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

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.

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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


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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


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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

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

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

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.