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.

Words from a Man in Leather Kick Arse Together

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

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

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?