved around $60! Whilst that will not go far towards healing the loss of $1300 on Ebay earlier in the year, it did mean I could spend the savings on a new door. Which I succeeded in butchering to get into the jam. I presume the name "door jam" signifies that one must forcibly jam it into the available space.

Naturally the kids helped out by mostly staying out of my way and not killing eachother.



It's important that Sam feels I trust him with power tools


In fact there was a lot of trust all round






In my family, traditionally we have never really celebrated Father's Day or Mother's Day. I think this habit came about as a result of two things. Firstly, both days were fabricated by department stores to sell stuff. Here's the proof; when do you ever see an advertisement for Supercheap Auto on Mother's day weekend, huh? Huh?

Secondly, the particular parent in question each has their own birthday. So if you want to buy them pointless gifts, that's the time to do it. Then at Christmas everybody gets gifts anyway, so nobody can complain that once a year is not enough.




I just want you to know my door is always open.
No, seriously, it's always open. It won't shut properly.


How gratifying it is that our odd little family tradition has been validated by the Civil Liberties lobbyists. As if they can enrich our society any more than they already have. We're so blessed now that we have been banned from telling Irish Jokes, opening doors for women and suggesting things like marriage and family are a good idea. We're so enlightened now that we must teach our kids they are all a big cosmic accident, they have no origin, destiny, or purpose, and then sit back and wonder why they kill themselves at such a massive rate.

What were we thinking? To have a special day to honour "Fathers" clearly offends people who aren't fathers?

You all have my permission to screen dump the following and print them as bumper stickers.

Hopefully then nobody gets offended, and you can still go gift shopping at department stores. Providing you buy gifts that are non-offensive, no sexually opressive things like power tools. Perhaps a carpet swatch or a blank piece of paper. Luckily I got my door jam already.

Miss me?

There are obviously a lot of very upset people out there, at my family blog being inactive for so long. I even received some death threats.

Okay, those were really from the guy I sacked, or possibly from a religious demographic upset that I called the Profit Mohammed a "pirate". But I like the other explanation better.

Anyhoo, I thought I'd better pen a few words about various stuff. There is big news in the Atherton household. To get you in the mood, we'll start with these two cutting-edge pieces:

- Israel is bombing Lebanon
- Mark Webber is driving for Dead Bull in '07.

Now, a quick word from our sponsors...


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I know not everybody share's my obsession with Formula One. Many of you wouldn't know Michael Schumacher if he deliberately parked his shopping trolley in the Pringles aisle to stop you getting the last Sour Cream & Onion. But I'm going to explain it to you anyway. Formula One is the longest running comedy series on earth. It is a rich tapestry of hilarity, with switched-on actors, brilliant script-writers producing ongoing theme-style humour and and funny one-liners.


Take this snippet from the Hungarian episode, where McLaren team boss Ronnie Dennis answered a question about whether they would give their test-driver a race gig, in a hilarious build-up where the journalist actually expected a straight answer:-

''We've taken decisions and acted on the decisions, we have a variety of strategies which are activated by certain circumstances beyond our control. We know exactly where we'll go, and what we'll do according to what unfolds over the next few weeks.''

Sidesplitting!! And this one, from the token-foreign-sounding character Flavio (even the name is funny), manager of Renault, in a scene were people were talking about the popularity of Formual One:-

The people looking Formula One because everything together. Is the driver, is the team, is the performance, is the private jet if you want. Is the helicopter, is the girl, the star. Include the team. And I believe you put a big mistake.

Not since Con the Fruiterer has there been such loveable stereotypes.


Mark Webber went where??

And did you see the episode where Colombian Juan Pablo Montoya left in a huff after being told off for crashing too much? So he said "Fine! I'll go to America and race NASCAR where my crashing will be appreciated"

Then he forgot to tell his wife Connie, who likes buying shoes at Monaco, that now she will have to do all her shopping at 7-11 but said "Look on the bright side, at least we can get steak and chips much cheaper than at Monaco". Then they had a big argument in Spanish, which always makes for good comedy, Connie saying something about him wanting to race cars that look like "Children's breakfast cereal boxes"

Priceless. Then Mark "Dundee" Webber, in true Aussie fashion, refuses to take a pay cut and makes the sideways move from Williams to Dead Bull, whose engines blow up less. Then an Englishman in the Williams team calls Webber a "bit of a whinger"! Hilarious.

And the whole circus is run by a grumpy midget with little-man syndrome called Bernie. It is one of the funniest TV shows since Scrubs.

Now for the Atherton family news. For more details on the karting caper go to my (slightly-formal) superkart blog. In brief the next race is Winton September 23 (moved from Sept 4th) which gives me just enough time to clean out all the Phillip Island mud. Hopefully by then I'll have a sexy new steering wheel and seat, reputed to be 20% more aerodynamic as it lowers my massive head about 100mm. It's supposed to be more comfortable too, which would be nice since I'm grossly unfit and Winton is a very physical circuit. Air Conditioning and CD player may be installed later.

