¡MAN ABROAD!

Welcome Back Arsehole: Tales Of Woe From An Ex-Gringo

2010-09-28T07:54:00.015-03:00

Unceremoniously stripped and beaten of my celebrity Man Hero status not only as an Australian but THE Australian. A piece of novelty colonial outpost candy living large, almost Van Halen-like amongst a smoldering, heaving mass of Latino devotees. The prodigal Man Among Men, the Exotic Traveller, the Quintessence of Quintessence, the Other Hemispherer. I was the needle in the haystack. I put the awe in awesomenessness. I was my own avatar. But now, thrown back into the dirty Fish Tank of Normalness from whence sprung, I am floundering pathetically upon my re-acquaintance with averageness. The nauseating aroma of being Bog Standard. Middle-of-the-road-kill. A lackluster blockbuster. Remarkably unremarkable. The vanilla end of the spectrum.

Welcome back indeed, motherfucker.

You aren't different, you aren't special. You're just a regular, leather clad, hipster Wank Master like everyone else here. What's that? You're bilingual? Who gives a shit — this is Australia mate. The power to impress entire races of people just by opening my mouth and spilling a few phrases smothered with a previously unheard of nether-regions accent; gone. Just fucking gone.

Like a luckless albino child with elephant ears and an obscene case of hirsutism forced to wear coke bottle glasses; I feel outcast and side-show-freaky, struggling to see ahead of me through the inches of glass.

Like a topless celebrity caught on camera shitting against an alley wall. I'm pretty low at the mo. My fancy pants are ruined but I can't afford new ones.

Like a poor defenseless shark stabbed in the back of the head by an amphibious ninja; I feel vulnerable and exposed, even in my own neighbourhood.

Like a ghost heinously molested in a dark alley; I feel hollow and alone, pale and useless.

Like a parent being handed their newborn for the first time and realising it's a complete and utter mongrel — the disappointment is tangible; a mat of furry disillusionment.

Like an irony hating missionary forced to watch Naughty Housewife Missionary Madness Volumes 1-7; lines have been crossed from which I can never return.

I spend most of my time under a tree in variations of the classic Seated Fetal Position, trying to imagine the smell of freshly oven baked empanadas in one hand with cheap-as-shit litres of working class beer in the other.

And when not there, I'm down at the jetty in standard, dramatic Man Crisis Pose. Milking it like a little dairy maid for all passers-by. Is he going to jump? Is he going to heave his aching heart into the churning ocean? Or is he drunk and demonstrating an impressive case of Public Stand-Sleeping?

The glass isn't half full or half empty; it's half smashed on the toilet floor — I dropped it when I mistakenly tried to switch from the toilet to the bidet that we don't use in our "more advanced" culture (we are so filthily filthy and dirty). There's no place like home? Guess again fuckface. Like sands through the hour glass John Doe are the days of your lives. You think Robocop really wanted to be a man again after he got upgraded to semi-fucking-invincible-cyborg status? You reckon Pinocchio actually wanted to be a real boy when he could break somebody's arm just by high-fiving them? Do you truly believe that Donatello and his crime fighting brethren weren't ecstatic that they got smeared in toxic goo and magically turned from sewer dwelling turd munchers into badarse, humanoid-ish suburban ninjas? You are a fool, only fooling yourself by being foolish.

But to Captain Arse Hat & His Goober Troopers, I insist; Worry Not. As they say, you can't keep a good ego down, especially not an alter ego. I can feel it already, deep in the pits of my Man Bowels. There are buns of optimism already firming in the oven — they just need a little longer before I set the table and serve them.

So, be that as it may or may not probably be like, stay posted for extreme, over the top, hanging from the ceiling, wailing Man Ecstasy coming your way soon. An extravaganza of awesome shooting you in the face as you try, in vain, to run for cover. If necessity is the mother of invention then surely excess is the second cousin's step-cousin of superfluousness. Don't count your chickens before they hatch unless, of course, you a reasonably sure that they will. It takes two to tango but only one to break dance naked in the bathroom. When the going gets tough the buff get the good stuff. As the old Toaist saying goes; Once at peace with yourself you will be at peace with the world, only then can you force your will upon it.

And as that chick that looks like a dude holding a breakfast bar once told me through the boob tube; If you dream, you believe, you create, you succeed.

Mr Regalos

2010-08-23T23:38:00.010-03:00

People of Australia: Santa is dead.

His body was found half eaten by his own reindeer in his north pole workshop and so utterly destroyed that discovering exactly HOW he died will be nigh on impossible. Some say his own servants—midget slaves and malnourished beasts of burden—where the culprits. Others say it was AIDS. Personally, I don't give a shit.

But never fear, you wretched, hidebound plebs. You can continue to abstractly celebrate the birth of some long-dead-redundant-public-speaker through the medium of Present Giving For The Aim Of Present Receiving. Here he is, the New Face of Seasonal Holidays, the replacement (and possible dispatcher) of that Man Beast himself; Jolly Old Saint Nicholas — the mighty Mr Regalos.

He has no workshop with midgets, starving animals or a haggard, toothless old crone for a consort. He hates cold weather, can't get fat due to a metabolic condition and has a fear of heights. He will not appear, simultaneously, in shopping malls all around the world listening to snot-nosed punks ask for Shit-They-Don't-Need or a newer version of Shit-They-Already-Have. He has a strict Get-What-You're-Fucking-Given-Policy.

He buys his mainly hand-made presents at low prices in povo countries (using superior foreign currencies) and gives them out in richer countries (or sells them on at a price that is practically giving them away).

His origins are somewhat enigmatic-ish. Some say he was born many, many years ago in an outer suburban car park to a couple of 8th Generation Illuminated Plate-Hat Wearing Dutch Immigrants. And in place of a gooey, rancid placenta, he was squeezed out divinely wrapped in the most pure, crease-less and awe-inspiring heavenly fabrics. Peasants travelled from all around to witness this angelic child, enveloped in superb sacrosanct fibres.

During his Pubertyzing Years it is said Mr Regalos travelled the world preaching the benefits of Natural Filament-al Perfection to the masses, cradling lambs, slagging off fat people and doctrines stating that Consciousness and Will are wholly due to material agency — paying his way via competing in illegal underground Man Vs Animal Fighting.

A man of Otherwordly Vision, he plays by rules set by no man except the one man who sets his rules; him. He won't come down your chimney as he says "that's retarded and my cape will get dirty", but rather break into your house at whatever time he feels like. But be warned, he hates animals and especially children and if confronted and SEEN (equaling provocation to him) he will attack, by any means necessary, to any end. He is also, somehow, protected by law so perhaps best that you lock your extended family in a Panic Room or Undergound Bunker or, better yet, leave town on your suspected Delivery/Break In Night.

He has developed his own private army of 'aggressive gift givers' called the Regalos Rangers to help with deliveries when his gout flares up and has to slow down on his Break & Enters. These Regalos Rangers are also to be avoided at all costs. Sure, they look pretty with all those colours but they WILL karate chop your pet or child into a raggard sack of shattered Weet Bix if hindered.

However, plans are afoot to render his inherent lack of will and other gouty afflictions redundant with a new robotic 18 foot high powersuit—dubbed Regalatron—that shoots presents at high velocity up to 5 kilometres. Meaning in high density apartment living areas he can simply perch himself at distant vantage points and shoot Projectile Gifts through windows for ultimate efficiency.

And if you insist on leaving something for Mr Regalos to snack on, don't you dare put out milk and biscuits as you and your extended family will regret it, forever. He is partial to oven warmed empanadas (meat, ham and cheese or even, at a pinch, chicken) — DO NOT microwave them, whatever you fucking do. Lay this out with at least one long neck of your local working class beer and you should avoid controversy.

A wholesome Man Of Nature, he sees no need in senseless production-for-productions-sake. Looking at the North Pole Stocks, he saw that Planet Earth, even taking into account approximated human population expansion, has in the vicinity of 73 years of pre-printed Christmas cards in storage. That fat old bearded bastard sure had fucking tickets on himself. So what did this mysterious Man of Outstandingness do? He went ahead and overprinted every single one of the 73 years worth of cards with ecologically sound inks made from crushed insects and whale tears.

And word has it that unlike his deceased, obese predecessor, Mr Regalos ain't into whoring himself Corporate Style as he has "other fruitful investments" releasing him of need for those vile acts. He has also publicly commented that "he fucking hates Coca Cola" and would rather drink "carbonated bin juice out of a used douche bag", describing Santa Claus as The Poster Boy for Diabetes.

In the Spirit of Festiveness, Mr Regalos as also turned his musical talents to a new and catchy Festive Song:

Regalatron is Coming to Town

Oh! You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not bag gout
I'm fucking tell you why
Regalatron is coming to town

He's making his hit list
And spell checking it twice
Gonna find out how your organs will price
Regalatron is coming to town

He CCTV's you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're choking snake
He knows if you've been badass or good
So be good or bones will break

Oh! You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not be a boy scout
I'm fucking tell you why
Regalatron is coming to town

Mr Regalos — Bringing Fear And Fair Trade Back Into Seasonal Holidays.

Man Abroad’s Badarse Illustrated Easy-As-Shit Guide to Speaking Street Savvy & Seriously Man-Tough Spanish Easily

2010-08-05T17:30:00.018-03:00

In the interests of Furthering Cross-Cultural Education, I have endeavoured, and succeeded, to create a Visual System of Learning to help foreigners integrate themselves into Spanish speaking cultures. This series called Man Abroad’s Badarse Illustrated Easy-As-Shit Guide to Speaking Street Savvy & Seriously Man-Tough Spanish Easily (MABIEASGSSS&SMTSE) focuses on essential "day-to-day" phrases to help give you speaking Power and Credibility. For a modest price—and a modest effort—you can feel the power and reap the satisfying rewards of smiting someone viciously in their own language. Without exception, 100% of all the proceeds of the sale of this Important Educational Tool go directly to Man Abroad to alleviate his debt and feed his various addictions.

Man Ballads of Loveness — poems from The Man Abroad Book Of Poems 'N Other Stuff Of A Sexy Nature

2010-07-24T15:49:00.010-03:00

Having well and truly kicked blogging's arse I thought, Why not have a stab at poetry? Can't be that fucking hard. And you know what? It wasn't that hard, as I think you'll agree. My only regret is I won't have enough time to translate it into Spanish and reap the sweet Latin rewards here in Argentina. Go grab a large box of triple-ply Kleenex, motherfuckers, cos you're gonna need 'em.

........................................................
If you were...
By Man Abroad

If you were a bin, I'd be the rubbish, filling you completely
If you were a tropical rash, I'd be the ointment, laying tenderly on top of you
If you were a shashlik, I'd be the skewer, holding you together

If you were a toilet, I'd be the bidet, remaining always at your side
If you were up Shit Creek, I'd be the paddle, giving you direction and hope
If you were a wilderbeest, I'd be the oxpecker, grooming your back for parasites

If you were a gun wound, I'd be the bullet, resting gently inside you
If you were a drunken school girl, I'd be the headband, keeping puke out of your hair
If you were a monkey wearing a hat, I'd be the cigarette in your mouth, increasing your credibility

If you were a crime scene, I'd be the yellow tape, keeping you secure
If you were a sauna, I'd be the unemployed, undies-clad Gringo relaxing inside you
If you were road kill, I'd be the dude that gets out of his car and kicks you to the side, so the birds can eat you as nature intended it

If you were a urinal, I'd be the little yellow cakes, retaining your cleanliness and purity
If you were a Fundamentalist Christian, I'd be your esoteric dogma, keeping your bullshit afloat
If you were a magazine rack, I'd be the ONLY magazine, Men's Health, draped lovingly upon you

If you were here, I'd be there too, just being awesome

........................................................
Dangerous Latin Lady
By Man Abroad

Cheap booze and second hand smoke
Leather-clad, lone wolf Gringo strikes as shady
Just a badarse, tight pants donned bloke
Looking for a dangerous Latin lady

Broken speech and phrases crude
Don't want no fucking Latin Marcia Brady
Witness the dicey ruse unfurl from a dude
Looking for a dangerous Latin lady

Liquor and bar room clouds conceal
Whether that bird's mug is somewhat spady
Perhaps an internet search has more appeal
Looking for a dangerous Latin lady

........................................................
Rivers of Empanadas
By Man Abroad

Pungent tangs smack the chops
Like yellow, triangulated jabs
Onwards flow the toothsome
Rivers of empanadas

Gather the creatures of Eden
Wed in petite golden Arks
Dock the Crafts of Savor on the
Rivers of empanadas

When overwhelmed by the evil
Spirits in the Moonshine
I disrobe as for a healing dip amongst
Rivers of empanadas

Emerge like a freshly squeezed out newborn
Breadbasket swarming with sexy flaxen angels
Breakdancing in league downstream as
Rivers of empanadas

Man Abroad Sketchbook Release 2: The Second Release

2010-07-22T16:53:00.000-03:00

The mighty 50th ground breaking post of Man Abroad. To highlight this impressive milestone, once more, we at Man Abroad have spent many hundreds of hours painfully, and unnecessarily airbrushing more genius up from the Mystical Opus known only as the Man Abroad Sketchbook. Please feel free to improve your lives by taking in some of the most profoundly awesome statements on existentialismness-ness ever put forward, by anyone, ever, in time and/or space, ever.

Man Abroad Accepted into the Brother Wizard Society Chamber of Marvel for Extreme Awesomeness in the Field of Montage Wizardry

2010-07-09T15:14:00.019-03:00

It's finally happened people. My Digital Necromancing Genius has opened the most important door there is: The Wizard Society Portal. Being the ignorant bunch of pettifogging fools that you are, I wouldn't not be surprised if you've not even heard of The Wizard Society. So let me get you up to speed. They are the most important human beings currently on the planet, a collection of Bearded Masterminds using their significant intellects to advance the human race and fund themselves through intricate internet scams (castles aren't cheap you know). The headquarters are in a secret mountain location guarded by genetically mutated Dobermans. These Dober Men are bigger than Arabian horses, can drive motorbikes and have the dexterity to shoot steel capped rubber bullets at full speed to ensure no unwelcome "tourists" bother the Brother Wizards whilst they go about their important work. And in a Twist Of Awesome, not only am I the youngest and best looking Brother Wizard but am the first to be accepted Without Application. That's right, I was headhunted by Brother Headhunter himself.

Here you can see me and some fellow Brothers one night went we into the forest the Conduct Magic (Wednesday night is Forest Night). I won't elaborate, you wouldn't get it. But most of the cool gang are shown here in Wizardic Order (probably a bit beyond your comprehension as it is highly complex and has no earthly points of reference): Warbutt The Nerf Herder, Bidet The Immaculate B Hind, Raven The Clean Shaven Maven, Gunther The Romantic Necrophile, Steven The Little Man, Peter The Brother Brother Of Steven The Little Man, Mal E Factor The Wrongdoerer, Manhug The Macerator, Pinworm The Intruder Duder and John Smith The Homogenist.

Here is my official Certificate of Brotherness. It's the size of a double bed and it was intricately face gnawed (or Chopper Chiseled) out of dragon ivory by three Virgin Maidens of the CC Art in the mountains surrounding the Brother Wizard Headquarters. More of a monument really, it recalls all the Trials And Tribulations of my ascendancy to Brotherhood. It lights up at night and plays Van Halen automatically whenever I am within 5 metres of it. The central panel also beds a Plasma Screen so I can watch cartoons and cage fighting whilst conducting magic in the comfort of my own Magical Nightgown.

Of course Photoshop creamed their jeans and insisted on a Special Issue to commemorate the occasion. Inside I discuss the Power Of Montage from my perspective as a Sorcerer of Magnitude. There is also a 3/4 life size pull out poster of yours truly mounted on a horse, staff in hand; one for the kitchen wall I say (or bedroom for all you single ladies). And the tightwads gave me nuthin for it, not even a fucking mouse pad. There will be Necromantic Retribution of the Highest Order, don't you worry about that.

Here is a power shot of the Brother Wizard Society Chamber of Marvel Headquarters. That's me riding with one of the Lady Wizards, and sister of Raven The Clean Shaven Maven; Haven The Clean Shaven Maven (she prefers to ride naked — and who am I, or her stallion, to argue?). An impressive looking construction wouldn't you say? I do believe they call it a Castle. But in a delicious twist, the original Grandmaster Brother that commissioned it as the Official Headquarters many hundreds of years ago, also strangely insisted it be made entirely from Ginger Bread with Confection Detailing. An interesting and truly Wizard idea, I'll confess, but the day-to-day practical issues of an entire, functioning castle made from ginger bread is quite shocking. We have diabetic rat plagues of unimaginable proportions and the fucking pigeons eat all the frosted barbed wire. That being said it does smell nice, especially on a hot summers day.

I was assigned a Brother Sidekick whom is supposed to undertake all my bidding, an underling as it were. His name is Bullwad the Adept Transmuter. He's a Gay Minotaur and I hate him. He's got identity issues of the likes I've never seen before and cries all the time, dribbling bull snot all over the place. I'm not sure what an Adept Transmuter is supposed to do, but unless it's crying, he doesn't fucking do it. I asked him to make me a Dulce de Leche Frappachino and fetch some Scotch Fingers the other day while I was balls deep in a session of Wizardry. And you wanna know what the half-caste fucker brought me (45 minutes later)? He stumbles in with an over-frothed Cafe Fucking Vienna and Dick Smith Imitation "Dick" Fingers! So I threw them at him, kicked him in the man udder and stormed out, Wizard Style.

And I'm seriously doubting what constitutes "Gayness" to a Minotaur, as one afternoon after doing Wizard Stuff I came back to my bungalo to find Bullwad naked with Wanda The Wonder (that's the Grandmaster Brother Wizard's daughter) apparently conducting a Bull & Horn Massage that requires EVERYONE to be naked. Either I need to get my head around Wizard Ethics or he's not Gay and she's a Wizard Slut.

And as you know, a Wizard ain't nuthin without a Staff in his man-ish grip. After Brother Acceptance, but before Brother Initiation, a Wizard develops his own Private Staff with the The Wizard Society's Brother Staff Master; Brother Staff Master. I sent him an email outlining my requests for what I would consider the Perfect Staff:

And THIS is the Pants Shitting Genius Level result. The Staff of Brother Man Abroad himself. Exquisite in it's detailing — the bear fur is as soft as butter (and for Wizard Level Impressions, those teeth open bottles), those tits feel real man, and at a pinch, those pirate guns are loaded and functioning. As to the other things the Staff does and can do, well, that would be very un-wizard like of me to disclose.

As per the norm in most Orders, there were a series of brutal Initiation Tests that I had to pass to rightly call myself a Brother Wizard; 1: seduce a Lady Wizard with a hand held Staff Performance, 2: subdue the Great Flaming Vagina in the Sky and, of course, 3: a good ol' fashioned Dragon Fight. I passed with flying colours, the best scores ever recorded. So good in fact, I was asked to put together a Powerpoint Presentation on the Trials that led to a Trilogy Of Books, to help fellow Brothers understand and prepare for their trials.

Available in a killer box set and with optional crooned audio tapes. It's a Must Have for any wannabe Wizard Kid.

And recently, Brother A Roma Of The Odor has developed the pinnacle in Cologne: Wizard for Calvin Klein. Guaranteed to force Lady Wizards into a competitive cesspool of violence just to get closer to your Divine Pheromones. Being the only non-deformed Brother and hence the most photogenic, I was the obvious choice as the Poster Boy of Wizard.

So there you have it people. You can now say you know a real Wizard. And no, you can't have a go on my staff. There have been known to be exceptionally exceptional exceptions to that rule however, if you know what I mean.

Now go away, I have some more Magic to do.

Hooked on a feeling

2010-07-02T13:45:00.005-03:00

One would assume that having had enough wrist slittingly horrible language barrier moments to sink a silicon laden Playboy Yacht that I would have a little sympathy for those other fellow pilgrims in the same harrowing boat. But guess what? I fucking get off on it. Nothing makes me feel more like a man, abroad, than meeting someone to whom, in comparison, I have Arse Kicking Spanish. And the more Superior-ally Cheek Punting, the bigger the rush. Forget drugs, forget booze, forget sopaipillas with blackberry jam, forget throwing rocks at chickens and chickens at sheep, forget that Bloggers Posting Rush, forget that liberating Latin littering feeling, forget stealing from disabled people, forget that first glance of your own beard in the morning, forget watching cartoons in bed Like A Man whilst eating chocolate biscuits and drinking whiskey on ice. The only stimulant I need to get my dose of Shits 'n Giggles these days is meeting the poor suckers on the lower levels of the Spanish Speaking Tree.

That blank, slowly nodding look on their face as they try to Arse Their Way Through A Conversation. I know what they are really thinking: What the FUCK is this good-looking bearded guy saying to me? If I nod and refrain from commenting will that seem like I am all-knowing and intelligent or will I look like a big bag of moron? I hope you like failure butt cracks — you’re gonna feast on that bitter tasting inadequacy for breakfast, brunch, lunch, after noon tea, all manner of snackages and dinner for a long time until you just pack in and quit because I seriously doubt that you have Bearded Fortitude to fight your way through it. Ohhhhhh, I could go a hit of that sweet stuff right now — makes me wanna get up and dance. Maybe I’ll start hanging out at the airport just to get a hit of fresh gringos as they step off the plane. And why not just stay there so I can have that stuff on tap all day, you know, live in the airport. That'll save me some dosh. I’ll be like Tom Hanks in that other really bad movie of his were he hangs it in the airport for months. The only difference being I’ll not be a Grade-A Tosser, I’ll be bearded and befriend all the food and beverage vendors who’ll hi-five me and give me free shit.

And the new sensation currently rocking my world is a specifically Argentinian feeling. Everytime you go into a shop and ask someone something, not matter how well executed, if they have even heard an English word at some point in their life they will say; Would you like it in English or Spanish? (or they jump straight into English like arrogant fuckers). It annoys me no end because I am trying to practice and I always continue to speak in Spanish anyway. But now I am getting to the stage where they fucking crash and burn English-wise right in front of my deliciously satisfied eyes before they try to sneaky reach around back unnoticed into Spanish. Can you imagine my tickled pink elation at such hands down defeat? I get man shivers just thinking about it. That being said there are plenty of steadfastly conceited wank-off shop assistants that persist in their futile English plight due to the fact they obviously have no idea what they are saying. Especially that Human Bitch Slap at the mobile phone shop in La Boca. I came THIS close to jumping the counter and phone whipping him back into the Chimpanze's Arse he crawled out of as he shot bullets of nonsensical English-sounding sounds at me. For example:

Me: What’s a normal minute call rate inside Argentina?
 Fuckface: Very Amacious
Me: Huh?… right. If I can’t remember my number can we still recharge it? 
Fuckface: Congratulations
Me: Congratulations? What?
 Fuckface: Ha ha ha. Ahhhh, nice done
Me: I don't understand what you're talking about? Speak in Spanish man, then maybe I'll understand you?
Fuckface: Hahaha. Where you come from?
Me: What? I'm bloody Australian. Do you even work here? Speak Spanish dude so I can get out of this creepy Cellular Themed Man Dungeon
Fuckface: Ahhh! Kangaroo si?
Me: Uhhhhhh. Don't do this man, I can't handle it right now!
Fuckface: You have Kangaroo one in house?
Me: I'm serious man! You want cliches? I'll go all Russell Crowe on your arse!
Fuckface: So speak you Germanian?
Me: WHAT! That's English you're failing miserably to speak to me man. AUSTRALIA IS NOT IN FUCKING EUROPE. Fuck geography AND linguistics. In fact, fuck you too — and stop looking at my chest when you talk to me? Why are you even doing that? What kind of jiggery pokery are you playing at here? Shit, I've seen Pulp Fiction enough times to see where this is going. I'm outta here
Fuckface: Ok! See you later
Me: [you will definitely NOT fucking see me ever again arsebag]

This is more or less an accurate account of how Shit Went Down. I just recited my English phrases too fast and Malcolm Douglas accented for that jock strap to grasp. That was a somewhat aggressive Man Tangent in what is supposed to be a Self Congratulatory Love Piece and for that I apologize. Ipso facto, I am awesome. Goodnight and fuck you.

Words from a Man in Leather Kick Arse Together

2010-06-26T21:09:00.006-03:00

For one to see the way that things are truly to be seen, one needs to alienate themselves from the everyday rough and tumble, the too a fro, the hither and thither. Human interaction, a stable diet and tinea free hot showers need to be nipped in the butt as a mere starting point. Then, once you feel the warm guiding hand of isolation and discomfort night-sticking you from behind will you truly feel the cookie crumbling around you. Step into your terrestrial moonsuit and walk freely amongst the raining, hard baked dough with a discerning eye as you feel the malevolent drizzle fall upon you like a wild bear on a peanut butter covered school boy. Take heed, dear drifter, let nature take its course and sense the mighty sting of the all powerful cosmos as it dishes out pre-pubescent smiting.

The art of writing is indeed akin to the quintessential ceramic reunion, you've got to want it, want to push yourself out there like a ready made stool, docked and ready for departure. Perhaps considered high dining in a literary sense, a man omnipotently riding his keys is more dangerous than a wronged German Shepard with a loaded shotgun and vengeance on its primitive canine mind. As I compose this thought provoking, one man, razor edged social-political commentary, I am indulging in my newest favourite, invisible-bowtie-wearing gentlemanly pursuit; swilling whiskey on ice in a bar with pen and paper at the ready. Of course, scattered artfully across the table are high brow literary classics with man glasses folded and perched adjacent to the mighty Art Directing Tumbler. Contemporary icing on the cake? Beard and Black Sabbath shirt combo, signifying the cutting-edge-new-age-cutting-edge. People glance, lingeringly, and deduce that I am some sort of Maverick Somebody, and they are indeed on the money. Like a bearded, street dwelling chameleon (currently sporting a two wheeler induced uneven gait), I adhere to the shadows (drinking whiskey on ice), absorbing the identity of all that upon which I pass.

See that dude walking past just now? He thinks he knows the score, the way lady luck dances, walking around like a llama with six legs with nothing to do. It's a shonky and ill conceived facade, a thin Choc Top like veneer of confidence that can't be survived without shoddy plastic sunglasses picked by his cheeseparing and donkey faced girlfriend and unnecessarily brittle, retarded, underpaid circus monkey laughter. Was that a dismissive sneer bearing towards me? Surely it was something more ambivalent than that if you are sauntering around as a grown man in that suburban Peter Pan outfit, bro? Remember, the longest and most pedestrian of journeys begins with one board short clad step, my dear unexceptional (and unbearded) friend. As a Writer-ion of fact-ion, I am acutely aware of other peoples faults, they slap me in the face like a flaccid and unwelcome Midnight Weiner Attack. And as to not be overwhelmed with other peoples accumulated averageness, I seek refuge in the mighty embrace of holier things; fictional big titted heroines, eye patch wearing space captains and whiskey on ice, then, and only then, do I feel the genesis of Universal Genius flow through me like an out of control rabid river of awesome.

I think that is something we can all drink to.

Man Abroad Global Patented Crotch Deployed Anti-Farm Dog Protection

2010-06-14T12:14:00.009-03:00

I have spent enough time in South American to respect and fear the power of DOG. And none so more than the rabidly unpredictable Farm Dog, capable of jumping you unawares on your mountain bike like a hairy, foaming, four legged ninja. They are also known to work in packs, similar to the much feared human Gringo Hunters (maybe they went to the same school?), to up their ferocity and ensure you shit your pants as a minimum whilst they rips chunks of dignity from you.

With my own interests in safety first, commerce second, that leaves YOU, the general public, at a respectable third. Ideas a plenty, I locked down into an intensive One Man Research And Think Tank. Now I emerge with a complete range of moderately priced, Never-Fail Crotch Deployed Guarantees to clinch 100% victory in all potential Dog Attacks.

As long as you are wearing both pants AND a metal zipped pair (no buttons — otherwise the puppies can't get out) you'll be laughing your arse off as events turn your way and you watch that rabid canine get midget beaten, lasered, burnt or an exciting combination of. Without further ado...

Hot Crotch Pump Action Dog Seeking Laser Cannon
Once again, Nasa technology finds use back here on Planet Earth. Originally designed to melt potentially deadly asteroids, Man Abroad Enterprises illegally downloaded the blueprints, sent them to Poland with a cheque for $75 Australian and awaited the posted electromagnetically radiating goods. Not only will you kill the potentially encephalitis educing beast but you will gain the satisfying man feeling of completely vaporising another living creature — a feeling once isolated to the fictitiously sexy realms of Star Trek is now yours to own and revel in.

Rocky Balboa Hydraulic Crotch Fed Snout Jab
Feel the Eye Of The Tiger as a 2 foot, talking Rocky Balboa shoots, hydraulically, from your denim clad tiger den and delivers a guaranteed TKO punch snout side to your four legged opponent. Feel like a true champion as your crotch dwelling Italian Stallion delivers the fatal blow screaming Your gonna eat lightning, and you're gonna crap thunder!

Crotch Launched, Genderless Sex Puppy Distraction
Watch your once fuming, now frothing attacker change tact instantly as it's bedazzled by half a dozen sex puppies spewing from your groinal region. Trained in the high art of Fatal Seduction, the assailant (even desexed) will succumb to the pheromone dripping pups. These Canine Sirens seduce with sexy Dog Whimperings and Arse Parades, but unlike their Greek Demi-God counterparts, they don't lure their victims to kill themselves by drowning or shipwreck, but, in a slightly less sexy manner, they suddenly turn, fall upon and devour the victim like a fat chick, alone at a Sizzler Buffet.

Groined Chained Elvis Chimp With Ninja DK Donkey Punch Combo
Confuse your adversary with a class act, groin chained chimpanzee Elvis show whilst Donkey Kong slips out unnoticed, ninja-ly gaining the canine's rear before Donkey Punching the bastard into oblivion. Demonstrate the superior power of Simian DNA to this inferior Canis lupus familiaris as you triple team your way to certain victory with an awesome soundtrack.

Crotch Deployed Midget Street Fighters
Feel the power of the worlds best groined sized fighters as they gang beat your adversary into a Doggy Bag of Pain. These are, undoubtably, some of the most dangerous street fighters in the world and will spare no pains in special combo-ing your four legged fiend solely for the Honour Of It. Stand back and enjoy the show as you see your foe Shoryu-ken'd into a flaming shit pile amongst screams of 'Anyone who opposes me will be destroyed' and 'A clenched fist speaks louder than a hundred words.'

Now you can walk and ride the countryside in smirky comfort — safe in the knowledge that your pants pack the firepower to crush, in an amusing and affordable manner, any and all Dog Attacks.

Thank you and you're welcome.

San Pedro Enlightened Cactus Eating Man Pilgrimage to the Stars and Beyond 'n Shit and Back Again

2010-06-04T14:35:00.013-03:00

Hands down panties the most off chops entry from your beloved Man Abroad to date EVER. No holds barred, pant-less exposure on this one. There are, of course, a COUPLE of exceptions, so truly circus bizarre and Man Embarrassing that they'll remain in the Director's Director's Cut for eternity and then moved somewhere else after that.

So, in Cusco, Peru, we (me and a bunch of people I don't know i.e. STRANGERS) rock up to some country hill-top hippie getaway from the daily grind of being a hill-bottom hippie. Then we drink a fucking tumbler size glass of this boiled cactus shit that looks like Llama snot mixed with Peruvian effluent but tastes infinitely worse. And we couldn't eat anything for 12 hours previously. Recipe for a fucking disaster-piece. Generally illegal in most parts of the world (consumptively speaking — you can have 50 on your window sill if you're that way inclined), the Peruvians have used it for thousands of years in ceremonies to Clean The Body And Spirit. Among other things it contains the well known space cadet agent MESCALINE.

Please bare in mind, arseholes, that this was written, collectively, over 12 hours on the laptop, notepad and cerebrum and has now been collated and delicately manipulated to its present awesome form.

I make no apologies for repeatedly repulsive language.

PHASE 1:
What the fuck am I doing? A.K.A. Put a bullet in me

Want to die and vomit or vomit then die, one or the other. Sorry, not vomit but "CLEANSE". That's what the hippies call it. I call it straight out fucking nausea you bastards. Or maybe I just drank a whole foot of boiled Cactus and have, oh I don't know... FOOD FUCKING POISONING. Who's face do I claw off for this crippling privilege. JESUS MEGA MAN CHRIST. Walk it off man. WALK IT OFF!

Just tried to yak like a school girl in the toilet rather than the Hippie Return It To Earth By Chucking In The Garden Policy. No thanks. Don't want an audience of fucking STRANGERS for this performance to be honest.

Ok. Nothing came up and now my six pack hurts. This had better end soon you fuckers or I'm bringing out the Norris-Class Roundhouse and giving everyone a fucking shake down. Not to infuriate myself further but I DID pay 70 US for this arse whipping didn't I? Fucking hippies man!

PHASE 2:
What the fuck am I doing here? A.K.A. Put a bullet in me ANYWHERE YOU FUCKING LIKE

Oh my god. Still want to spill my cactus filled interiors all over the shop but now also feel the need to take our hippie Swedish Man Instructor up on his hug offer. That frank admission makes feel all wankery inside. But, thank Van Halen, the pessimist within me steadfastly refuses. Hug the nausea like a real man!

PHASE 3:
Thank fucken Moses! It's getting better

Got over the nausea pretty much. Sweet Strawberry Shortcakes! I thought I was Gone With The Wind for a second there (closer to 90 fucking minutes actually). Probably could still puke cactus, but can't be arsed to be honest. Easing onto Cruisy Street here. Abandoned writing with pen and paper as I can't read it or hold the fucking pen properly. Leave that for the Etymologists to decipher. Have to say, even I'm impressed with my spelling here [I have since fine tooth combed the crap out of this cock-sucker to maintain legibility — only the Original Documents maintain those authentic pearlers]

Fuck me! That chick is STILL vomiting? God damn — don't Cleanse too hard sweetcheeks or you'lll fucking evaporate. She's too bloody nervous, that's her problem. What's happening? Is this normal? Well I don't know dear, do you normally freak out? Are you uptight habitually? Methinks mmmmyes. Poor lass. EMRACE THE MADNESS (and stop retching — it's killing my buzz).

PHASE 4:
Enter the Shaman

The Shaman has woken (from that Shamanistic table dozing session over there) and is watching me type this (as I speak?) but hopefully the chilled out little fucker can't read English (as I barely can at this stage) or this could turn ugly. My fucking arms ain't working very well, but I'll type on for you fuckers (or is it for me? I can never remember).

One effect that is making me feel particularly Super Man Abroad Awesome is my peripheral vision. It's currently kicking cactus arses. If I stare straight ahead I can see the wind pick up and wave every thing back at me like a North Korean Flip Card Spectacular. Every fucking blade of grass. I can see thousands of them bastards Mexican waving at me: 'Hey nick — don't vomit, it's ok man'. Don't mock me you dirty Mexicans!

This "Guide Dude" is lighting the fire for the fucking fourth time. Newflash duder! It's going to go out again AGAIN cos your doing it fucking wrong. Even I know how to light a fire better than that, donkey boner. You got the structure wrong man. Stop stacking it like a fucking Witches Hat, you need some coal action down the frickn bottom to keep it raging... Alright, its fucking well on now. Well lit son.

The Shaman is BACK and he just said he DOES know English. Fuck, better turn the screen darker and ever so lightly away from him. THERE. Mooohahahahha. Who's the real Shaman here?

So I'm sitting to the side, with the Shaman, and, I'm glad to say, a raging fucking fire. Everyone else is in an obscene doona clad melee over yonder. Just me and my laptop. AGAIN. We've had some good times though haven't we baby? It just occurred to me that I have never given this beautiful, titanium back-lit mistress a name aftter all this time on the road. Ain't nothin for it! IMPROMPTU NAMI'N WORKSHOP. Ok, how about Grace or MacBitty or something saucy and dominating like iRonda? Quite fancy Grace to be honest but seems a little pompous, even for me. Can Macs gets damaged by smoke fire? Cos I cant see the fucking screen for the smoke at the moment. Hold in there Grace! Daddy's gotcha. I'll track your pad to safety!

I think I'm being tagged as the Technological Guy that is wasting his Spank Time on his laptop. Can't bare to separate himself from Modern Society. Well, arseholes, I can't USE pen and paper anymore and I am documenting this for Human Progress. Kind of like a Scientist really. You pedestrian members of society NEED people like me. Doing the hard yards, advancing the human race and all that jizz. So go suck it. Go bury yourselves in Mount Doona and Wig Out. Dr Man Abroad and Grace have some serious fucking work to do. And don't you DARE make fucking eye contact with me.

Ha! The fire's out AGAIN. Get back here arsebag and light it one more time for old times sake. Did I mention that they are using PLASTIC to kindle this fire? A slight hippie aberration no? BAM!

These three dogs are beautiful, but fuck, I can FEEL their limited intelligence. They are like super A.D.D. children on raspberry flavoured crack cocaine; can't concentrate, lick 'emselves like fiends and run around barking for the sake of it. Fucking idiots. And THAT fucker looks flea ridden to me... DON'T TOUCH ME DOG!

Van Halen! I'm fucking starving. I thought this cactus was a hunger suppressant? What's going on? With this fire and those dogs.... no man. Don't fucking go there. Haha. I wouldn't dare. Not with all these people around and all. Ok, I'm digging into the fruit stash ASAP. Just helping a mandarine undress here... oop... there ya go doll. Whoah! I maybe tanked here but THAT is a fucking average mandarine. Oh, Jesus! Like eating a goddamn pissed stained cardboard box. I think the Famine Level Hunger was a better option.

Guide Man just asked me if I want some more "medicine". As monkey fucked as I am right now, I still can't help but shudder and choke back bile when I hear that word. You mean more Cactus Drug man? Is that what you mean? No thanks "Doctor" I am sufficiently dented as is.

This man made garden is starting to get to me. Like a fucking zoo for plants. Seems so half arse fake. And all these fucking hippie craft market decorations. Dream Catcher! Wind Chimes! Stupid Shiny Crap Hanging from a Tree! Right. Gotta get outside into the REAL nature gear stylings.

PHASE 18:
Man Alone With Nature On A Mountain

There are so many cunts playing flute on this mountain! I think I might go spare. And they fucking suck monkey balls too. You're supposed to play to unwilling recipients AFTER you learn how to play dipshits. And the sad thing is I bet they aren't Peruvians but fickle Gringo wank offs trying to get in touch with a heritage that ain't theirs. BAM! Aren't there fucking mountains enough for you in California? DOUBLE BAM! Oh no you di'nt!

My Gods, have a fucking look at me. I am totally a wank off designer. Hook, line and sinker. Sitting on a fucking mountain, writing about sitting on a fucking mountain. Idiot. I'm getting nauseous again.

Fuckkk. I really did a number on my neck in Bolivia. Like there's a goddamn broad sword between my throat and my spine whilst it gets violently massaged by a gamy hoofed llama. That Death Road trip ain't as easy as it sounds.

Wait. Just WAIT a fucking second. This can't be... no.. NO! Ray Fucking Martin! I totally AM one of those arseholes that hand writes in capital letters all the time! OMG! OMFG! OMFGYFDWAHFW! I think I'm gonna pass out!

Phase 18, Part II:
Do Something To Expel Energy Before I Accidentally Kill Someone. And Make It Tough

Just spent 45 minutes looking for a suitably obscure place to do some Kung Fu and get myself all fucking Chi'd up n' shit. I may be as high as pink, diamonte-clad, Arabian Princess themed kite right now, but not high enough to NOT feel like a hippie dick bag doing martial arts in front of others.

That was a 45 minute session of no doubt the greatest fucking Kung Fu I have ever done. Shame no one can verify that really. I reckon I just invented another 27 instant death Mantis moves. However, walking up a rocky hill, sparring a Eucalyptus tree (fucking Aussie as!) like a rabid beaver WITH a hideously Bolivian Death Road Rolled Ankle is going to come back and bite me in the arse like a rabid beaver tomorrow methinks. VIVA HSTL!

PHASE 76:
That Was A Bad Idea Coming Back Inside

Back inside to hit up the lappy and begone with this cursed pen that writes all squiggly. Ok. Ready for Jesus Level Inspiration... NOW...

I... I... I just CAN'T fucking chill out with all these strangers here man. Fuck. Trying to mask my snidey, sneery face with over-squinting and extreme nail biting must make for a truly awful show indeed. I don't need this crap. Got to get OUTSIDE again where my style isn't cramped.

PHASE 76, Part III, Act 4:
Get the fuck back outside man!

Oh...OH OHHH! That's better.