Meanwhile, Sharon's uncle Cliff is just finishing off a V8 Commodore Cup race car in readiness for the Australian Commodore Cup round at Phillip Island. The series is seen on SBS' Speedweek. It's a beautifully built race car, prepared in their new workshop which is as big as most people's blocks of land. Seriously. Don't be surprised if you see the name Domaschenz in amongst D'Agostin and Zukanovich.


Sharon in Sydney for the Darren Hayes concert/ Girls weekend

cars, Sharon's is doing funny things with it's water and oil, which don't mix, apparently. Since the kids have caused more bodily depreciation than the car's actual value, we decided it's time to get Sharon a new car. So Uncle Cliff and I went to the Port Melbourne Auto wholesalers (he has an LMCT licence) to save some bucks and hopefully get something nice.

Sharon said she wasn't fussy, and wanted something "easy to park". At the first wholesaler I was greeted with a sea of Bentleys and Rolls Royces. So it wasn't a great start.


A pointless picture of something you've all seen a bazillion times

I rather like the idea of a Volvo, but when I tell my friends, nobody believes me. Two guys from church have already threatened to disown me if I buy a Volvo. C'mon! Cheap, European quality, and safe.

Naomi became the proud grandparent of some little new guinea pigs recently. The smallest and darkest one was called Midnight, or Blackie, or Mr. Twinkles, or some other such name befitting of a small cute furry rodent. Anyhow, Omi had to bid them a sad farewell as they were farmed out to better homes. Sorry, Freudian slip, I meant "other" homes. Or "new" homes.

Mr. Identity Crisis

Naomi went off to Bacchus Marsh last weekend for a horse show. She won four ribbons, which is remarkable considering she doesn't actually have a horse (I was told she borrowed someone else's). Seriously, both her parents were genuinely upset at not being able to attend. Sharon was sleeping off a nightshift and me, well I was....

RE ROOFING the STUDIO!!


What my so-called studio looks like without a roof

That's right. I finally dragged myself from the chasm of lethargy and put brand spanking new zincalume roofing. All by myself. Just me, some good weather, a cordless drill and lots of unseemly language, and finally it's done. The sense of achievement and relief is overwhelming.


And again, without the roof. See? It's not there, well, up the top, you can't quite make it out, it's really...um...oh just take my word for it.

It's all good, of course, until it actually rains.

Sympathy for the Devil

Hi all. Sorry it's been a while since my last update.

Oh, what do you all care really.

Family news: The famous studio hasn't progressed at all. I have, in a typically Paddy-style loss of enthusiasm and instant change, been spending too much time on my other project. You can learn more on that by clicking on the kart racing link I have there on the right. Well, you have to admit, it is more fun than banging roofing nails into myself and risking dismemberment with power tools.

Naomi was halfway through a book but I told her to start again because it was starting to look too much like The Chronicles of Narnia meets Animal farm. Why can't she just enjoy being a kid?

Sam's reading and writing is coming along really well, although he still destroys things.

Becky is cute but never eats her dinner.

There, that's the family stuff over with. Now I can start raving.

I found out something disturbing today. The Greens, that association of secular pagan nature-worshipping humanists disguised as a political party, and their high priest Bob Brown, have finally done it. They have succeeded in lobbying the government to have the DEVIL listed as a "vulnerable species" under the Environment Protection and Biodiversity Act.

As many of you know from my previous posts, and possibly consider our friendship to be teetering on the brink of disaster, I am a right-wing wacko Jesus nut. Therefore, I am constantly being hyper-sensitive to some of the inconsistencies in the way society treats Christians as compared to the treatment of, er, lets just say, "other religious demographics".

(translation: Muslims. Heh heh. No seriously, I don't just mean them. Or do I?? Note the tactic there of using my creativity to deceptively blur the lines between fact and fiction. Well it worked for Dan Brown)

So who's laughing now? My opinions are finally vindicated. An official political office, if you must refer to the Greens in that manner, have complained loud enough to have their master Satan himself recognised as some kind of unfairly-maligned entity. Nothing says hard-done-by, emotionally battered, poorly treated, like the word "vulnerable". Australians love the underdog, so now they must love Satan.

Beezelbob Brown, pictured yesterday. Disclaimer: horns, evil eyes and pitchfork may have been added for effect. Or not.

If ever you need more proof that antagonism towards Christianity is legitimised through political correctness, here it is. Remember, saying anything bad or critical about anyone who is still alive is politically incorrect. Well, that's how I understand it anyway. Let's have a brief look at the PC rules:

- You cannot criticise Mohamed, even though he's not alive.

- You can dump on Jesus and Catholics, that's okay. They have it coming. Besides, they're harmless and don't bite back

- Don't make movies showing Muslims as terrorists, that wouldn't be nice

- Always denounce terrorism but if a terrorist leader stops his twisted lunatics from killing people for five minutes, give him a Nobel Peace Prize

- Talented gay people are talented because they're gay

- Talented heterosexual people are just talented for some other reason.

Confused? So am I. But fear not. This very confusion is spin-doctored into something nice. "Diversity".