Some hippie cunt just walked past me with a cocky, semi toothless What Is Dental Hygiene? grin on his unwashed gob. Fucking arsehole. Go suck a llamas.... Whoah! Easy fella. Maybe it was a genuine smile and he's just fucking ugly as sin? What am I talking about? Who gives a shit? Next.

I am both cold and not cold, if you catch my breezy drift? Like someone hosing you down whilst you wear a jumpsuit made from Glad Wrap. You're wet, but not really wet. Are you getting this?

It seems abundantly clear, especially today, that I only think in terms of Third Party Entertainment these days. Never mind about what happened, but how is Man Abroad gonna jazz that fucker up? And, if I am only thinking in these terms, then just WHO the fuck is this Third Party? Friends and arse-steamed colleagues to whom I have made it lavishly clear I love 'em but don't give a Wizard's Dream Catcher what they think? Then WHO? My sexy, bearded Primal Fear alter ego? Fuck, I tire of this gay line of questioning.

Dammit it to Tasmania! I wish I could fucking write or even bloody type faster. This is seriously shitting me. I'm raining genius here like a lactating udder here and so much is being spilled!

PHASE 50,0000:
The Apple

Return inside. Get the headphones on and the fucking Shaman comes over again. Gotta be polite I suppose and whatever. Music OFF. Nothing to say to the Shaman except offer the bastard an apple. Eating one a piece becomes our conversation. He bites, then chews, I wait a second and I bite, then chew. Then the fucker ups the anti and eats the whole bloody core. Can't be the wasteful non core eating westerner here. So we gots ourselves a fucking showdown. Ergo, I start eating parts of fruit I have never eaten before like a goddamn savage. Then he suddenly bails Shamanistically. So I throw the hideous and inedible remains of the apple in the fire while no one is looking.

Shit sticks! HE'S REAPPEARED like only a mountain dwelling Shaman could. My Spanish has almost totally abandoned me — that shows how deep that fucking sunk over 10 months. I reckon I could express myself better with only the use of the words FUCK and APPLE in English that 10 months of painfully accumulated Spanish.

PHASE: 89 BC
Oh fuck! I'm outside again? Got to go back in ASAP — heard some shit about soup

Ok, so there aren't really any hallucinations with this gear just colour shifts. Although... I do get the vague feeling that that tree over there is trying to seduce me. Which makes me feels reasonably self conscious. What the fuck does it think I'm gonna do? I don't know how to please a tree. And what the hell DO I get out of it? Some nasty grazing no doubt. It's not even the best looking tree here. Ok, moving on. BREAK EYE CONTACT WITH IT.

So, colourshifts. Like I'm in Photoshop with an image and keep fucking around with the Hue/Saturation cos I don't know what I'm doing. That's one for the nerds right there.

***This part went totally balls up and there is NO fucking way I'm letting those kitties out of the bag.

Mother Goose! It's getting dark-ish 'n that. Better unwedge my arse from this llama shit stained nook and get back inside with The Others. Yes, I am open minded enough to have a private (and expensive) mind altering experience but I am miles of chubby school children away from being Hippie enough to embrace other "Beautiful Spirits", also known as strangers, around me. Gimme a fucking break(fast bar)! Those other cunts better not have eaten all the soup.

OPERATION PHASE OUT:
Cab Ride Home

The Swedish MAN GUIDE just misunderstood me and said I can get some more cactus powder off him in his bedroom if I want to Ride The Wave further. I said No Fucking Thanks, Whatever You Are Implying Dude. Driving down this mountain and looking out across the city, I have to say that I am Third World Impressed in a dark, blurry kind of way. Those city lights are fucking amazing. That is, until you get close enough to one to see that it's lighting three skanky street dogs eating 8 weeks worth of piled up rubbish. Bigger picture man!

PHASE 80,000+:
Forget Fucking Phases Retard

Ditched those other fuckers finally and retreat to the Man Room to squeeze the last bit of genius juice outta this and REALLY fucking listen to some music. STILL starving though. I could eat an uncooked peruvian toddler right now. Mmmm that sweet juvenile flesh. Thaaaaaaaaat doesn't read well. MOVE ON. But toooo busy to eat just yet. Fuck my jaw hurts man! That must be due to the de-sexing Peruvian mountain winds I imagine.

The hard wired Australian inside me (deep inside me) wants a fucking beer. But my body is protesting severely. Swedish Boy did say one drink and you'll puke. Guaranteed. And that kind of makes sense really, when you consider that fact that in 24 hours I have eaten nothing but one foot of pureed cactus and a fucking apple. Need to eat dude before my jaw falls off. But have to go back and edit this Gospel Of Straight Shooting Genius before the tab runs out. But seriously, my jaw IS fucked. Gonna have to drink soup for a bloody week. I just put Philip Glass on the headphones — that's gonna end in tears for sure.

SYNOPSIS

I got too many issues and a overly active western mind to really HIPPIE out here and see SHIT as Van Halen intended. But I'm pessimistically western and jaded enough not to give a crap. And, I even repulsed MYSELF, by my gesticulating urge to document this experience in hand made doily detail so much so that I feel the NEED to Man Abroad every fucking detail of my life. And to whom? YOU fuckers? That's the REAL question here. But in all seriousnessness, it was good and I'd do it again but ALONE. No strangies thanks. Sure I felt spanked out for a good few hours, but felt controlled the whole time. Perhaps even more so than drinking. I held all conversations completely normal (I just had to filter the Pants Shitting Rainbow of topics I let out the bag).

I came in with a few deep Man Questions I wanted to answer. Can't remember what they were just now but I'm sure I glossed over them at some stage. Philip Glass is KILLING ME. Oh fuck; STEVO! I got Hans Zimmer Days of Thunder score!... and theeeeeere it is. Oh my god, I feel so fucking 80's! I can do ANYTHING.

My GODS I fucking REEK of Shaman smoke man. Quite nice really. Question: If your arse goes to sleep for too long can it die? Is that possible? Cos I'm dicing with it at the moment.

Fuck it! I'm going to go get something to eat before my face caves in.

Thaaaaaat's it. Just went and got a Non Hippie Guide Suggested hamburger from my local Cusco jaunt. I was so damn hungry I could feel my vital organs sacrificing themselves to the Acidy Devil known as my stomach. Awwww yeaaaah. That feels good. I must have bought 28 Peruvian burgers from that joint by now. I walk in there and he says 'Hey Nick' and now we're fucking ghetto handshaking as well. I, unfortunately, know him only as the Guy That's Doesn't Cook The Burger But Puts The Fucking Condiments On It. And you want to know what is really fucking creepy? We've made a Man Date to hang out tomorrow — THE DUDE THAT PUTS CONDIMENTS ON MY BURGER. May Van Halen have mercy on us all.

I need a dirty hot shower ASAP. Got to get this fucking Shaman smell off me.

Just caught a horrible glimpse of my ankle in the bathroom. Every colour in the goddamn rainbow is chillin on my foot like a pod of sun burnt beached whales. I'm a going to pay for that one for sure. I thought this Cactus was supposed to be healing? If I wake up tomorrow with a sack full of soggy blueberry porridge for a foot; I'm comin for ya, all guns blazing (after months of agonizing reconstruction surgery). And by the way, I bet the Icans had better hot fucking water than the sad state of affairs apparent these days. Like half hour old tea dribbling from a prostate plagued teapot that was.

Oh.... My.... GOD. I just drank a foot of cactus on an empty stomach and followed it with ONE fucking apple in 24 hours. I so got licorice arse tomorrow. Cactus Level Licorice Arse.

Thus ends almost 14 hours of Mind Spanking Boiled Cactus Induced Reflections. Fruitful wouldn't you say?

Operation Gringo Milking

2010-05-29T15:23:00.001-03:00

As sinister as a home delivered Turd Sandwich, this hard hitting scenario is the basis of the entire Bolivian tourism industry:

Man Abroad (MAB)
Bolivia (BOL)

SCENE 1
MA: Hello Bolivia, I was wondering if there was a toilet near here?
BOL: Hello sir, yes certainly, just down there to the right, then a left then a right then a right-right
MA: Ok... thank you
BOL: No problem. That'll be 5 Bolivianos
MA: Pardon? To use the toilet?
BOL: No, for the information
MA: What? But I haven't even unzipped my pants yet? What are you talking about?
BOL: No sir, that's just the way it is
MA: Stuff it. Alright... here you go [you little fucker]

SCENE 2
MA: Hello, is this the entrance to the toilet?
BOL: Yes sir, this is the entrance to the entrance of the toilet
MA: Hang on a sec there buddy, I don't think I understood that. This IS the toilet right?
BOL: Yes, it's 5 Bolivianos to enter the area where the toilet is
MA: Ughhh. If I give you the money can I do a fucking piss or what?
BOL: I don't understand sir, 5 Bolivianos to enter
MA: Chuck Fucking Norris! You people are mental, here you fucking go [you smarmy little cubicle dwelling investment arse banker]
BOL: Thank you sir
MA: Whatever

SCENE 3
MA: Hi, I need to go to the toilet — do I go through here?
BOL: Yes sir, that's 5 Bolivianos
MA: But I just paid THAT dude in the box 5 Bolivianos to go to the toilet
BOL: Yes sir, that's to enter the Toilet Vicinity, but to use the toilet it's 5 Bolivianos
MA: Ok, ok, this is bullshit dude, you're just trying to Gringo Fist me cause I'm a foreigner, well guess what fella? I'm not an idiot and I'm not gonna pay it. Now get outta my way!
BOL: I am sorry sir but I can't let you enter without paying, Toilet Rules
MA: But I have already paid TWICE man! You want me to garden hose all over this wall? Don't think I won't fucking do it!
BOL: You need to pay 5 Bolivianos if you want to use the toilet sir or I can call security
MA: Security? Toilet Security? If he's as small as you I can take both of you and still knock one out, with ease
BOL: Sir, I don't understand. Pay please. Security is over there
MA: What, that dude there? In... fatigues... with a night stick and a fucking gun! Your Toilet Security is pretty serious man. I'm not getting shot in the chest for a Number 1's. HERE take my bloody cash
BOL: Thank you sir, have a nice day
MA: [Whatever cunt]

SCENE 4
MA: Sweet Baby Elvis! This toilet smells like summertime barnyard bovine arse, I can feel the rank assailing my my eyes like thousands of miniature, acidic, brown clad ninjas [just knock out the slash, don't touch anything and leave man]
BOL: Hello sir. Would you like some soap and a hand towel sir?
MA: WHA.. HUH? Where'd you come from? Ummmmm... if I use your soap, as there seems to be no other available, do I have to pay you anything?
BOL: 5 Bolivianos sir
MA: Are you fucking kidding me? I gotta pay for soap after paying three times to get in here just for a tinkle? I wish I had Stage 3 Tropical Dysentery so you guys could really earn that money
BOL: Sorry, I don't understand sir, 5 Bolivianos for soap
MA: Suck it old man — I got alcohol gel in my pocket! Moohahahahah. Oh... wait... maybe my back pocket... or ...maybe in my other fucking bag
BOL: Sorry sir, I still don't understand
MA: HERE TAKE IT. JUST GIVE ME THE FUCKING SOAP. If this was Grand Theft Auto I would garrote you with that hand towel, put the soap in it and king hit those other fuckers into comas, take everyone's wallet, steal a car and go hooker the night away
BOL: Ya, ya, ya. Thank you sir. Have a good day
MA: Don't pretend like you understood that little man. Thanks for the Gringo Raping. Have a nice day working in this septic tank arsehole

Now just apply that little scenario to every conceivable touristic situation and you have Bolivia.

Thank Van Halen their currency is worth fuck all.

Mr Macho Picchu

2010-05-16T12:14:00.001-03:00

That's right people, Man Abroad just got some MORE back on that waspish, old lady wench of the night; Mother Nature. A three day trek to Machu Picchu you say? Can't be that hard? Well, if you take away, I dunno... the fucking oxygen it might be a bit hard arsehole! Walking uphill with no breathable air is quite the kick to the gooch but it takes more than a lack of Atomic Number 8 to stop this one man Trudging Horse. And to Machu Picchu I trekked. Another trouncing by yours truly in a seemingly never ending clash between a Bearded Mortal Man Hero and his Possibly Bearded Immortal Hag Nemesis.

But let's take it back a notch or two shall we.

I landed, unceremoniously, in Cusco, Peru after a horror 16 hour transit, including 7 hours wandering Lima Airport being hit on by scabby ticket rippers (Hello what's your name? Where do you come from? DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!?). I went to the hostel and awaited the arrival of my AMERCIAN teammates from Santiago, Rich and Britmo, with whom I would trek. Originally we had a day to discover the old Incan city of Cusco before an early start the next day. But due to colossal retardation on behalf of our tour 'operators' we had to wear their inconceivable stupidity and leave a day later.

So we walked around, saw some churches n' houses n' shit and admired the impressive Incan architecture that's underneath the also impressive colonial architecture.

But more importantly we sampled the local Peruvian culinary delights. I had been told the food here was nice, but in my esteemed opinion it machine gun shits rainbows on what I have found in Chile and Argentina (with the exception of Argentinian steak and my Chilean Grandma's food of course).

That's right! I ATE one man. Can't remember what the dish was called but who cares, it was LLAMA. The sauce was 'aight, and it was good, but as chewy as a boiled camels nutbag.

Ok. Business Time. Let me introduce the Trekking Team and their profiles. Of course, there's ME, then Rich of Texas and Britmo of Tennessee.

And we didn't trek alone, oh no. We had a GUIDE, some MAN SERVANTS and BEASTS OF BURDEN. I didn't have a photo of them all together, or even a decent one of the horse like creatures (looked kinda like midget horses that had rolled out of a trash can and then were beaten with sticks), so I had to recreate the scene for you.

First stop was some town called Huarocondo where we were supposed to go inside this church, Iglesia de las 12 cruces, BUT it was locked and the the dude who was supposed to let us in was apparently comatose drunk in his house and couldn't be budged. So we just LOOKED at it from the outside.

The highlight of this little stop over was hands down pants the Street Dog Orgy that took place metres away from us. Have a fucking LOOK at them. Within seconds there were at least another three circling like bonerfied land sharks looking for a way in...

Then to top it off the dude finished and tried to bail but couldn't because his Doggy Donger was stuck in her Canine Cooch. So she lay down as he loomed awkwardly above her, just watching village life pass them by until time to un-dock (and we didn't stay long enough to witness that).

First day's trek was all fair enough 'n that. Ascending 'n stuff. And we spent the first night in a small four family village that housed the regional school called Chillipahua.

And these little mute bush rats hung around staring like they didn't have eyelids. I eventually got the older girl to talk a little and discovered that they were only three of THIRTEEN FUCKING CHILDREN. Can you imagine the shape of their mother? Carrying her uterus around in a backpack I imagine, the poor old dear. And that little fella in the middle IS the dirtiest child on planet Earth. With at least 8 weeks of snot, food and dirt bonded to his face, he'd run around squealing like a girl piglet with a FULL set of dirt and goat shit smeared arse cheeks on parade.

As you can see we were pampered Peruvian Man Servant Style, the cook cooked and the other dude served. They even put up our fucking tents! And for food cooked on the march off the back of a donkey is was pretty damn good.

That's the poor Slave Men preparing our food as we shuffle along behind them.

Breakfast was always a treat. I didn't read the label before using this on my unnecessarily sweet Peruvian bread. That's right, they served us Fanny Jam. They'll jar anything over here! And to be honest I grew to like it, a lot sweeter than I would have thought (but I bet they add that in). That's one factory visit I never want to see.

This is, apparently, one of the deadliest plants in the world. Our guide, Oscar, told us (while we were half a fucking metre away from it) that just to touch it, not break the skin or viciously rub it in an open wound, but to GRAZE it is certain death within hours. And that one time a pack horse got on its back for some rub time on top of one, stood up and died minutes later. A little disconcerting I'll agree and I walked with arms clutched to my chest for the rest of the trip. HOWEVER, one has to bear in mind Oscar's history for telling facts through his arse. For example, he once told us, with UTTER conviction and sincerity, that there are these weird Men of the Mountains that come down and get the village women pregnant at night while they sleep unknowingly. Or how about THIS explanation Oscar; all the women are dirty skanks and their husbands are fucking retarded?

Getting higher and each step is like a Capcom certified Shoryu-ken to the chest. Panting like a recently kicked in the stomach dog with a head that feels like there's a one armed ex-marine midget finger banging a Christmas ham in there.

So the, ahem, Men, even dabbled with a little oxi-help. Which was slightly helpful for minute, in a kind of soft pat on the back kind of way; There, doesn't that feel better? I still can't breathe you fucker, so NO that doesn't feel better.

That's our campsite on the second night. A little exposed you say? That's what I fucking thought too. But thank Van Halen there was no real wind problems that night (outside the tents). That being the case of the matter as it is, this night was nut-crunchingly cold. I once again slept in all my clothes in a hired sleeping bag that was promised by some donkey boner back in Cusco to be more that appropriate for my situation. After two hours lying and dying in my own tent I asked Rich and Britmo if I could bust a move over to their tent and steal their body heat. They kindly obliged and gave me a space millimetres from a collection of trekking shoes and socks that would strip the very beard off Moses from the OTHER side of the Red Sea. I didn't give a damn, however, as being mildly warm was more important to me than sleep, altitude nausea, or eye melting acidic odours.

Moments later it was morning and this is what the ground looked like outside. No, that's NOT icing sugar on that cow turd amigos, that's fucking ICE.

Then there was Rich's constant tormentor; Sweater Dog. Easily the most skittish and highly strung animal I have ever met. You taking care of business behind a rock? Sweater Dog'll get ya and REALLY mess things up. It's not even a real sweater, more like a collection of dozens of sweaters haphazardly put together like only a tenterhooked canine could.

Welcome. My name is Rich and I am the Poster Boy for Altitude Sickness. Sure I could crush you with my bare Man 'Leg of Lamb' Arms, but at sea level. Rich definitely got stiffed with the short straw there. Be that as it might have unfortunately been, the one amusing aspect of his terrible illness was his Altitiude Sickness Derived Old Man Bladder Syndrome. Let's have a wander down memory lane with some classic Urinating Highlights...

The man didn't even drink anything! It was like his bladder was conducting some strange form of alchemy whereby it converted pure altitude nausea into water just so Rich could piss it out. Remarkable.

Altitude sickness is anything but predictable. One minute you're as barren as an Immodium pumped camel and the next minute your fire-hosing THROUGH your trekking pants like a Japanese, high-powered anti-Greenpeace water canon.

Then seconds later I was ready, and empty, for our last vistastic lunch.

Third night we hit up our hostel, after a text book Peruvian public transport arse reaming, to Agua Calientes. The hostel was called Gringo Bill's would you believe and it was NICE. The obviously in-family done artwork was interesting in a There Goes My Breakfast kind of way. I can only assume that that old, long haired dude in the middle is Gringo Bill. But as to WHAT he is doing with his gringo wang on the head of that statue, I'll never know (or ask). And yes, that was MY bed you can see perilously close.

And HERE it is. Ol' Machu Picchu itself. Impressive to say the least. Remove 50,000 tourists, half the llamas and leave one guide for safety's sake and you might even call it spiritual.

Those Incan geezers knew how to carve rocks, THAT'S for sure. You can't build masterpieces like that anymore, you know, with minimum wage and 'democracy' and all that. The views that they had from every vantage point were unbelievable.

I won't bother explaining the story of Machu Picchu because; (1) I can't be fucked, (2) You can Wikipedia it and (C) What I heard from our Spanish speaking guide would most likely prove an 'unreliable' source.

Look at that fucking rock work man!

Then there is Wayna Picchu, a pointy mountain that has a killer view of Machu Picchu that's a good 45 minute hike straight upwards, except look at all the other fuckers in the way.

That's Rich and Britmo and some time travelling Brazilian ghetto pimp hovering MID AIR next to them. The things you see traveling!

Here's an un-peopled view. That zig zag gear is the road up and yes, of course it's only one lane wide with hundreds of buses coming up and down at the same time all day. Apparently what you see of Macchu Picchu there ain't all of it, just what they have uncovered so far. And if I am not mistaken, which well might be or not be the case, right down the bottom left where you can see some uncovered terraces is ALSO part of Machu Picchu! Go you mighty Incans!

Then, in a twist of idiocy, our 'guide' suggested we we go have a quick look at the Great Cave on the other side because not many people go to see it. Newsflash arse bag! That's because it's a hideous one hour hike resembling a vertical drop to see a Great Cave that is barely a Mild Fucking Nook in the wall. Then to add feces to the fire it was at least another goddamn hour to walk back around the side. High-fives to that butt maestro!

Now I know all you lads out there are thinking; I wish I could take my girl to Machu Picchu, wouldn't that be ace? Yes it would be ace, loser, but you probably can't can you? But you CAN do the next best thing. Send her a Man Abroad Patented Incan Style Series Post Card to show that you kinda love her. For a moderately moderate price you can impress your woman with inklings of possible genuine affection. Get in fast brothers, because they're sure to sell like Hat Cakes.

And to end this Mighty Post, here are a few Peruvian Classics to get you all hot under the collar.

Hairless Peruvian Dogs. Sorry, can't touch that, have a fucking look at it! With that scandalous haircut and all those tits, I didn't know WHERE to look!

The all important Coca leaf. The Irish have Guinness, the French have croissants, the Greeks have an island of lesbians and the Peruvians have Coca leaves. Have as tea or chew it like tobacco and store it up against your gums. I, as you can see, prefer to double team it. The tea is mild and lovely and the leaves taste like compost but you get over that as the bitterness sets in. Like a mild stimulant, it's good for a bit of energy, hunger suppressant (whatever you'd need that for—fatty!), altitude sickness and MORE. And, as far as I have experienced, has no hellish licorice arse side effects like Mate in Argentina.

I ate my four course French/Peruvian lunch staring at this and wondering. Wondering just exactly what is it and what is going on. That dude has one of either two things happening; (1) He's got a diabolical growth on his back and an impressive schlong shaped bed, or, (2) That thing growing out of his back actually IS his SECOND massive johnson that he uses AS a bed! Either way, hat's of amigo.

And finally, how about we finish this entry with a nice hot cuppa of everyone's favourite tea flavour; Hornimans Anis. It's tangy as hell, but you'll love it!

An In-Depth Study on the History of Beardism

2010-04-30T18:38:00.004-03:00

The human male beard is probably the greatest achievement of Natural Selection since the evolution of the penis. Do you think it's a coincidence that the Grandmaster of Natural Selection, Charles Darwin (above), has a fucking beard? Not likely. As a highly regarded 21st century Pogonologist (that means someone who studies beards retard), and active participant in the Beard Phenomenon, I am probably the most important living authority of Beardism alive.

Beardedness, throughout history, has been associated with many of the highest qualities of human nature; social status, wisdomness, sexual attractiveness, higher quality of personal hygiene, larger capacity to gather and store food, greater chances of deterring a wild animal attack and so forth.

The Ancient Greek Philosophers regarded beard length as discharge from a brain that was overcrowded with smartness, therefore the longer the beard the wiser the man (that's the petrified bust of Socrates With Beard — looks like he wasn't that smart after all). The Germanic Tribes employed the one metre plus beard as the only true indication of whom was male and whom was female. The Vikings stiffened their beards into razor sharp swords with yak spunk and dueled to the death for first pickings of the Yak Spunk Casserole at Christmas dinner.

World's Longest Beards: For thousands of years, the human race has been fine tuning beard maintenance in a bid to bring one closer to The Great Beard In The Sky. The most dedicated have always been the subcontinental Asians, prepared to grow a beard so long and awkward that accidential sleep self strangulation, inadvertent toilet dunkings and death by rapid beard fire are real possibilities.

Barberism: Invented by the Communists in 1715 to stamp out originality. A hideous profession that's sole purpose is planet wide Beard Genocide. As the Holy Scripture of Beardism dictates—handed down hundreds of thousands of years ago from The Great Beard In The Sky to a bearded monkey (the missing link that begain our separation from the Homo Shaven to the Homo Bearded lineage)—that anyone who raises a hand against The Beard in ignorant fear, labelled Pogonophobitis, is a Commie Bastard that needs to be sent to an island and forced to own property.

Here's one of the Bloshie bastards now in his little Commie Conversion Factory. That sinister chair, that salmon shirt; the symbol of all that is unholy where he strips men of their ability to unique thought in a thick creamy lather.

And here's another sick Pinko Commie mutalising his OWN face, so strong is the Clean Faced Commie Dogma in some sectors of society.

You think the 1950—53 Korean War was about political division in a Post WWII environment? That's just Government generated spank off. The war was about Beards. The North Korean Commie Bastards rejected the ideal of the Patchy But Powerful Asian Beard whilst the more intelligent and tougher South Koreans embraced it.

Over the course of history the human Beard has gone through periods of repression and genocide. Numerous anti-female beard campaigns have been raged throughout the ages (and rightly so).

There was the British Government sanctioned Extermination War of the 1830's of the Bearded Bike Bitches of London.

And how can we forget the horrible and cheap, side alley 1900's Moulin Rouge man-lady spin off, Tarpaulin Rouge. The birthplace and eventual deathplace of the eye-gouging please-don't dance. One of the few things the French have ever succeeded at, the gender blurring tarp institution was razed to the ground with every beard in it.

Willie Nelson, another scourge on Beardism and possibly the only person who SHOULD be a clean shaven Commie Pinko. The Vikings almost pulled off the Braid 'N Beard combo but inevitably failed, were turned into Gnomes and sent to live in Middle Earth by The Great Beard In The Sky. What gives YOU the right Willie to publicly disgrace humanity? I mean, won't somebody please think of the children?

Pirate Beards: One of the highest branches in the Beard Tree, Piratism, for the most part, has thrown up some of the finest ever specimens of the Human Race. The combination of dirty hair, wicked puffy clothes, senseless aggression, abstract but manly facial hair, the designation of Wench to address all females and the adoption of living in a terrain not meant for humans. Just look at this mighty pirate child! He is still years from puberty but his beard is grander than most adult males could ever dream of.

But not all pirates got it right. For example, what the fuck IS this guy? A pirate? An Arab tailor? An out of work Chippendale dancer with an inclination to lippy and panda eye makeup now working at The Night Train? This half arsed bearded biatch needs to get some plank action (in a non-backstage Chippendale dancer oil room sense).

Sweet Baby Beard In The Sky! Sacrilegious and then some. Pirates, even the bottom of the barrel ones, are put to shame with this modern day aberration of Piratistic ideals. The Wench Maker has become the Wench. At no point in history EVER did Pirates wear G-Strings, let alone mount their rainbow coloured collections on the wall. Wannabe street sneakers and dumbbell glove combos also never made it into mainstream Pirate Society. And for the record, this obviously transgendered creature has a few genetic hiccups—what's with the T-Rex arms and the Stegosaurus groin head plate? He couldn't sword fight his way out of a paper bag.

Leonardo da Vinci: One of the smartest people ever. Leo had a fucking MASSIVE beard and that is why he was so smart and invented awesome stuff beyond comprehension in his era, like the helicopter, the Chia Pet and Totem Tennis. His beard was so amazing that it actually grew upside his skull and encompassed his whole brilliant head unit.

Teen Wolf: Incorrectly named Wolf, its actual scientific name is Monkey Boy Genetic Throwback. Hair billows from every square inch of skin making it extremely hard to wear any clothes with zips and forever rules out skin tight stone wash jeans. And fuck knows what agonies he has to endure wiping his arse. Whilst generally undesirable, Monkey Boy Genetic Throwbacks can have a few perks like; unbeatable air guitar performance, constant circus work and guaranteed frat party pity sex.

Hippies: Those hippie wankers of the 1960's brought shame and ignorance to Beardism with their fanciful floral vomitscapes and ridiculous ideals of 'peace.' Best case scenario is next time this dude tokes up his beard catches fire, aborts his face (after burning it a bit and breaking his glasses) and seeks asylum in secular society.

And the only thing worse than a hippie, is a body shaving media whore that doesn't even stand for the pathetic Arsetopian principles that real hippies stand for. That looks more like fluff riddled goat shit smeared on your face than a beard bro, lets be honest.

Santa Beard: I have always been an Anti-Santanic man myself and finally I have some concrete photographic evidence to back that opinion up. Sure, he has a fantastic, full creamed, sexy beard but he knows it and he uses it to his own unsavoury ends. He might hand out SOME presents to rich, first world children once annually but if you had half an idea of what crazy shit he did the other 364 days of the year you would rush out this instant and bear trap your chimneys.

Commander Riker—Beard To The Future: The time traveling future-history of the human race documentary, Star Trek The Next Generation, tells us that space will be conquered by the human race and it WILL be done bearded. Make it so!

Bearded Blunders: History has thrown up more variations of the Beard than you could poke your weiner at. Some highly evolved specimens and other outright illegal abominations as illustrated above and below. If you see anyone walking down the street sporting any of these Satanic Facial Combos you have legal authority to kick them in the balls and liberate their beards by fire as an Act of Mercy. No questions asked.

Possibly the most famous Beard of all is that of ancient Carpenter and Top Dog at JC Enterprises, the beardtastic Jesus. I mean, just look at that beard, like baby lambs wool, like a river of black butter, like a pit of bikini clad models wrestling in crude oil. Watch him wave off miniature buildings like he doesn't even WANT them. So strong is his belief in himself, belief in his beard.

And now onto possibly the greatest example of present day Bearded Wonder. Thousands of years of Bearded Selection have lead us to here my friends—the pinnacle of Beardism. I shudder to think of the dizzying new heights Beardedness will reach in generations to come. I think we have just found a new default Windows desktop background image hey? I don't like Diet Coke—I think it tastes like arse—but if some dude like this came into my office with a carton on his shoulder I'd go one for sure (the flames might make me a bit edgy though).

So there you have it. Beardism. Don't you feel more educated now? Stay tuned for my next definitive study of Moustaches, where once again we will discover the origins and eventual mastering of the Mo. In the interim, here is a Mo Snack to satisfy your appetites; Topless Mo Man Clutching Baby Land Dolphin Action.

Southerly Man Odyssey

2010-04-18T17:03:00.011-03:00

After the whole Terry Moto Ordeal and subsequent Entrapment, I gave myself two weeks to DO Patagonia = the arse end of South American in both Argentina and Chile. This Pants Shitting photo was taking from the 2 hour plane ride from Puerto Montt to Punta Arenas (both in Chile). A freaky clear skied day apparently and the view looked like this all the way down, total Andes and Glaciar action (although I didn't have a window seat — I had to lean over a pubertising teenager).

Part I:
From Punta Arenas I bused 12 hours to Ushuaia (Argentina) – the world’s southernmost city in the world. Quite cute, wallet raping and seriously fucking cold. I’m talking so cold that if I had a light saber I would have cut open the nearest street dog and crawled inside it Skywalker style just to stay warm.

The accommodation was a bit rustic, I think you will agree — just look at the damn floorboards. My roommate was a bit of a nutbag too — tell me they aren’t the gayest pyjamas you have ever seen. It kind of looks like his claiming the top bunk doesn’t it? I won’t tell you what I did (or how hard I did it) but he ended up taking the bottom bunk.

Had a few bevvies with the riff-raff in the common room. Kind of an exclusive Beard Club was struck up and we talked all things Beardish over a couple of beers and Uno For Cash (loser get's debearded).

Went on some lamo trek in the National Park, after being reamed cash-wise for it of course, and this was about the closest thing to a highlight; a pack of mangy horses.

There was an Irish Pub in Ushuaia too which had nothing Irish about it except this homemade Jameson sign made from the side of a carton and hung from the ceiling. Classic. Accidentally got poleaxed on mixers that night (seriously, it’s half a glass of whiskey and half a glass of coke!)…

and ended up making out with the R2D2 security guard. Make out with me Obi-Won, you’re my only hope.

The following day was Post Mixer Rough to say the least, but fortuitously I had booked a 4 hour boat trip on choppy water to work the hangover off (and in a drunken haze I had agreed to let R2 come. It got very awkward).

Basically what happens is you pay through the arse for a massive boat ride where you see some penguin fellas and see and SMELL some seal dudes. I wasn’t too excited about seeing penguins like all the Northern Hemisphere Fruitcakes as we have them back home. But the shear SIZE of these penguins boggles the mind. All I was trying to do here was see if I could break the egg in half with a roundhouse kick (just to see if I still Have It after all these months sans training). And for some reason the mother freaked out and went for my eyes. All said and done, you want to know what happened? I still Got It. That’s what happened.

There was also an interesting old Dutch man who works half of every year on sailboats and the rest of the year travelling. He was an alcoholic mental and apparently did something so repulsive, if not illegal, that I can’t mention it on this family safe blog. You’ll have to ask me about it in person one day.

Then on to Part II: El Calafate and some large icy thing...

Caught a bus at 5am after one hour sleep for 17 hours north to El Calafate to see this — the Perito Moreno Glaciar. Apparently, as large and impressive as it looked, with an average height of 74 metres above the water, it goes for another 100 metres under the water!

This is probably the most intensely tantalizing photo I have ever seen. What is going on? Who the hell are they? Why the fuck is it pinned up randomly in a bus terminal? So many questions, so few answers. It’s just creepy, but I felt compelled to document it.

Part III: Torres del Paine – a five day trek in one of the world's most celebrated parks. I’m not a qualified geologist but as far as I am aware Torres del Paine was formed when a giant underground Lava Monster lost a staring match with an Evil Wizard and was turned into stone some 200 years ago. Then it was sucked above ground 2 weeks later when Jupiter passed in between the orbits of Earth and the Moon. Pigeons and sediment eating llamas ate all the tasty stuff around it leaving the tower like Lava Monster carcass we see today. I hooked up with English Adam and Colombian Carmilo that I met in at the hostel in Ushuaia and together we trekked. It is known for it’s extreme beauty and diversity of climates in a small area. It is also known for it’s extreme unpredictability and face punching ferocity.

This is the Grey Glaciar, bigger but less famous than the Perito Moreno one. But unlike Moreno, there weren't 15,000 tourists dry humping you up against the rail while you tried to soak in its awesomeness in amongst every annoying accent in the Foreigner Rainbow.

That's not a curvy growing tree amigos, that's at least 150kmph winds blowing out of control at a seconds notice before fucking off as fast as it came. And if it gets hold of your backpack then all you can do is scream like a girl and try and protect you face, cause you are going down.

Not a bad photo of Beard and Mountain you say? I am actually not even standing but attempting to lie face down on the ground. If I had dirty backpacker rastas and wasn't wearing brown paint as a t-shirt you would probably see it.

That's what I'm talking about! It actually lifts pebbles and throws them at you. That wind also stole my fucking hat on the last day to consume higher up in the mountains.

Three men. Three tents. Sharing is for children and peasants. Mine is that lame little yellow one in the middle that is roughly the size of a coffin with no outer fly or functioning zippers. And it failed me on the last night, but thank Van Halen it was the last night. Rain and snow leaked into the tent, soaking everything including the sleeping bag. Which accounts for why I felt so cold trying to sleep — inside the bag I was wearing; pants, thermal socks, long sleeve top under t-shirt combo, thermal zip up jacket, wind breaker jacket, scarf, beanie and gloves and I was still fucking cold.

Trekkers Brew; pour in a good couple 'a thumbs of Jack Daniels, turn you head for a sec while it fills with dirt and insects and enjoy.

Suspending Anti Rodent Food Storage Device. If you leave food in your tent they WILL chew through it and feast millimetres from your resting body. This device pretty much worked. The little fuckers managed to jump from the tree onto the bags and penetrate into some trail mix but nothing more.

After a hard days trek a man just wants to eat something hearty and have a dirt and insect laden whisky. I can still remember this meal, possibly the greatest thing I have ever eaten and the other lads agreed. PASTA and BOLOGNAISE and RICE and TUNA, together at last.

Mother Nature's heavy ham fisties seem to be following me like moths to the flame, like flies to a stool, like nerds to World of Warcraft.

Last morning we got up at dawn's crack (that's Colombian Carmilo above) and climbed up higher to this lookout point which is apparently the best view of the famous Torres (towers) in the park. They are supposed to get struck with sunlight and glow bright orange for a while and make you shit your pants.

But this is the closet we got to seeing it as we froze out arses off for over an hour. That being said, it still was reasonably impressive.

But at the end of the day, the real winner, besides me, was Trekking Poles. Originally invented by the the Scottish to club baby deer whilst walking in the countryside in the early 1800's, they have been incorporated into the Cityslickers Must Have List of items for trekking, along with ipods and battery operated t-bag squeezers. Like most Normal People, I scoffed at the idea of using something as Gay and European as Walking Assistants. They are for old people and cripples right? Having said that, the guy at the hostel near the park, a seasoned trekker of the area, STRONGLY recommended them for hurricane winds and slippery downhill slopes. I conceeded. No one there knew me and I could pretend that I only had them to club native fauna.

Day one, a few hours in, my right knee went. Just fucking went. I suspect my months of cycling on the farm and achieving Armstrong Thigh Status might have strained it somewhat. So I stared down the barrel of pivotal hinge joint induced failure half a day into a five day trek, but my ego would have nothing of it. Out came the poles and over the rest of the day I dragged my sorry arse up and down mountains. That night I thought I was a goner and would be unable to continue the following day. But I left my doubts in the tent that night and the next day I fine crafted a pole-assisted, straight legged walk I called the Polio Pirate Shuffle. And it worked. The ironic thing was that the All Powerful cycling thighs that caused the original knee problem were actually what got me through it. And by half way through the third day I was almost walking normally.

I am man enough to admit when I am wrong. Trekking Poles kick arse and they deserve a little more respect. Let's raise glasses and toast the pole.

I'm talking more credibility. I'm talking parades n' shit. I'm talking give the pole a fucking float at the next Adelaide Christmas Pageant.

See what I mean? Everybody should love the pole.

Poles aside, let's return to the real subject. Me. Some good trekking 'n stuff was done, some icy things were seen, and I have a new weariness of old Dutch men. But at the end of the day the one lesson I re-learned was just exactly how awesome I am because I managed to...

...out-trek my bikers knee. Boooyah!

Man Abroad Sketchbook Release 1

2010-04-04T18:12:00.015-03:00

To celebrate Resurrection Sunday, Man Abroad has released a select series of illustrations from the coveted Man Abroad Sketchbook. Consider yourselves privileged to catch a rare glimpse into the intricate Mindworks of a lone, almost crushed, love-handled, bearded then de-bearded, tight pants wearing, Rainman-like sounding, bus savvy Man Abroad in Latin America. Stupidly, however, I thought it would be nice to photograph the illustrations so they could be colourised on the computer. Therefore I have spent the best part of 30 hours zoomed in at 500% airbrushing shit that you can't see and now I'm pretty sure that pain in my arse is Piles from the backless chair in my room. Enjoy.

If you are one of those idiots looking at the screen thinking, That looks good but I can't make out the details, then click the fucking picture to open it in another window.

Let’s talk about trekking (you pompous arseholes)

2010-03-31T16:46:00.002-03:00

The only thing that makes me want to start haphazardly shooting hostages more than a dick-bag talking about trekking whilst smoking his imaginary pipe is a whole herd of the fuckers in a hostel common room rubbing each other down in a thick lather of snoot-laden, toffee-nosed, pious-pious cream. Yes, trekking is nice and a bit of fun but THAT’S IT. I don’t give a Jatz Cracker if you have decided to pad out 12 months latin holidaying only walking up and down hills in your million dollar wanker clothes that say — Rob Me Right Now and Yes, I’m A Gringo And That Is A Money Belt You Can See Hanging Out My Shirt. These retards can’t even order a coffee in Spanish. Seriously. How they even get from one trekking destination to another is a mystery to me (they’d probably try to tell you they trekked between them). Hey, did you know my sleeping bag is graded for minus 5 degrees and recites nursery rhymes? That’s not cold man, I come from northern Europe where it’s REALLY cold, and I trek all the time and I think… (insert wank here). What kind of world do we live in where they can freely assail me with waves of canonised monkey shit but if I was to stab them in the thigh to shut them up I’d get the restraining order?

How about I trek your face into oblivion you pretentious fart sniffing show ponies? Would you like that? That’s one story I’d happily be forced to overhear hand balled around a trash-talking circle of obscene trekking smugness. And they aren’t even listening to each other. You can see it in their twitching faces as they try not to turtle neck in anticipation waiting for a breathing pause to insert their own particular flavour of bullshit that won’t be heard.