Take that so-called "Gospel of Judas" for example. It got 6pm news coverage. It was a TV star as breaking news at Easter time 2006 (even though it was first dug up in 1972). It was championed as yet another "missing gospel" that sheds "new light" on the life of JC. It provided further "proof" that the Biblical gospels are not the only ones.

Never mind that it's yet another meaningless pile of drivel written by third century weirdos with way too much spare time on their hands. Never mind that many of these so-called gospels are practically for sale on Ebay. Never mind that they lie about who wrote them. Never mind that the four biblical ones are the only ones that actually make any sense or can be historically verified. Oh no, this is one should be taken seriously. Why? Because it says Jesus was into all sorts of stuff, went astral travelling, believed in faires, and was quite possibly a bhuddist. It promotes "diversity".

Yep, it promotes diversity all right. It's so diverse it makes no actual sense at all. You can't get more diverse than that. The less it's got to say, the more diverse it is. That's the whole idea. Don't believe in one thing, believe in everything. If you do, you're diverse. If you don't, you're a bigot. Geddit? Good.

Using this logic, one day archeologists will dig up the lyrics to Sympathy for the Devil and suggest they have found yet another "missing gospel".

Satan disguised as Elizabeth Hurley. Clever.

So, I suspect this obsession with diversity has lead to this political protection of the Prince of Darkness himself. He's on the "vulnerable" list now. An official reconciliation, if you will. "Welcome to the boys club, Satan me ol' chum, and sorry about all the exorcisms".

According to our own government, Beezelbub himself is just misunderstood. All those thousands of years of evil, manipulation, mass destruction, murder, deception were just his reaction to being unfairly ostracised. Poor Satan. He has feelings too, you know.

Just like poor old Shane Warne. When he made sexually obscene phone calls and mucked around with prostitutes, setting a superb example for Australia's kiddies and buggering his marriage, he was just being a "larrikin". Good ol' Shaney. Our Warney. One of the lads!

Mick Jagger was really on to something. He was trying to be tongue-in-cheek. Now Sympathy for the Devil is the Greens' anthem. Now it's actually happened. It's been legislated under the Environment Protection and Biodiversity Act. See what I mean? Bio-DIVERSITY.

And the "Environment" eh? I always knew nature-worshippers were all Satanists.

I can see it coming. Pastors all over Australia will be locked up for calling him "the enemy". Finally, they've found a law with which to shut up Fred Nile.

Oh wait... here's the headline again... "The Federal Government has formally listed the TASMANIAN devil as a vulnerable species..."

Oopsie.

Now he can go on a killing spree

Meet Max, my insane friend

I hope no law enforcement people read my blog.

On Anzac Day, after remembering the fallen, I set off to the office with Becky and Sam, to get them out of Mum's hair. Omi was off riding horses with her new horsey friend.

No, I wasn't being a workaholic. I had transferred Max to the warehouse in readiness for a CAMS logbook inspection and needed to finish off a few things on him.

Yes, I call my race kart "Max". Very unoriginal since the engine model name is FR125 Max. So I am sure I am not the first. I have also been known to occasionally talk to him. It. Whatever.

Sam and Becky rode around the warehouse on bikes, building ramps and generally trying to hurt themselves. Business as usual.

I know it doesn't look like it but Max needs to lose weight

Max was all prepped and ready for, I hope, a trip to Winton on Friday for a practice. But I thought, maybe I should make sure the engine will fire up. So I did, and Max made all the right noises.

Then I thought, I can struggle Max down off his stand and just get him moving around the warehouse and maybe out into the carpark. With Phillip Island gearing, it's not going to get off the slipping clutch but at least I can check steering alignment and ensure the clutch is working and make sure the new bodywork isn't bottoming out. So I did.

Then I thought, well, my office's industrial street is all but deserted on public holidays. The road is about as long as Phillip Island's main straight (although the views are not as nice). Maybe if I can get him down the kerbing onto the road I can just stretch his legs. Just once, to make sure everything's working.

With such tall gearing and dry clutch it was like this; Max and I drone down the road, building up speed very, very slowly. Eventually I feel the clutch grab and the engine driving directly, but still the motor is way off it's powerband so he continues to lazily, almost embarrasingly accelerate. He's vibrating so much I almost cannot focus.

I reckon watching these karts in a race from a standing start to turn one will resemble an army of elderlies on their buggys heading to the bank on pension day.

Then, I estimate at around 90 kays (your scale of speed is distorted at that height, or just when you're driving a small race vehicle illegally on a public road) Max jumps out of the phone box with his superman cape on. He lights up his big wick and takes off like a missile. Everything gets smooth, and violently fast. Verrrry bloooooody faaaaaasst.

Max didn't stop accelerating. By the time I went screaming past the warehouse, and a wide-eyed Becky and Sam, it must have been around 140km/h.

So there you are. 0-100km/h will take up most of your lunch break. 100km/h to Lord knows what...in a nanosecond.

I've always wanted to drive something that scares the absolute knackers out of me. I think I've found it.