If you are going to talk about your boring as fuck trekking adventures then tell me something interesting like how many days you got Dehydrated Food Derived Constipation, how you threw rocks at other peoples tents at night to stop them snoring like drunk beavers with adenoid problems or how you baited the outside of other peoples tents with mixed nuts to draw the mice away from yours (classic move). If you’ve got nothing then make it up. Please.

That being said, my next entry will contain trekking stories. But not these Vomit In The Mouth Tales of Woe, but ones that will make you Shit Your Pants In Wonder at how awesome I am at trekking without even trying, let alone caring. Stay tuned amigos.

On the Road (with Bus Boy)

2010-03-25T22:24:00.006-03:00

I have caught more buses than Peter Andre has had chest waxes. Only Brahma himself could count them all on his hands. That must be a lot of onboard movies then, I hear you say? Surely, you presume, I have watched dozens of classic movies in my numerous trans-continental comings and goings? Well you’d be wrong, as well as an idiot. In fact, all buses in Chile and Argentina have televisions and DVD players but only half of the buses decide to use them. Obviously the driver and the Tits On A Bull assistant are too busy up in the front cabin pointing out roadside litter to each other and drinking Mate (a type of tea they go apeshit for here). And when they DO play a movie, they manage to fuck the experience in new and ever more ingenious methods. (A) No sound, with Spanish subtitles half off the screen or too small to read. (B) No sound, no subtitles, but available ear jacks in the seat that don’t work. (3) The bus is driving so fast, or the driver is so spanked out on Mate, that the movie randomly skips scenes giving you no hope whatsoever of following the already emaciated ‘plot’ of cinematic epics like; Dragonball, The Princess Diaries and all Wesley Snipes movies. If you are going to play trash then at least play REAL trash with integrity, like American Ninja, Rambo or anything from the Van Damne Collection.

That’s right, I am currently on a bus on the way to an airport in Punta Arenas (very south in Chile). To my surprise they actually put on a movie. I was excited, and what’s more, it looked like a Robert Downey Jr movie (I want to be RDJ and have his children). It's Sherlock Holmes in fact and subtitles came up in Spanish meaning the movie must be in English. Hell yeah! That’s an unexpected dream come true. Well guess what morons? The Lips On A Duck assistant put the volume on so low (before running back for another Mate and Eye Spy Roadside With My Little Eye Something That Begins With R…) that I could only make out what was being said when a middle aged woman was screaming it.

So now I have SEEN Sherlock Holmes but all I can tell you about the movie is Robert Downey Jr is in it, he somehow is an 18th century English Kung Fu Master, Jude Law has a wicked moustache, both got blown up in a factory explosion with not much more than a face scratch each, the English were fucking useless close range shooters a hundred years ago and the token bit part actress was smokingly hot and not even mildly English.

That being the case, I have successfully seen NO entire movies in SEVEN months of continental bus traveling. Does anyone else feel sick here? Now if you’ll excuse me I have to get to the airport to wait 6 hours until 4-fucking-am to catch a 2 hour plane flight where I guarantee you they will not play any movies except short animated ones telling me to remain calm as the plane nose dives into the ocean whilst all the air gets sucked out of the cabin. If you want me to stay composed in that situation then you better taser me in the chest because I promise you I will be screaming like a drowning piglet as I claw to death everyone around me in an airtight performance of text book hysteria.

Isn’t that fucking fantastic — just got to the airport and they don’t have wi-fi. So now I am sitting in an abandoned airport for 6 hours with nothing to do, nowhere to sleep and drinking coffee made by a robot that tastes like micro-waved bin juice. They do, however, have ONE power point I can use, over by a rack of arse punishing chairs that look like they bought them wholesale from Guantanamo Bay. Good times. Good times indeed. There better be some serious snacks on this flight.

Hay Fever: The Devil's Invention

2010-03-24T14:23:00.003-03:00

Who else would invent an extremely irritating, non-fatal, seasonal kick in the balls like hay fever other than The Prince Of Darkness himself? Terrorists? Scientologists? Maybe. Like a delicate flower, Man Abroad is cursed with skin as prone to reaction as an Acute Albino Fat Kid With Diabetes Eating A Black Forest Cheese Cake Shirtless In The Sun.

And so that you can send me some Trans-Pacific Bleeding Heart Sympathy Thought Parcels, I’ll just list of a few of the more memorable Farm hay fever Moments for you: Picking raspberries = arm rash for a day and a half. Hand moving bails of hay = two day, burn victim like arm rash with matching chest and stomach rash of a near Dive Under The Tractor Wheel or Spade Me To Death Please Chilean Grandfather like intensity. Bike ride through the hills = 6 hour arm rash, one eye fused shut and 50% of bodily fluids lost through nose. Cow herding in hill property = 4 hour arm rash, closed eye and a throat that feels like a bird got caught in barbed wire, flew into my open mouth (mid sneeze), got snagged and started to panic. Wake up in the morning and walk into the kitchen = begin the random firing of the sneeze gun and non-stop snot hose action whilst hand preparing breakfast for tourists — Occupational Health And Safety Standards? Here? You’ve got to be fucking kidding. If you can, whilst sweeping, stumble across a baby duck carcass chilling under the stove for Van Halen knows how long then there are no problems warming slices of bread between your butt cheeks before serving, or topping up the coffee pot with dirt for that rich coffee colour.

Hay fever IS a disease, and a crippling one at that and should be recognised legitimately like AIDS or Syphilis. I need government assistance to cover medical expenses; up to 300 tissues a day, recompense for the hankies that fell beforehand, the equivalent of a gallon drum full of Pawpaw cream for the mangled face and rashes, band-aids for the skin that gets scratched off, time lost whinging and especially those bullshit hay fever tablets that work when they feel like it. If I ever meet that Rhinocort fella I’m going to shoot him in the knees, chainsaw off his horn and sell it on the Black Market (eBay) at below market value, then shoot him between the eyes as he watches the final successful bid. A bit harsh you say? Especially seeing though he is a ‘Police Officer’ as well as a sell-out African Savannah Rhino-whore? Not when you’ve been through what I’ve been through man.

As the wise old saying goes; You go through life being told there's justice, then you learn the only real justice...is the justice you take – Eric Cartman, philosopher/fat kid.

Better watch your back officer—Man Abroad doesn't care how endangered you are.

The Shape of Tits to Come

2010-03-09T16:27:00.009-03:00

H.G. Wells, damn his Nostradamus-like vision, got it horrifyingly right. The future not only is bleak and controlled by gay looking robots, but it’s fat. With a crazy Chilean Grandma that forced a dozen meals down my throat everyday I developed an out of control eating disorder that pushed my body from Dream Boat to Dream Tug Boat in only three months. The Farm Phase is now over—I loved it and could easily have stayed longer, but within another three months the full transition to Arse Bagged Gringo would have been complete and irreversible. Now that I am On The Road, I plan on getting back to The Body with nature’s greatest eating regulator: Beer, and pints of it. All this Fat business was totally unexpected, I had imagined that after three months on the farm I would be a Ripped One Man Army, only let down by an expected, vomit-in-the-mouth-like farmers tan. But I was wrong, horribly, horribly wrong.

This horrendous image would have been reality in three more months — I fed the facts into my Future Reading Mac Widget and this open handed hit to the face is what I got. I had plans to do push-ups everyday during my Farm Period when I woke up or just before going to bed. I swore to myself (quite strongly) that I would do it and to not do it would make me a massive pussy. I even swore on more powerful things to ensure I did it. I knew that swearing to God or his tradie son would be as fruitless as swearing to that toothless old ‘human crease’ peasant in the next town or his bitch-titted, cross-eyed grandson. So I made the foolish mistake of swearing on my Killer Six Pack that if, after three months of Farm Life, I hadn’t achieved the predicted Fat Guns And Sweet-As Chest Pack Combo Set then I could kiss the sixer goodbye. And guess what fucking happened? But dammit man, there were just too many hurdles to overcome:

ONE: I couldn’t do push-ups before I went to bed because I usually had only just finished gorging myself and simply bending over forced open that little throat valve thing letting a little semi-digested, burny sopaipilla back into the mouth.

TWO: Exercise in the morning? Let’s be serious, when I wake up in the morning I’d rather make out with one of the dirty farm piglets. I barely have enough energy to knock out a slash let alone chesties.

THREE: I could have done them outside whenever I liked, yes, that is true. But to get caught by my Chilean Grandfather lying face down behind the chicken shed panting would have required an explanation I don’t think I could construct in Spanish, resulting in an admission-of-guilt-like shrug and even more embarrassing dinner table silences.

FOUR: Why not do them in the safety of your room then, I hear you ask? Well, smart arse, this house is made from wood that is at most 2cm thick meaning that if a spider farts in a cupboard on the other side of the house, not only can you hear and feel it, but you can smell it too. If I was to knock out my former Glory Number of 80 push-ups (and I’m talking straight back, nose to the floor type to any of you dick-bags that think you can do way more of your Fairy Taebo Push-ups), upstairs in my room, with the door shut, the odd mixture of squeaking floorboards and heavy breathing would have upset my Catholic Chilean Grandparents no end.

See what I mean? My hands were tied! As a result I found myself foiled by myself with the devastating outcome of Farm Fed Love Handles and some sort of Skin Blanket obscuring my once Mega Six Pack (that was well on it’s way to an Advance Level Eight Pack).

Men's Health: The Man Abroad Body.  THIS was what was supposed to happen after three months working like a bitch on the farm (except that gunshot wound of a belly button — it’s like a fucking walk-in pantry!). The plan was to roll into Buenos Aires with a six pack you could wash clothes on and a pair of Man Plates than you could herd cattle with and reap the plethora of rewards (free drinks, random high-fives in the street, beating off chicks with my Farm Fashioned Fighting Sticks and more).

But have a look at this for God’s sake — I noted a normal Tuesday intake. Sure it was an exceptional day and I did a tough-as three hour bike ride but Bitch Please. Back then I could have eaten Oprah under the table. If you can't read it, click it for largeness moron, and prepare to be amazed.

I was staring down the Barrel of Fatness with no hope of escape. The future looked big and bleak. What would I have done after the Farm Phase? Taking my fat arse to Buenos Aires was not an option. I even considered moving to Hollywood to capitalise on my forthcoming obesity, earning millions as an the on-screen subject of ridicule. If you're going to be a fat fucker, you may as well be rich. But would they see my remarkable inner talent or just use me for my entertaining Man Breasts and Kodiak Bear Breadbasket? I can almost see it now with my amazing powers of foreskin; The League of Extraordinarily Fat Gentlemen — myself and various other untalented Obesitians (that's what fatties are called right?) driving around in a (reinforced) truck solving crime in between butter-loaded meals.

But fortunately, with the Man Abroad South American Odyssey Part II behind me, and with glorious farm bread out of reach, I am already returning to my former Splendor (aided by the substantial bundle I dropped during the earthquake).

Adiós Campesino

2010-03-06T23:07:00.023-03:00

The cows have been creamed against Brazilian Blood Sucking Flies.
 

The Christmas Tree is well and truly dead and was chucked in the river, bucket 'n all (oh that sweet Latin Littering feeling).

 The sign has been painstakingly repainted.
 

Acres of oregano have been cut, washed, dried and sieved into jars.
 

The active volcano was almost climbed (that annoying wench Mother Nature stiffed me again), this is the view from base camp (after I got up at fucking 5.30am) before we got the heart wrenching news to ‘get back in the car’ due to winds kicking people down the mountain and covering them with toxic smoke.
 

The cats have eaten their fill of fresh lambs blood.
 

The cherries have been picked. (Don’t you dare!)
 

The bruises have healed. And that’s my thigh not Lance Armstrong’s if you’re wondering.
 

The 1100 bails of hay have been safeguarded in the barn (wait until I tell you about that Allergy kick in the face).
 

The landscaping has been masterfully done.
 

The Campesino Empanada Lesson has been passed. They are Pino's and they fucking rule. I could easily kill a man (or a few children) for one right now.
 

The new wave of Farm Cats have made it past infancy. Awwwww.
 

The new-new cats indicate there is indeed a plague. And they don't look so cute, like mangled hairy Dalmation Salamanders.
 

The old Baige Back Gorilla himself, Toki, has been farewelled (I even started to pat him despite that old couch smell).
 

The gorgeous new dog, creatively named Panda, has been successfully integrated. Although when you pat him he gets a raging boner everytime. And I don't know if you've ever seen an unsheathed dog penis up close but it's fucking disgusting — like a three-day old deep fried chorizo sausage coming at ya!
 

The new-new former street dog (currently sans name), who is skittish and seriously malnourished due to the mistreatment by fuckwit 'city' people in Pucon, was welcomed.
 

And Guacho my old pal has sadly gone missing. By the time I had left no one had seen him for over 5 days meaning he has either; been stolen, ran away then got stolen, run away and got killed, run away and prefers his new place, got hit by a car on the highway, got eaten and buried by one of the other dogs, played hide and seek devastatingly well, hitch hiked to Argentina, fell in the river and froze and/or drowned to death or finally got his comeuppance from the geese. Rest in peace my little friend, unless you aren’t dead, then go fucking tear it up man!
 

The all important photo of me with my Chilean Grandma, Señore Irma, in Mapuche garb was taken outside of the Ruka. Although, I made the fatal mistake of letting a grubby-handed 7 year old take it, how the hell did she managed to smear it like that?
 

This doesn’t fit the Farewell Theme Style of this blog entry, but fuck it, I can do what I want. This guy, who has had his faced removed to avoid admitting the embarrassing fact that I can’t remember his name, strolled in for a family friend dinner thingo wearing this piece of Australian Patriotsim — in total ignorance. He couldn’t even pronounce it! Oosy oosy oosy. Give me a break. I would have offered to buy it from him as a precious piece of nostalgia if it wasn’t so damn ugly. Never EVER wear a t-shirt with foreign writing as you could well embarrass yourself. Imagine if I told him the t-shirt meant Pussy Pussy Pussy or Boners Boners Boners?
 

The new recruits have passed their intense hand over training period. That’s Matthew Ready (hilariously translates to Mateo Listo) and Lisa Caprice (as in the car not the dirty pole dancer). Maybe it’s just a coincidence but notice how there are TWO people replacing me?
 

Mateo caught me unawares and subsequently destroyed me in a spur of the moment Man Gut Pout Stand Off. I salute you and your superior Man Tank Don Mateo.
 

The near and dear family have been farewelled (except Grandpa, he left to do something else without saying goodbye). That’s my Grandma in plain clothes on the left, Señore Irma, on the right is her lovely daughter-in-law Anita and the one and only Carlita.

 Most of the swarm of grandchildren were properly goodbye'd. That’s me, my beard, Carlita and that over-excited pocket rocket Carmilo (whom I dubbed Corporal Carmelo — long story but had to do with my dodgy pronunciation and him always wearing full army fatigues). Look at him seeking approval as he ruins another photo, although that is a pretty fucking good set of rabbit ears he’s got there. Nice work Corporal.
 

And now an Ode to Carlita, my little Mapuche sidekick buddy. We passed many afternoons together picking fruit for marmalade and juice. She is one of the funniest people I have ever met and a non stop giggle-athlete. She does awesome voices ranging from the speech impeded to Latin Godfather impersonations and we used to sing a robot song (in robot) together, I even taught the dear thing to beat box. Once, when I was talking, for some unknown reason, about intestinos (intestines) she broke out into an immediate ad-lib incantation called Intestino de Amor (Intestine of Love).

And if that beard and smiling child combo doesn’t get you all buttery then you aren’t really human.

 I gave her the camera one day to shut her up while I was painting the front sign and she went on a rampage and this is arguably the Pièce de Résistance. Boogers and all.
 

Lunch table antics were always a treat. Dancing instead of sitting or making theatrics of taking soup from a spoon. My favourite move was the Ninja Face Wipe. Because she eats like a circus animal, she gets crap all over her face, if you turn your eyes for just one second she will wipe her dirty mug on something. I tallied; the tablecloth, her own clothes, the clothes of someone sitting next to her, a newspaper, the curtains, to my fucking backpack.
 

This is her trying to impress me while I’m chopping wood with her fresh raspberry juice moustache. And it worked. Hat’s off indeed.
 

Another successful Pig Chase completed. Now that's teamwork!

Adios Carlita! Que te vaya muy bien y un abrazo! Espero que encontremos otra vez!

It’s time to hang up the mighty farm pants (after a serious washing) and say good day to the life of a campesino. I am hands down 20% tougher than I was when I arrived and for that I thank my Chilean Grandparents, particularly Grandma. Man Abroad — it’s time to go (although I am thinking about a sneaky re-visit in a few weeks, but just so they can see how the beard is going).

Terry Moto: The Angry Underground Man Who Shook The Shit Out Of Me

2010-03-04T16:52:00.015-03:00

As you are all aware, there was a tit-rocking terremotto (earthquake) that punched Chile in the coin bag, early on 27 February, the very same neck of the woods that your beloved Man Abroad is knocking about in. Five full days passed before finally the fucking water and electricity were reconnected here and still the internet is touch and go. Therefore, with no television, no internet, no NOTHIN I awake from the depths of ignorance and see the true devastation of the 8.8 Monster. I am, and was, fine. Just a severe pants shitting that nearly scared the beard off of me.

First I’ll clarify exactly where I was. Thursday I finished at the farm (and this entry fucks my Blog Chronology as I planned a Farewell Farm post — but that will have to wait) and caught a bus 5 hours up north to (Chilean) Los Angeles to visit a friend and her boyfriend, Hanna and Christian (both Germans). They live 15 minutes out of the city in a massive country villa. First night passed pleasantly and uneventfully. It’s a lovely property with fruit trees, shit loads of dogs, a pool and a 50 metre high private internet tower for extreme connection. That was Thursday. Friday passed with incident and I had a lovely 1 hour plus Skype conversation with family including The Brother.

Then it went a little something like this; phone beeped at 3.00am, another garbled nothingness voicemail that I can only assume was one of a long line of connection failures from the parents in Australia. Since I was awake I decided to knock out a ninja toilet run. Returning to bed I assumed the Pharaoh Position to relax back into a deep sleep. Then it started. A soft rumble that I noticed from the get-go being awake, Pharaoh-like and all. I had experienced a couple of these soft trembles in Santiago a few times so wasn’t too concerned until it fucking racked up ten-fold in seconds. I ran to the door that had opened itself and stood there clutching the sides. After maybe 30 seconds in actually got worse and I struggled to stand still. The noise was insane; the deep rumble of the earth, the lurching of the house, the clashing of doors and the smashing of everything that wasn’t secured in the house. It actually felt like riding in a 4 wheel drive on a dodgy dirt road or an out of control catamaran driven by a one-eyed Rottweiler. I truly believe the house was moving up to a metre in all directions. The hardcore part went for damn near 4 minutes and at around 3 minutes I thought I was going to get Crushed To Death By Country Mansion. It pattered out into softer inconsistently consistent aftershocks (as I write this right NOW — over 6 days later — there is a unpleasantly large turtle-necking aftershock).

I was extremely lucky to be where I was, away from the city. And I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t decide to visit Concepcion or Chillan first that got double teamed with Tsunamis. The only true inconvenience I have suffered has been the inability to contact anyone back home. Well over 24 hours after the earthquake I was fortunate enough to have access to the ONLY functioning phone in Los Angeles (at the boss’ house of Christian) for which I am truly grateful. Even that long was hard enough on the family but it was highly possible that they were not going to hear a word from me for 5 days! Sweet Jesus! Delia would have looked like Mr Burns on crack after that long!

But I have been more than fine here on the Estate. After the initial, hideous clean up, there was nothing to do except wash the dishes in the river every morning. Obviously kissed on the dick by a fairy, Hannah and Christian had actually prepped for a massive party the next day so we were totally stocked on food and drink. I have done much of the following over the last days; sit in a hammock, swim in a pool, played with the dogs, eaten too much fruit from the trees, played serious bouts of Pachisi by candlelight and knocked off a book. So I hope no one stressed too much about my safety as, thank Van Halen, I passed it all safe and sound. And can I just say that hammocks are the greatest invention ever. Do yourself a favour and fucking get one now and reap the abundance of rewards. Now for a few snaps...

Smashed!

Yes, there were ample supplies due to party preparations but MANY were lost in the quake — that room was a tough one to clean, let me tell you.

Thank you Jesus, Mary and Joesph that you decided to crack the pot and not the massive gas tank behind it.

Just outside the house — it's caved in a bit in the last few days, but those cracks go down over a metre!

The pool, formerly known as the communal bath — I tried the ice cold river once and it was bad (I am still waiting for my genitals to reappear). It has since been topped up but before it lost almost a third of it's water in the quake!

Oh, that sweet, sweet hammock. I NEED to get one man. Good naps and books have been had in that fella.

The mighty Night Passer. I am addicted now, but only when played by candle light. It seems familiar and I think it might be the German version of the game played as children called Trouble?

On a serious note though. I hope all the lovely people I have met in Chile have come through the other side unscathed and my deepest sympathies to those that lost a lot more than just power and water. May Terry Moto never strike Chile again.

Café Chile. Service—Come fucking get it

2010-02-20T17:11:00.005-03:00

I go to a café once a week-ish to upload Genius to the Internet and harass people with pointless emails. I sit in the upstairs section and pass the afternoon with headphones, drinking coffee until my colon tells me it is time to stop, signaling the beginning of the Working Class Chilean Beer Phase. As with the rest of the country, service here is a luxury item that only the rich can afford. If I want another beverage I need to go downstairs and order it, wait 25 minutes then go downstairs again and inquire about it before I have any chance of getting one.

This day however I was taken by surprise by a waitress coming upstairs. What did she want? Did she realise I had been eating snacks stashed in my backpack to avoid buying their Over Priced Old Fridge Tasting Selection? Or had someone gone Exorcist in the bathroom again (I bet it was a fucking Belgian)? She seemed to be making eye contact with me — so I put my attention back on the Google image search for Mud Wrestling Sisters and left the headphones in. Who knows, maybe she was just trying to take in the magnificence of my Chin-Defying Farm Beard?

When it was apparent that she wanted something from me I feigned ignorance and looked up spitting out Hola awkwardly. Perhaps my cow shit covered pants wrongly signified that I wasn’t a gringo and she asked a question I didn’t understand or associate with waitresses or cafés. Maybe she was asking me out? As long as I could keep my screen away from her there might be something in this. I smoothly said What? She decided to repeat what she said before, word for word, but faster. I wrongly attempted a shrugging reply (you’d be surprised how often that is sufficient). It got awkward. And her face gave birth to a scowl—which is a scowl slightly different than the regular scowl that sits unenthusiastically upon the collective faces of the Chilean Service Industry.

Then I realised I had to buy something else. Apparently one espresso coffee in four hours isn’t enough. Well maybe if you dragged you bagging jeans wearing arse up the fucking stairs every now and then you’d get a few more purchases sweet heart. That would have been a sweet-as thing to say but would require approximately 10 minutes to translate and cross reference with the dictionary. I don’t know what I fucking want — I’m busy looking for chicks fighting in mud. So I opted for a time buying request for the menu — but in the stress of the moment I couldn’t remember how that phrase went. Was it carta or menu and with what verb and which tense do I use? She was about my age, but I don’t know her, do I use formal or informal?

The seconds passed and I knew I was nose-diving into a Communication Arse Crack into which even English got sucked. So I drew a rectangle with my hands and shrugged. Her return blank I’m-doing-a-turd-like face (she was getting less attractive by the minute, as I assume I was — Beard Credit can only get you so far) indicated she wasn’t computing. What else could I possibly be signifying you incompetent fool — that I’m opening a portal to another dimension to flee through with my illegal snacks and semi pornographic pictures without paying for my one espresso or divulging my intimate knowledge of what actually happened in that bathroom? We were now perhaps three minutes into this shit storm with no way out. I had one headphone in playing Van Halen Poundcake thank God (a.k.a. Van Halen) to ease the pain. And you know what the crazy bitch did? She turned around and walked downstairs AND DIDN’T COME BACK. She fucking gave up! Did she even fucking work there? How is that acceptable? Oh that’s right service is a ‘If I feel like it’ thing around here.

If I had a hat on I would have taken it off to that amazing display of Extreme Service (and thrown it at her as she walked away, and in an ideal world it would have been a over-sized metal construction helmet with Rabies-laced Tiger Wire welded to it and copped her square in the lower back at the top off the stairs. When she’d finished falling to the bottom of the stairs I’d yell out Bring me a beer thanks.

And by the way, I am uploading this spicy entry from within the aforementioned café, beer in the hand — what delicious ironing.

Munch on this you Swiss git

2010-02-19T15:40:00.006-03:00

If any of you have the pleasure of knowing Man Abroad personally, you will know he has sleeping issues bordering on the Dangerously Psychotic. For example, if the lights are out and a digital clock is in the room you can kiss it goodbye. It will be moved to the safety of the toilet cistern where its Eyelid Penetrating Retina Burn Rays can do no harm. Got any electronic device with a standby mode light on? Then you better duct tap that fucker before I drop kick it out the window. Humans were designed to sleep in the dark, and in my case a blindfolded, reinserted into the womb and buried 3 kilometres under the ground kind of dark.

But perhaps even worse than light, is the other Nemesis Of The Gentle Sleeper; Noise. Dogs barking within a 50 metre radius will be bound and gagged. Roosters will be shot, drowned, stabbed and electrocuted. Other human beings will be dealt with depending on the situation; your car will be set on fire, you next meal will contain colon-tortingly painful amounts of Draino, next time you show your passport to an official at an airport out will fall a cocaine sprinkled reefer rolled in a picture of kiddy porn, and if you’re Belgian keeping me awake with your irritating voice excreted from your beady-eyed head then you will be force fed the bathmats you all insist on saturating and putrefying with your jungle hygiene standards.

Now thanks to a Swiss Butt Pirate thinking he was amusing when I made the mistake of trusting a Continental European and divulging my issues and occasional Ear Plug Therapy, there is a third enemy to sleep: Fear. I always told myself when I was younger that being a light sleeper would save my life one day when a crazy nut bag broke into the house and started off-ing people. I would wake fully lucid with my Lynx-like sound perception and hiding behind the door, I’d desk chair the fucker into a coma when they entered my room OR remaining under the sheets, but upside down, I would kick them in the head, disorientating them whilst I clubbed them into a coma with my Bedside Australia Post Tube Filled With Coins.

Nevertheless, after a while the sleep deprivation became too much, waking up with a heart thumping start when a cat down the road had indigestion. I conceded and attempted ear-plugs. The first little while was horrible, like trying to sleep with a Leprechaun penis in each ear while you listen to the disgusting inner workings of the human body. But like most things, I got used to it.

So this semi bung eyed, overly tanned, balding Swiss gum boot thinks I will find it funny if he says ‘Wiz out hear then you wont know when sum one cums a do dis’ (his English sucked but his Spanish was intolerably worse) and stood up and acted out a knifing motion with a spastic look on his face. All those years of suppressed and almost forgotten Fear Of Others came flooding back to the surface.

I thought I was the only retard that wasted time thinking about being stabbed in the night when sleeping, which, is the only reason I will never have a pet monkey — small and unpredictable with an opposable thumb = only a matter of time before they stab you from behind, steal your shit and head to the jungle. Every time I enter new sleeping quarters I assess how I can subtly but effectively barricade the door from the inside (but not to the point where I am unreachable in an emergency — such as Bed Ridden Licorice Arse). And, more importantly, how I am going to pre-emptively end the life of any would be assassins; this can range from a Jumping Doona Swoop that envelopes the victim before I knee them to death, to a Bedside Glass Glassing In The Face, to a Wallet Chain Face Lashing followed promptly by a Wallet Chain Garrotting.

Now I find out that even your average Swiss Middle-Aged Toss-Bot thinks about it, even if just as a joke. Now I am stuck in a Catch 32 (like a 22 but even more fucked); sleep terrible without the Leprechaun penis’ in my ears, or have them in but spend the whole time not sleeping and trying to hear through them for Crazy Swiss Balding Butt Faced Knifing Bandits trying to kill me.

So what do I do now? The only thing I can do; sleep with more weapons in my bed. If someone sneaks in to snuff me and steal my gear then the last thing they are going to expect is Leather Man Bottle Opener in the face or a squirt of Palmolive Lavender Body Wash in the eye while they get their faced bashed out their arse by a 400GB Hard Drive.

But like Jesus said in that famous (and very abstract) book on carpentry of his: The only thing to fear, besides being stabbed with a fishtail chisel, is fear itself. Which, now that I see it written down, gives me very little comfort (and makes me wonder just how good a carpenter Jesus could really was) .

Sleep easy and well armed amigos.

Man Abroad Family Seven Star Praying Mantis Kung Fu

2010-02-11T15:39:00.022-03:00

The Kung Fu Kwoon in Santiago was pretty abysmal indeed; a toilet sized bedroom full of furniture, with barely enough room to roundhouse a midget. Sure there are parks in Santiago but they are run by the stray dogs and besides nobody likes a tosser doing martial arts in a park full of people. The Man Abroad Farm Phase is a different story however. At the back of the farm is a massive paddock for the sheep to graze encircled by trees. It's quiet, it's serene, the sheep are a little annoying and there is shit everywhere, but for the most part it is more than suitable. The sheep tend to shit less in the dry dirt covered area so that is where I Knock About, and it also looks tough as hell when I stamp the ground and a puff of dust shoots up. Here you can see my Farm Fashioned Bamboo Cudgel And Short Stick Set.

In the beginning there was no one to fight but nature, so that's what I did. These trees are not simply trees, they are rock hard knobbly street fighters that want to steal my wallet and kick my skull in. Using an old fashion Line Fighting Technique I fought tooth and dagger for that wallet and skull — and believe you me those trees looked a lot healthier before I arrived.

During my many hours of practice and meditation on the various aspects of Awesomeness, I decided to develop my own definitive style of martial arts that gets it right all the time. Yes, we all know Chow Ah Naam observed a mantis killing a bird in China ages ago and developed Mantis Kung Fu from there. But I too have captured a Mantis (Murray from the last Man Abroad post) and observed his daily patterns. And Murray is a sick fucker, easily the single most ruthlessly violent creature I have ever met. I have adapted these observations (including the de-capitation and head eating of every type of farm animal there is) into a Super Advanced Style of Kung Fu called Man Abroad Family Seven Star Praying Mantis Kung Fu overseen by myself, Grand Master Man Abroad.

This book contains the current curriculum and some of the deadly secrets of The Art. As you can see from examples on the cover ALL modern day senarios are addressed without censorship. I simply present the information, it is up the discretion of the pupil to apply it sensibly and legally.

I have also released a line of Tai Chi books for those less inclined to violence but who have an interest in attaining Inner Awesomeness and reap the rewards of Tai Chi's broad spectrum of Healing Powers.

As interest in the Chilean community about this new Super Gringo Martial Artist grew, the cunning entrepreneur dwelling deep within me knew what to do: Strip While The Iron Is Hot! I set up a tournament in the Old School fashion whereby I ask the top fighters in the world to come to my Kwoon and fight me in their chosen style to really see what Man Abroad Family Seven Star Praying Mantis Kung Fu is all about. I can talk the talk but I can also walk the walk (or as the saying goes in Man Abroad Family Seven Star Praying Mantis Kung Fu: You can palm the palm strike but can you hold the holding squat?) I don't want to toot my own horn here (that's a private thing between a man and his laptop) but I fancied myself.

The tournament was called Latin Kombat. Including myself there were 10 fighters in total that were to fight it out No Holds Barred in the safety of the Chilean countryside. Even the most average of you out there will most likely have heard of these top notch fighters:

Man Abroad: Grand Master and Creator of Man Abroad Family Seven Star Praying Mantis Kung Fu, the organiser, main spectacle and anticipated vanquisher.

Ken: That walking shampoo commercial-looking pussy from Street Fighter II that spends more time dueling with his hairdryer than anything else, but does have a dangerous move that shoots out a hot white thing while he screams.

Kung Fu Panda: Flavour of the moment and nothing more. A useless animal and a useless fighter. He was invited for no other reason than to destroy him and his reputation guaranteeing no further tainting of the Martial Arts Movie World.

Sub Zero II (Minus Sub Zero): The love child of former Mortal Kombat sensation Sub Zero, this little pocket rocket is the next generation of Coldness. I thought it best to challenge and kill him while he's young as a self preserving investment for the future.

Scorpian II (Scorpling): Unable to do anything without copying Sub Zero, Scorpian, of the same Mortal Kombat fame also knocked one out. This little dude is also slightly unnerving and it would be best that he gets crushed as well.

Old Asian Dude: He's the guy that has starred in every Asian martial arts movie ever made. But due to extreme ugliness and an Asian lisp he only gets action parts and hit the glass ceiling well back in the seventies. That being said he is a fucking good fighter and I look forward to touching hands with him, before breaking his back.

Murray Mantis: Inspiration for the development of Man Abroad Family Seven Star Praying Mantis Kung Fu, Murray is a formidable martial artist. That being said he is only 8 centimetres tall so there weren't too many concerns there as long as I can keep his raptorial forelegs away from my eyes.

Raven: She maybe unfamilar to some of you non-pinball playing people out there. She is an ex member of the Naughty Navy Seals that gained world wide fame in the Pin Ball Circuit in the early eighties when she got into bed with Premier Pin Ball Gaming. The next image down may jog your memory and impress you with her arsenal of guns.

BJ Penn: Celebrated top notch UFC Fighter known for his natural mixed martial arts style and unpredictability, I was very keen to challenge him to a cage-less cage fight in the country side and let the organisers at UFC know there is a new contender.

Cheeky Twins: These two chicks earn a living by play fighting on camera before making out while getting hosed down. Little did they know that they were invited not for legitimate fighting like they had hoped, but that they would be fighting each other for the camera.

Here she is, that Militant Mistress; Raven, shamelessly lending her considerable armory to promote pin balling.

Kung Fu Panda. I refuse to watch the movie (the only animal fighting I will accept is dog, cock and llama fights) so I was unaware of his abilities, but not fussed in the slightest. One of my specialties is taking out fat, hairy people so I wasn't too worried about anything except maybe his claws, disturbing gaze and constant crotch promoting postures.

The authorities were invited to come watch and help clean up any mess (including tricky paperwork) in return for empanadas. They had their work cut out for them removing this 800 kilo, now neck-less, mass of Former Panda.

This was a tough one. Bj Penn and I went five rounds of five minutes before I knocked him out Ground And Pound Style in the final seconds from a Full Mount (that's a non-sexual MMA term for you losers out there). I went all out too because the cocky bastard talked shit about me and my moustache in the pre-fight interview which will be edited to my liking in the DVD Extra Features.

Fight Number Five (which was renamed Half Time Entertainment in the DVD edition) was a spectacle. The Cheeky Twins were furious at being invited under false pretenses and let me tell you they took it out on each other. The Tournament budget didn't allow for a mud pit like I had hoped but in the end it didn't matter. Even the sheep hung around to watch this one.

I don't know who invited this 'guy', where he came from or why he was wearing nothing but unnecessarily tight underwear. He maybe holding two razor sharp Katanas and willing to fight to the death but please. Neither the world of Martial Arts nor Entertainment what to see this flabby wanker get his comeuppance. That being the case, I set the farm dogs on him who returned later with the Katana swords (which I will sell on Ebay) and the tattered remains of those foul little undies.

Another hard slog was the Cudgel Fight with the Old Asian Dude. Don't get me wrong, I am awesome on the cudgel, but it's not my weapon of choice and I am unaccustomed to fighting dressed as an ancient Asian peasant. Nevertheless a good fight was had and let's just say the Old Asian Dude won't be acting anytime soon (unless it's a hospital bed drama).

All other fights went as I expected — Man Abroads way. I kicked Ken in the stomach, breaking his intestines when he got his fringe stuck in his eyes. Sub Zero II is floating in the river and as always Scorpian II is copying him. Most of Murray Mantis is still stuck to the bottom of my shoe. Raven is offically classed by the Naughty Navy Seals as 'Missing In Action' and the Cheeky Twins remained unharmed but not untouched.

To celebrate the public validation of Man Abroad Family Seven Star Praying Mantis Kung Fu I shaved my head clean and had some peasants knit me a Grand Master Night Gown. As foreseen, the press have picked up on it and Man Abroad Family Seven Star Praying Mantis Kung Fu is fucking hot news at the moment.

Got the call up from NEO GEO who begged me to approve the speedily created gaming version of Latin Kombat, who are flogging it to schools, seedy arcades and airports throughout Latin America.

Man Abroad was the special guest feature of this month's Latino Kung-Fu, the most respected Martial Arts publication in Latin America. I recount victories and reveal a few of the secrets from Man Abroad Family Seven Star Praying Mantis Kung Fu.

As my credibility and popularity sores I have also been involved in a few classic movie remakes as well as sequels, as is the fashion these days. Due to the abysmal efforts of Michael 'What is acting?' Dudikoff in the first installment, the producers of American Ninja decided to cast someone with actual Kung Fu and acting ability. Man Abroad willingly stepped up to the plate. The producers also felt that American Ninjas were becoming a dime a dozen, but Latin American Ninjas were few and far between, hence the creation of a Modern Classic.

To commemorate the 22nd anniversary of one of the greatest martial arts movies (and movies in general) of all time, Bloodsport, and bring it to the Latinos, I was cast as the Latin version of Frank Dux — Fredrico Dulce — in El Bloodsport. And It even got the nod from JCVD himself.

Man Abroad's innovativeness is spreading beyond simply reinventing martial arts. If I see something lacking in Awesomeness, and I have nothing better to do, I will kick it's arse until it is Awesome. Now Man Abroad is selling tough-as-hell Man Jeans to hardcore farmers across Latin America who, until now, have been unable to fully express themselves Kick-Wise.

Tranquil life in the country side? I think not. No rest for the Awesome as they say. Please send requests for Man Abroad Family Seven Star Praying Mantis Kung Fu publications using this blog site. As that man-looking former swimmer once said about muesli bars; If you dream, you believe, you create, you succeed.

National Geographic: The Life Of (Inside) Insects

2010-01-29T15:39:00.003-03:00

Don't get me wrong, Man Abroad is all man. But insects are not high on the Awesome List, especially as room mates. This is the country however and we all have to live in A Slaughter Free Zone (commonly referred to as Peace). Therefore, in the interests of science and keeping Man Fear under control I have embarked on a mostly peaceful documentation process of the abundance of insectoid lifeforms residing with me.

The Europeans have ruined another country by introducing every annoying plant and animal they possibly could. That includes the European Wasp, which seems a little less aggressive than the identical ones we have in Australia but they are fucking everywhere. I actually relocate any that stumble into my bedroom. Most of the houses here are made of wood, without insulation and a shitload of gaps so trying to keep them out would be as pointless as having a conversation with a fucking hippie backpacker.

These two lived in the communal bathroom. One stayed on the nest all the time and the other came and went as it pleased. They left me alone and I them. It worked well and I was looking forward to seeing the family when they hatched (or whatever the fuck wasps do). However, one day I noticed the Mum (or Stay At Home Dad) that is always there was not there. So I went about my business, hoping to touch base with it later. I won't go into details but some toilet brush action was required – I reached behind The John and grabbed it and in a moment of sheer Horror I saw a spider eating the Mum/Dad wasp in amongst the bristles. Overcome with rage (and inconvenience) I killed the spider in a horrible manner (no details necessary) and conveniently gave the wasp an Active Navy Officer's Funeral at the same time. To those that say a human can't love an insect I say taste my salty tears.

That left a broken family and abandoned children. So I did what any passionate scientist would do — I ripped it off the ceiling, photographed it, poked it a bit with a stick and threw it in the fire. Amazing little construction that, strong but soft, durable but highly flammable.

You can even see a little wasp dude in this one. Sure, its life was short, it never got to spread its wings, it's Mum/Dad got eaten by a Toilet Brush Dwelling Spider and it died in a fiery inferno — but that's the miracle of life.

Spiders on the other hand are a different story. If it's large-ish and moving quickly I will destroy it. And I will do so fast. This fucker skittered across the floor whilst I was barefoot so I launched my Hand Activated Arachnid Destroying Pulverizer (which occasionally doubles as a dictionary) and smashed it to hell and then some.

As you can see, that's not a recoverable injury and funnily enough it turned out not to be a spider either. Looks kind of roachy to me which also have to die, so all is good.

Now this was a scary scenario. He moved like Matt Shrivington across the floorboards and needed to perish (just like Shirvo if I ever see him — that'll be hard work too with such a small dictionary). This black beast was heading to Under Bed Territory where my Hand Activated Arachnid Destroying Pulverizer doesn't work too well. So I launched a Foot Activated Distraction Device (a dirty sock, seriously dirty, like, country dirty) causing the retard to turn around giving me enough time to find the Hand Activated Arachnid Destroying Pulverizer which was buried under my Arsenal Of Foot Activated Distraction Devices. Then I pulverized the fucker – and it was big man because it didn't splat when I hit it, and I don't hold back.

These two are residing in another part of the house that is outside my sleeping quarters so they won't be bothered. I had been keeping a close eye on them though. Chile has no real dangerous creatures at all except for one; The Rincon Spider. Which will most likely kill you if you get bitten. And I didn't know what it looked like so every spider I saw could have been a potential Rincon Spider.

I did my research and this is a Rincon Spider. I felt better knowing that all of the spiders I had seen in the house so far where definitely not Rincons. HOWEVER, the other night when I was brushing my teeth I saw something Yoyo-sized and brown out the corner of my eye on the ceiling (which in the Chilean countryside is about 10cm above my head). Just before it slipped into the generous gaps between the 'skylight' and the ceiling boards. And I am sorry to say the bastard looked just like this picture. So now I am very much On Toes.

Luckily, most of the spiders in the small ecosystem which is This House are after nothing but some fly action and lots of it.

Another fallen amigo. God Speed my friend.

Whoa. Sorry to interrupt guys.

There are more flies in the Australian countryside, that's for sure, BUT they have a horsefly thing here that is pant wetting in its largeness and as persistent as a Fat Drunk Gringo Hunter In A Foreigner Bar. I have been unable to photograph one thus far but here is a scale drawing that will give you a fairly accurate indication. They ruin any and every scenic walk on a hot day and make you want to slit your own throat with a blunt rock.

This gunshot like wound on my finger (which has taken three weeks to heal) came from an Insect In The Bed Moment. I was living the typical Chilean farmer night life by watching cartoons in bed, alone in the dark, when I felt something crawl across my hand. I moved a good three metres in one jerking motion and snagged my finger on the bed head. The culprit was never found and I wouldn't be surprised if it fell into that crater-like abyss of a wound.

There have been a few massive intruders into the Man Abroad Sanctuary that initiated a full scale and ruthless counter attack. This massive fella pissed off the wrong gringo. Luckily I was already in my Travel Combat Gear whilst pre-writing some hilarious emails when this hard shelled turd burglar busted in. And of course I fucked him up bigtime and made an example of him to scare of like-minders; flipped him on his back, called him names, put a bullet between all of his eyes, wrote I am Man Abroad's Bitch on it's exoskeleton, cut off his insect penis and shoved it in his insect mouth (both of which were more trouble than it was worth), took photos of me abusing it and pinned them up outside my door. There have since been no others.

This earth shatteringly sexy photo was taken with the safety of glass between me and the beast. Some tourists were coming home late so I turned the back stairs light on for them. It was a hot night and those ant things with wings went spastic around the light globe. And a platoon of these crafty bastards came out and gorged all night.

Snared!

The house is home to scores of freeloaders who stick to the cracks to avoid paying rent. It is rare that I will ever see any of them leave their houses but occasionally if I am patient or poke it with something long enough they will come to the door. These two biggies in the bathroom always interested me as to whom was occupying them. Then one day a steady stream of poking and insults revealed the occupant...

Well, fucking well. Look who it is. Old Rick Moranis finally did it; he shrunk himself and couldn't (or wasn't allowed to) get re-biggerized. Maybe someone finally realized that that franchise was the culinary equivalent of a Turd Sandwich with all the trimmings. He looks a little aggressive doesn't he, standing there like that in his trakky dakky's? Maybe he thinks the Paparazzi have discovered his South American hideout and come to disrupt him, but surely he is aware that they don't care for Nerd Burgers like him. He then threatened me with a series of impressive moves, forgetting that I could crush him with a toothbrush (but not mine of course, someone else's). I wonder where he learnt them? That is a pretty good stance he's holding there. It looks almost familiar...

Of course! He's been learning Mantis Kung Fu from a Mantis and a tough looking one at that. Murray was his name, he was a Chinese mantis that fled to Chile in the eighties when he accidentally burnt down an orphanage during a demonstration. He told me he had originally planned on decapitating and eating the Smarmy Annoying C&%$, but changed his mind and decided to teach him when Rick came through with some cash.

Now he's just trying to showing off. Like I care if he's got some money hungry winged hooker for a wife (although that is a dangerously decked out thorax she is sporting). And that baby of his, in my opinion, is fucking ugly (I hope it stings him in the eye when he's sleeping and they both die).

Then there is this pain in the arse that also lives in the bathroom. And the only redeeming feature about him is that he hates Rick Moranis as much as I do. He thinks he owns the basin and rides around on his girl bike hassling me every time I brush my teeth or stand there soaking in the magnificence of my new Farm Beard.

This guy isn't so bad and I haven't killed him yet (think of the splatter he would make!) but he does get on my nerves. He just stands there in the corner always asking what I am doing on the laptop. Fuck of Bug Boy or I'll snap off your wings and shove up your insect arse is my usual response.

So as you can see, it is indeed a diverse environment here on the farm. I have learned to be more tolerant of others different and inferior to me. Each day Man Abroad becomes even more of a man.

Stranger In The Room

2010-01-12T15:46:00.009-03:00

The other day I was quietly photoshopping in the kitchen eatery enjoying a fresh cup of chamomile tea when a shiver run up my spine. Someone was watching me... but I thought I was the only one home all day? I did a quick Ninja Glance Survey of the room and out the windows... nothing. I started to get nervous, the highly trained fighter in me knows when to trust the gut instinct, like Wolverine when he smells something suss, Luke Skywalker when he detects trouble brewing in the Force (although that didn't stop him making out with his sister) or Buffy when that stabbing pain in her lady spot tells her a Werewolf is near or she needs to hit a cubicle asap. Then in a flash I knew what it was... the stereo... it was one of the old fashioned Philips ET Head Shaped Stereos from years back. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before — it stood out like dogs balls now. Released in 2002 to commerate the 20th Anniversary of ET the movie, the notorious stereos were known less for their ET resemblance and more for their constant disc chewing, extreme flammability and electric shocking aerial. Eventually withdrawn from the market and dubbed ET: Extremely Torchable, they skipped over cult status and collectors item and went straight to the dumps in masses.

Old ET! I haven't seen him in years. Not sure what he's up to nowadays but I heard that he got extradited back to his home planet for trying to glow finger a senator's under age daughter at a fundraising event. Back in the Hey Day though, when he was shit hot (and he knew it – he's the only member of his entire race that doesn't wear clothes) back in the 80's we did a Christmas Duet album. Surely you remember it?

Such a classic Christmas album Christmas Hugs From ET & Man Abroad. Right up there with Frank Sinatra's The Christmas Album and definitely better than the burnable Hey Rudolph by the Tin Lids (Jimmy Barnes' evil spawn). Outstanding tracks songs like: Here Comes Man Abroad, ET The Glow Fingered Alien, A Child (Alien) This Day Is Born, Away In A Spaceship, O Come All Ye Faithfull (Or Your Towns Will Be Lasered Into Nothingness), Joy To The World(s), Man Abroad Is Coming To Town, The Little Drummer Boy (Is Cute Hey ET?), Silent But Deadly Night (SBDN), The Christ-Man-Abroad Song, and All I want for Christmas (Is An Interdimensional Armour Piercing Space Gun).

It was quite the commercial success and is still selling strong, almost catching up with my other highly awarded Christmas Album:

Man Abroad, A Very Sexy Christmas. Popular with the ladies during the festive season, it includes such memorable songs as; I Wish You A Sexy Christmas, A Child This Day (In 9 Months) Is Born, Bells Will Be Ringing (Baby), All I Want For Christmas Is Another Silk Dressing Gown, Here Cums Santa Claus, Is That Xmas Or Just Some Dry Skin Baby?, It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Seduction, The Twelve Days Of XXX-Mas, O Holey Night and Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow.

Both shat rainbows on the regrettable collaboration album I did in the early nighties. The Men Abroad Band was always going to be a quick cash cow for Man Abroad but proved to be damn near career suicide. That's what my producer Pisco Rodriguez told me and I was dumb enough to believe the turd whisperer. Take my advice and never work with children, animals, pussy little hairless boy band singers (the tantrums and non stop crying is what got me) or greasy Latin American Producers with gold teeth in white Panama Suits. The album included such unforgettable numbers as: We Five (Boy) Kings, All I Want For Christmas Is A Back Crack And Sack Wax, Away Is Our Manager, Boys To The World, The Nightwear Before Christmas, A New Dolce & Gabbana Store Is Coming To Town, It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Fake Tan, and The Most Wonderful (Hair) Day Of The Year.

Then there was the slightly more aggressive We Wish You A Militant Christmas album. This was a self funded project to say Go fuck a trash can to my ex-producer Pisco after nearly running my career into the ground. Pisco sacked me from his label (Completos Recorditos) without pay out, so I did what had to be done; taking heed from my own album, I molotov'd his house, burnt his cars, spit roasted his dog (as in ate) and pistol whipped him until I got my money back. Remember, you only get out what you put in. It included such hard hitting Miliant Christmas hits as; The Twelve Day Siege Of Christmas, Bombs Will Be Ringing, Away In A MiG-29, Deck The Halls (With Barbs Of Wire), Jingle Bells Rocket Launcher, The Night Raid Before Christmas, Silencer Night, Christmas Mourning, Molotov Cocktail Time Is Here and It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like A Counter Attack.

Possibly the pinnacle of the music industry, Christmas Albums are the Crème de la Crème, the Highest Branches in the Music Tree. There is little room for error with the discerning Christmas Music Consumer. They will chew you up and spit you out if you tread even slightly off track. I am tossing around ideas for the next Christmas Album, possibly with a tasty Latin twist...

A Boy Among Boys

2010-01-05T14:11:00.042-03:00

Forget Boy Wonder and his tight little panties.

Forget that weird little rocket-footed-nipple-less-sissy Astroboy (how can he fly in space sans helmet without his eyes imploding? A slight oversight Tezuka, no?)

Please, PLEASE forget the 1990's Irish bowel movement that was Boyzone which rose from the depths of hell to terrorise the airwaves.

Forget Storm Boy and his unnatural relationship with a Pelican (sometimes kids shouldn't be allowed to play with animals).

Forget the fake boy that wanted to be a real boy (and lived with a dodgy moustached old dude)

Forget girls who look like boys (unless they are seriously hot, then it's okay-ish).

And definitely dip your mind in Draino to help forget boys who look like girls (that face scares me).

There's a new arse kicking boy about... the one and only Farm Boy. Able to eat ANY part of an animal (at least once) and stand steadfast in the face of charging geese. Nothing is too much for Farm Boy, you know what they say; A boy in the hand is worth two in the bush. And that has now been acknowledged by the community at large...

Here is Farm Boy winning Farm Boy of the Year for the recently passed 2009. Look at that sultry pout, so tough a boy, so tender a boy (that bovine is butter in his hands).

This is where Farm Boy lives. It's basic but real. No fancy lace curtains and mod cons, just four walls and a roof-ish thing. That being said, this is a pretty bad angle...

...yeah that's a bit better actually (must of had the flash on). It has half a dozen bedrooms upstairs for tourists to stay in and the kitchen 'n that downstairs, where everything is cooked wood fire stove style.

Here is a killer panoramic from another side of the house. Click it bigger Delia.

It might look like a bit like Grug with his eyes gouged out but that's just a coincidence. It's a Rukka, a traditional native Mapuche hut thing that the Ancients used to live in. Tourists come and eat in here and have BBQ's and the family use it for special occasions too.

Basically what you do is grab a carcass, shove a pole up its arse and out through it's mouth (or vice versa if you like) and roast it over the fire in the middle. It's nice in there albeit smoky as hell and I smash my head on the midget exit doorway at least once in every four.

I almost feel nauseous it's so damn green here. Besides the blue sky there are no other colours only 10,000 shades of green. They have water coming out their arse's here it's a bit obscene really.

There are three volcanoes nearby (two within eyeshot of the house). This and the previous (National Geographic Quality) photo are both Volcan Villarrica—notice the killer pancake cloud in the first shot. People ski it and trek it in hoards everyday. I was supposed to go up it the other day but they just had a fucking avalanche so that got put on hold for a while.

I am riding the bike everyday anywhere between 30mins and 4 hours. Therefore much to my dismay, I went to the city the other night for drinks and my new Lance Armstrong thighs don't fit in my sweet-as-hell-designer-black-Nudie-brand-jeans anymore. Looks like I am wearing spandex, you can actually read every number on the keypad of my phone in my pocket. But they are behind on the fashion steaks here (all the dudes are still wearing those repulsive pussy little mullety haircuts – I thought I'd seen the end of that a couple of years back). If anyone asks what's wrong with my pants I'll just tell them I am a Fashion Icon From The Future that has traveled back in time (at considerable cost) to fast track the rural clothing scene. Either that or I'll knee 'em in the pouch and run (as best I can with such tight pants). But I digress, I ride at lot and there are lots 'o hills here, dodgy pot holed gravel roads and nothing but head winds. Therefore I am working for it. I actually eat a block of chocolate everytime I go, just for energy.

And this is the chocolate I am eating up to two blocks a day of. The name says it all: cheap and fucking nasty (and sounds like a robot snack). But I need a little something something for the backpack and any desperate situations I might encounter. One of those blocks (which is actually only 80grams like a Mars Bars – that's not so bad yeah?) cost 300 pesos which is something like 65 cents. And Pucon is a touristy/expensive son of a bitch of a town so that will give you an indication of the type of quality I am talking about.

Snack Attack after a brutal 2 Hour Non Stop Up Slant Ride Because I Rode An Hour Past Where I Wanted To Go Due To Poxy Inadequate Signage type scenario. And yes, that's a tube of precious Vegemite cradled lovingly between my legs.

Another Pulitzer winning photograph. This is one of the Saltos nearby (maybe Salto China).

It's so lush with green stuff that its growing all the way up the rock face. And like this photo shows, it's disturbing to the eye because it feels like you are looking at forest from birds eye view not human eye view.

This same Salto had this wicked little wood carving. I thought seriously about flogging it (when in Rome...), but the logistics where too problematic. Then I thought about torching it because if I can't have it no one can. But I didn't have a light so I let it be.

After my initial Wooden Lizard impression you can imagine my disappointment when it was followed up by these two abused and under-appendaged monkeys. They needed to be put out of their misery.

Now here was some wooden mastery I could appreciate. Don't have a seat? Then chainsaw down a fucking massive tree and MAKE one man! The world is your oyster and the trees are your seats.

No idea what's happening here. I can't tell if it is an old sign for one of the thermal baths nearby or the remnants of many signs passed. Is it just me or does it look like a misproportioned mermaid with a Terrance & Philip head?

What's this then?

Looks kinda like Farm Boy took some shots from a chopper whilst out on an Aerial Cow Tagging With Dual Hand Guns Sans Seatbelt Joy Ride. Or maybe it's just artfully shot bridge moss? I guess you'll never know.

We are in the midst of elections right now in Chile for a new President. Luckily all the information you could need is plastered on every square inch of public space. You know, the kind of information you need to elect a new nation head to run your country effectively; badly photographed faces on worsely photoshopped backgrounds with a name and up to six word slogans (We Are Going To Live Better, I'm Less Bad Than The Other Guy, You Can Trust My Cheesy Grin, Vote For Me Or Else, I Paid For Better Photoshopping). At least it gives all the homeless dogs somewhere to sleep.

Speaking of dogs, this is possibly my best friend down here in the country (might have something to do with the fact that he's the only one that speaks less Spanish than me, or maybe not). His name is Guacho and he's a mental little puppy. He likes me because I give him more Pat Time than anyone else (who all have real work to do).

This is not what it looks like! No need to call the RSPCA (what are they gonna do? Fly all the way to Chile? Mooohahahah). That lion in the background is Tokki; a lovely dog with a old gorilla man rumble that smells like absolute shit. I can't pat him unless I'm about to go inside and have a shower it's that bad. He's as old as white turd though so maybe that's why.

Cheeky little fucker.

I knew farm animals were stupid, but this experience on the farm has opened my eyes to the depths of their stupidity. Why's that you ask? Have a look at this picture — that's a fucking chicken mothering baby ducks. All you have to do is shove her on some eggs for at least 2 weeks before they hatch and she can't tell the difference. When they hit the water for a swim, she skitters about dropping turds on the banks until they come back in. Unbelievable.

Yeah that's right, I use the river to wash my clothes man. Well, rinse them. There is a washing machine here but the bastard can't rinse. Don't ask me why the fuck not because my River Rinsing Back gets convulsey when I think about it. That water is as cold as a dick in snow too. And I'm so bad at it that half my stuff comes out dirtier than when it went into the fricking washer.

Check out the war wounds amigos, or Poo Wounds to be more accurate (all the brown stuff is pure turd). Lifting a small community of sheep (possibly the most retarded of all domesticated animals) into a walled truck did this. Look at that vicious hoof to the abdomen! Thanks Christ Almighty I didn't cop that in the face.

But revenge was had. I may have a bruised stomach but this poor fucker got it worse (much worse some may say). The house needed more meat so they when and got some the old school method. I watched it from start to finish, it was pretty gross indeed, albeit quick.

Not long after it was completely disassembled. The skin is used for rugs, and ALL parts are eaten.

Including this; coagulated blood taken immediately from the slit throat, left to firm up for 10 minutes and served with chilli, lemon and coriander. Yes, Farm Boy ate it as well. The firmer bits were alright but the pure runny blood parts were a bit rough on the guts.

There you it have dear fans. Man Abroad has shed his Fancy Alcohol Fueled Leather Hoody City Boy image for an Carb Saturated Thigh Enlarging Dirt 'N Shit Covered Farm Boy image. What's next you say? South American Catholic Missionary Boy? Bearded Tight Arse Hippie Backpacker Boy? Or Fancy Alcohol Fueled Leather Hoody City Boy once more?...

Season's Greetings From Man Abroad

2009-12-30T12:43:00.005-03:00

From all of us here at Man Abroad we wish you a lovely and boring festive season, eating your safe little supermarket fat-trimmed steaks and man-handled poultry while we pick the protein-rich flesh off the faces of recently slaughtered lambs with our bare hands at the dinner table.

Oh, can you pass me another tomato please? Yeah it's over there next to the severed lambs feet and tail chilling on the bench. And while your at it chuck us a hoof too, something to munch on in the meantime.

For some more traditional festive season imagery check out this Christmas Tree. Not bad hey — put it together myself. That's an impressive looking tree you might say. Well guess what? It ain't no tree mofo but 5,000 branchy bits from a super massive 30 metre high tree hacked off and artfully wired together by yours truly. Looks like a car crash from behind but this angle is just right.

So be merry and festive and all that shizmo while I Hard Yakka it up country stylings; dig holes, eat meat, move tonnes of compost 10 metres, chop wood until my lower back feels like it's been raped by a donkey, wash dishes like a madman, play with Guacho the puppy while avoiding Tokki the stinky old dog, ride a bike up hills like Lance Armstrong, eat 2 blocks of chocolate a day, think about blog entries, eat until my stomach hurts badly every meal, drink between 5 and 9 cups of tea daily with sugar, ride 15 minutes into a head wind to get lettuce for dinner urgently then ride back in a head wind and get yelled at because I bought a fucking cabbage instead and do it all over again, put on three layers of sunblock everyday (including my plumbers crack), hand plow acres of ground, get kicked in the chest by shit covered sheep hoofs, eat meat, keep and eye on the wasps that are nesting in the bathroom (don't what to get stung on the hornet whilst showering now do I?), try to keep the wood stove fire lit all fucking day, keep a spanish diary that reads like a 6 year old dyslexic school girl, eat pasta from a plate not a bowl, stop myself from crushing to death with my bear hands the roosters that go off from 3AM, drink milk straight from the udder, refuse to eat anything without putting butter on it, fake my way through all Spanish conversations and nod at all requests and instructions (when I can identify them thus) and suffer the consequences later, continue to look the wrong way every time I cross the street, consume more homemade jam than legally possible, learn to fear geese, find lambs jaws with teeth in the bottom of my soup bowl, get called gringo by five year old Chileans, use the third person for 'I understand' everytime instead of the first person (PERSON: You understand Nicholas? ME: Yes, you understand ), stick a finger covered in Chilli powder in my eye, develop callouses now on both hands and eat lots and lots of meat.

The Art Of Trekking

2009-12-21T17:04:00.028-03:00

Firstly, I'm on the farm now, Santiago is a distant liver punching memory (a month ago!). I will post a specific farm blog soon when I have something interesting to say or make up. Meanwhile munch on this tasty post people.

Well, what a a day of soloman trekking indeed. I decided to go to the National Park Huerquehue (pronouncing that requires you to shit your pants a little) to see what the fuss was about and also as to inform tourists that stay at the farm/hostel thingo I am volunteering at. Started off Plain Jane enough, packed a lunch (with everything except the fucking bread!). Because I was trekking alone I power-housed it blitz style up the mountain – a whole damn kilometre more or less straight up. I have felt in poor form since my three month experience in Santiago but my spirits soared as I overtook rapidly everyone (middle aged people, fucking hippie tourists and an unusual amount of fat children).

The views where as you would expect, not bad. That's Volcan Villarrica and it's active my friends (it just didn't want to smoke for the camera).

Yes, very nice forest 'n that. Although one thing that seriously gets up my goat here is the lack of even semi decent signage. I didn't have a map because I didn't think I would need a map in a fucking famous national park. I didn't really know where I was going and actually lost the damn track altogether for a good five pants-shitting moments. But that, dear fans, turned out to be the least of my problems.

I noticed there were a lot of insects on the mountain and especially and unusual amount of DEAD insects. Suspicious? You bet.

This poor bastard had half his back crushed off!

This fucker doesn't look dead does he? A kind of beetle/spider hybrid, I got within LICKING distance and he still didn't move. So I did what I had to do...

I poked him with a stick to see what he was playing at. He was playing at being dead and he was playing it very well indeed. He moved ever so slightly, like being turned over by a creature a million times bigger than you is barely an inconvenience. I became bored and moved on reasonably quickly so maybe he played it right?

This dude was ALIVE and on a mission. A mission to not get his back crushed out I bet.

Dead.

Totally dead. This is one of those beetles that looks normal until you get too close and it SPLITS it exoskeleton in half to reveal a killer set of wings and scares yesterdays breakfast out of you.

I encountered a suspicious couple on the path too, just like this, therefore I was alert and ready to roundhouse before any words were exchanged. And those words were Would you like to join us for a cup of tea in our Bungalow? I know a pair of intersimian homos when I see them and those poses spoke a thousand dirty, dirty words. I bid them farewell and walked briskly away ready to defend a monkey punch to the back of the head.

Then things got much, much worser. My Hok Se Tong Long senses told me something was wrong in this part of the forest. I couldn't put my finger in it but I kept On Toes. Then something caught my eyes. Up Dere En Dem Treeees. An unnatural blur thing. Looks kind of like.... hell no... it couldn't be...

...the Predator! Shitcakes, what's he doing here!?

He dismounted the tree and got the show-pony tricks out. Face mask off, screechy shouts through his ridiculous crab face and some serious haunching. Then he pulled out the skull and spine combo, most likely of some other dumb National Park Tourist Hippie (hopefully a fucking Belgian) like I haven't seem that a million times before. I haven't fought the Predator before (although he has been emailing me for ages to set something up) but I am pretty sure I could take him, all smoke and mirrors that guy. So I made and equally impressive show of taking off my back pack and stretching my hamstrings. But before we could get the party started...

... in jumped his gay little insect friend and they were off batting each other about. I'd seen more than enough extraterrestrial foreplay and legged it out of there.

Back to the scenic route thanks. Now that's an impressive high altitude lake. Still, calm, tranquil. I cleared my mind and focussed on relaxing something serious. Then my super-hyper-alert-maxi-trekkers-intel mind flickered with a thought, what was that I just passed a moment ago...

...was that an old tree stump? Or was it... could it really be... a fucking old massive petrified... giant lizard turd.... oh my god... that means.... he's....

...HERE...FUCK! He found me again! GODZILLAAAAAAAA! That'll teach me to leave the house without anti-aircraft arsenal again. Shit, I got nothing but a Leatherman (and I can barely open the bastard)! He saw me and screamed that pathetic (and funnily enough Clam sounding) 'I'm a massive lizard' scream. Once again I took of my backpack, but this time I REALLY meant business. I'm trying to have a relaxing hike for fucks sake.

Most of you would probably remember the history G-Zilla and I have. A few years back when I was Chief In-House Mr Technological Inventor Maverick Master for DeWalt (aka The Dewalt Dude), we had a massive run in. He and his 'buddies' where getting smashed in an isolated Siberian desert mine watching the Aurora Borealis, the same place Dewalt test their dangerous new Drill-Or-Kill products. Mothra got way too smashed and started picking fights. It turned into a free-for-all-massive-punch-up-oversised-mascot-style-shit-fight. Eager to test out my new DeWalt modified industrial jackhammer, I stepped in and put a very rapid end to the show. Needless to say there is a little bad blood out there. Personally, I hate that fucking lizard, so now I did what I had to do...

I stepped out into the lake (did I mention all my clothes were in the wash so I was wearing my Deathbat outfit with cape because I had nothing else?) and dished out another pain session. You can't wear the Deathbat outfit and not carry a table tennis bat (you never know when you might get called up for a quick knock) so I was fully charged with Champion's Juice. We sparred freehand a little to warm up but I don't fuck around with competitive sport-like warm ups, I went hard and fast with a Ionized TT Forehand Ray (left handed too – how cocky is that!) straight to the lizard groin. He dropped like a sack of wet shit, I exited the lake, remounted the backpack and ran like the wind. Needless to say he will definitely be after me now for some retribution.

And of course it's been all over the news here like a tropical rash. I have agreed to a trilogy movie deal for a SHITMINE of money. My only requirement was that I write, direct, edit, art direct, critique and star in all three movies. I knocked out the screen plays quicksmart, shot all three in a week using mainly spliced stolen footage to help keep my profit margin respectable and now I am currently in edit phase (on a laptop upon a single bed, in an insect infested room in the Chilean countryside). I know trilogies are a dime a dozen these days so we are going to try something new and risky; release all three movies at the same time! Fuck waiting to see what happens next, just walk out the cinema, take a leak, top up the pop corn and walk back in.

The assistant writers and I thought the National Park setting was a bit gay so we slightly tinkered with it and now all three movies are set in Mega Cities.

Part One: Once Upon a Time In China (There Was A Fucking Massive Fist On Between Godzilla And Man Abroad)
Godzilla's spine has been reset, hes' finally passed that school bus that Man Abroad set on fire and drove down his throat and he's got revenge on his primitive reptilian mind. Man Abroad is working undercover as a tight pants wearing militant in Asia trying to bring down a massive fake chinaware triad gang in Shanghai. Godzilla knows where he is and is coming for him (and maybe some of those cute bambo shoots in pots for the new Asian themed room in his ocean lair). Buckle up action lovers and get ready for some hardcore city wide destruction Asian style!

Part Two: The Rookie and the Lizard: Santiago Nights
Slip in a Prequel? Yes please. Back to Santiago 1971. The mullet is taking flight, the dirty mo has settled in to stay, shirts are skin tight with 12 inch collars and pistols look very lady-like. Godzilla's ocean lair is being re-wallpapered so he's come to the city to see if he can pick up some new curtains to match. But Santiago doesn't want a 30 metre high fire-breathing lizard shopping in the CBD. So who do they call? Man Abroad is a rookie fresh out of Carabinero Academy, his pants are painted on and he's eager to shoot his pistol. Get ready for a shit fight on a scale never before seen (except in the first movie but that was set in the future so technically it hasn't happened yet).

Part Three: Godzilla Vs Mandroid Abroad
The eagerly anticipated climax to the trilogy. Its the year 2130. Godzilla finally stitched his arms back on, had a rest and is now back. And this time he's REALLY fucked off. Man Abroad is well and truly dead (he slipped in the shower and broke his neck in 2080). But modern medicine kept his head and penis on ice for 50 years while they upgraded him to Super Droid. In this final chapter the old score between two long time enemies is finally settled in the only way possible; hand to hand fighting on top of mega sky scrapers style.

Most of the hard yards of delivering this epic trilogyologised Man Vs Nature Vs Alien Vs Lizard biography to the people are done now and soon I can sit back a ride the cash wave all the way to the bank.

Shedding Light: Santiago Pedestrian Signals

2009-12-14T16:21:00.004-03:00

Political correctness has gone completely mad in Santiago. It seems they are now catering for everyone with any condition. Once upon a time just slapping on a half arsed ramp for a dude in wheel chair was good enough, or shove some bumpy dot things on a public phone and then walk away. Now it seems tax payers money is thrown at every type of disorder under the sun. Here are just a few of the plethora of crossing lights I saw. As far as I can gather this green pedestrian light (above) is saying; Please Cross: If You Have Diarrhea (Licorice Arse, The Gravox Train, A Malfunctioning Jedi Dark Saber), or even; Please Cross: Unkempt Circus Women.

Not sure what kind of neighbourhood this is but I think it is indicating the following; Please Cross: If You Have Extreme It's-Already-Reached-The-Ground Diarrhea (The Derailed Express Gravox Train, A Bad Case Of The Cheeky Cough, Log-Cabin Fever, A Curious Case Of Benjamin's Butt-hole), which I imagine would be more of a frantic, screaming run than a walk. Or possibly this; Please Cross: If You Need To Shit Like A Demon Possessed By Another Demon That Has The Gravox Train.

This one has me somewhat confused but no doubt it is saying something along the lines of; Please Cross: If Your Abdomen Is On Fire, or maybe; Please Cross: If You Have Stage II Symptoms Of The Flesh Eating Virus, or perhaps even; Please Cross: If You Have An Uneaten Family Sized Margarita Pizza Wrapped Around Your Torso. Needless to say, I was mightily confused about where I was to cross, so most of the time I just made a mad dash with the Unkempt Circus Women.

Punto Pong: The Event, The Movie

2009-12-07T16:22:00.004-03:00

The greatest sporting event to ever hit Santiago was 21 November 2009. Punto Pong brought together athletes from almost every continent (a.k.a. residents from El Punto) and pit them against one another to see, once and for all, who is the best fucking Ping Pong player in the world. Invites were exclusive, only those living in El Punto at the time were allowed to partake. Everyone had to pay to enter to cover the cost of equipment, killer t-shirts, my excessive printing bill and of course, and unholy amount of alcohol. And out of sheer necessity, I featured in the hero image again. It's a photo of me playing with my old army mates (Infantry) at the Warradale Army Barracks. I was Active Serviceman Recreational (Champion) Man Of The Year all three years it ran. The guys around the barracks used to call me PP Chilli Grip a.k.a Def Army Beat Dawg, or, my personal favourite, Ping Flash a.k.a Ice Knuckles.

Once again I have pilfered photos from various people. If my memory serves me correctly; Camille of France, Marco of Germany, Flaviana of Brazil and Someone of Somewhere Else (who didn't name their folder and hence I have forgotten). So thanks peeps.

And of course there was other paraphernalia to get to people charged. Not having access to a printer in Chile (let alone a non-shit one) has proved a massive headache for me. But we got there in the end and it was worth it!

Here is a digital recreation of the final draw. I wanted to take a photo of the final sheet that was used (by me, the Organiser Man) throughout the day but it got lost or most likely destroyed in the chaos that is Competitive Sport And Drinking.

But first let us view the prize winning Punto Pong Movie. I think you'll agree that the days spent making it were not in vain. It is tough at times being Creative Editing Actor Director (so many balls in the air at once), but I truly believe I have paid an accurate homage to the epoch defining event known as Punto Pong. Because it contains Spanish titles, this movie is classed as, and can be found in, the video library section labeled Foreign Art-house. Please also bare in mind I have no idea whatsoever how to compress and downsave videos.

The Arena was constructed in the garden out of necessity but proved to be a wise choice indeed. The live-in caretaker, Jaime (not pronounced like that), even had the table repainted! What a man (that's after he gave me a shellacking for not asking for permission to put The Event on).

The table in all its glory. The ground was even resurfaced to accommodate my requirements of a perfectly even playing surface.

The spectator stadium. All t-shirts were white except for that red one hanging in the tree that was destined for the Champion.

There was even a little attempted Mexican Wave action. Poor Felix of Germany doesn't quite get how it works.

The tournament draw was totally and completely done at random, picked out of a hand-knitted desert beanie by Paul (who insisted on doing it). But spat out some interesting match ups, for example: German Vs German...

...Girlfriend Vs Boyfriend...

...and Mr Convers Vs Anyone (as you can probably tell by his amateurish posture he lost. And he lost bad).

But all in all no love was lost. Here, we see Camille of France after he beat down Marta of Cataluña.

And here we have Marielle of The Netherlands destroyed by Mama Jane of Basque Country.

Martin of Germany crushed Taissa of Brazil without restraint.

It was decided after each round that there would be photos taken of the winners and losers. A good idea I thought, however, with at least 15 different people taking photos and no official photographer I have no fucking idea where they all are and probably never will. Here you'll find the winners of Round 1.

And here you'll find the losers of Round 1 (including, of course, Mr Convers).

Even Jaime, the live-in caretaker, had a quick knock about on the table. Notice his crazy South American grip!? He'll never be a Champion.

Try as I might-ed-ed, holding back on the bevies during the afternoon was hard (and not achieved), as being the President, Organiser, Promoter, Treasurer, Judging Panel, Art Director, and highly seeded Competitor, a certain level of professionalism was expected of me. And I didn't want to be asleep by the time the Grand Final came around as I had strong expectations of being IN it.

Perhaps the biggest winner of the day, besides me, were the hideously successful t-shirts. Punto Pong was screened printed on the front and textas were handed out to customise them in whatever way wanted. I took the lead and handed all the t-shirts out a few nights previously wearing my amazingly Australianised attire, many grabbed textas and followed suit.

T-shirts. Also documented in the Offical Punto Pong Movie seen previously, I thought we could recap. Here is my tantalizing little number. So Australian, reinforced by the other Australian tradition: Taking Bananas Whilst Drinking The Cheapest Of All The Working Class Beers And Having A Glass But Not Using It.

From the rear. And yes, that is a ninja down the bottom.

Felix of Germany required assistance with his shirt, or with something, now that is a suspicious grin on his face. Perhaps this next angle can clarify exactly what is going on...

Or maybe I have seen enough. Those ping pong balls aren't cheap you know.

Camille of France chose packing tape (and Evil by the looks of it) over the textas.

Ariel of Chile.

Max/Maximo/Maxi-Pad of Germany.

Mr Convers of Colombia. The only person to have a fully decked out t-shirt of which he personally added nothing.

A very cheeky Martin of Germany.

Gabby of Slovakia.

The extremely dodgy Johann of Germany chose to use his t-shirt as a vehicle for inciting violence.

Some interesting Ping Pong Techniques were unveiled (or reared their ugly heads). This is Felix of Germany demonstrating his Number Two's Backhand.

Helcio of Brazil doing something. Looks more like he's swatting drunkenly (with another dodgy South American grip) at a non existent midget wizard on the table after taking one too many beverages.

Joris of France (Grand Finalist) prefers to play sans shoes.

Mr Convers prefers not to play at all. This is him executing his consistently Standard-One-Size-Fits-All-Million-Dollar-I'm-A-Harris-Scarf-Model-Smile.

And most did get their drink on. Flaviana of Brazil assisted by fellow countryman Ivan. That tub houses (for all El Punto parties) Calimocho, called Joda in Chile; an equal mix of Coca Cola and cheap, nasty red wine. I'm a fan. We went through multiple tub loads this day.

Juan of Spain/Argentina (the derelict man on the left) is also a fan of the beverage (pictured here with a more subdued Camille of France). I think he takes the medal for First Person Completely Shit Faced for the afternoon.

Ok, let's get serious. All other competitors got eaten alive by myself and this crafty bastard, Joris of France. A man of no remorse (he actually wrote the names of all his victims on his shirt) has an unbelievable/unplayable forehand and an unimpressive but useful backhand splice. The Grand Final was Best Of Three Games, five serves each, until twenty-one. I was actually very fucking nervous even though I was slightly drunk. I organised this tournament, I ensured no rigging of the day by slightly adjusting playoffs, it was my last Saturday night in Santiago and afterwards we would kick on in Honour Of My Departure. For me to lose this Grand Final would be a kick in the purse I don't think I could get over. And Joris isn't the kind of guy to throw a tournament for someone else's sake. Joris won Game 1 (very close might I add). I thought I was done for, I had vicious flashbacks to the Deathbat Grand Final where Nicholas King of England stole what was supposed to be mine. We swapped sides of the table and began Game 2. It was neck and neck all the way but I just managed to get over the line!

That leaves one final match to decide the winner. Joris of France consulted with Felix of Germany for a few minutes, which involved nothing more that a Man On Man Massage. I consulted with a pack of Spanish Ladies who rubbed down my forearms, forced beer upon me and chanted favourable slogans. But don't worry my friends, I had a game plan. If you hit to Joris' forehand you may as well go get another drink and sit down, because you're dead meat. So I payed crafty. Every shot possible, and I mean every fucking shot possible, I knocked over to his less vicious backhand and wore him down like an African Cape Hunting Dog. There was only a point or two in the final game...

But I fucking won it man! Now I know how Federer feels when he wins a Gran Slam Tournament!

More celebrating. This is the moment where I get beer spilt all over my sensational and unwashable-due-to-non-permanent-textas iconic Australian t-shirt. I still have it in my oversized backpack but I can never wear it again because it looks like someone urinated on it.

Finalists get in the pool! And that pool is fucking cold. If you spend more than 10 minutes in that thing you don't get out, you get fished out with a net DEAD the next day.

Whilst I remained in the pool, slowly dying, everyone ran inside and out on to the balconies overlooking the pool. They hit some music and started singing and dancing. All the way through I was a little unsure of what was going on as it seemed a little too organised for a Nick Won Celebration. I mean, did they have another one for Joris if he won or would they hack out the same thing for him? But what it turned out to be was a Going Away Because It Is Your Last Weekend Nick Gift, which makes more sense. A lovely (drunken) token which I will remember always. And if I forget I can just watch the the video again.

The party kicked itself along in various parts of the residence. Here is Helcio of Brazil assisting Edurne of Basque Country in drinking from the coveted Calimocho Avocado Vessel. I think you can tell by the state of Helcio's lips that he's had a few (or he's a flesh eating Zombie — one of the two).

Toni of Cataluña too enjoyed a dram or two.

Aina of Majorca got into the spirit.

And Helcio of Brazil, whom I am pretty sure instigated it, couldn't be stopped.

Then, if my memory serves me correctly, we went across town to some nightclub, many of us representing with t-shirts! Where we danced like the drunken fools we were.

Oh my God, it's the Punto Pong Grand Final Champion in his very own Punto Pong Grand Final Champion T-Shirt! Please note that this and all following images were not Photoshop'd but my new aura of Championessness was messing with the camera's settings. But I quite like the effect.

Everybody wants a piece of you when you are a Champion.

Of course, as requested by the fans, we had to take the standard Champion By The Fridge Pose, both normal and Crop Top versions.

And you know what else I realised? Empanadas actually taste better when you are a Champion. Almost like they are trying harder to impress me now. That was a chicken and mushroom empanada by the way, I highly recommend it.

Champions don't use furniture in the Average Citizen Way, that would be just plain Un-Champion-like. At this late stage of the evening I had slipped back into my playing Pre-Champion t-shirt for two reasons. To see if it would stop messing with the camera's settings (which it obviously didn't) and because I felt more Australian and working class in a t-shirt with a Kangaroo silhouette, Fortune Favours The Bold written in latin, an ACDC logo, an Australian Flag (in full colour), a skull and cross bones, two clenched fists, the number 01, the word Aussie (with hand rendered shadowing), the name Señor Ping Pong and a ninja.

As a well trained Champion Athlete, I know only to well the necessity to keep fit and well stretched at all times, regardless of whether it is 05.30 in morning and I've drunk enough to make my glasses redundant. To all those that woke up stiff and hungover the next day, I say this: I wasn't stiff at all.

Another press shot, the typical bog-standard Crop Top With Unlit Lamp Shot.

And finally the hero press image (to be used in all Sporting, Mens Health and Bachelor Of The Year type magazines), your run of the mill Man Squat On Barrel Shot.

Due to the success of all my Ping Pong Tournaments I am considering changing careers to a Freelance Ping Pong Tournament Coordinator/Player/Champion and traveling the world and punishing other cultures with my bat and balls. Got some business card ideas baking in the oven at the moment. Will keep you posted amigos.