As News Happens

BREAKING NEWS
News Story Broken

9:15am – 5 August 2010

Tipped off by online news provider newnewsfaster.com, more than a hundred police officers converged on a suburban property in the city’s west shortly after 8:30am this morning. On arrival at the scene officers questioned several journalists who had been camped outside the house for nearly an hour, many on their third flat white.

On condition of anonymity, one police officer confessed that authorities were yet to determine who the suspect is, or what crime may have been committed.

Anyone near the area is asked to contact newnewsfaster.com who will pass information on to police.

More to come…

BREAKING NEWS
News Story In Progress

Updated 9:23am – 5 August 2010

Police remain in attendance at a dramatic scene unfolding in the city’s west. The small weather-board house in the normally quiet Family Lane has become the focus of the biggest story of the hour. House-owner and occupant John Pickle (pictured left with his pet rabbit) was on his way to work when the story broke.

“I was heading for the bus stop when I was stopped by ten or twenty journalists with cameras and microphones,” said Mr Pickle. “I answered some questions and missed my bus.”

Police have taken the bearded John Pickle in for additional questioning. Nothing is yet known about Mr Pickle at this stage as Wikipedia searches have proven inconclusive.

Police are expected to give a press conference at 9:30.

More to come…

BREAKING NEWS
News Story Confirmed

Updated 9:38am – 5 August 2010

The scene at Family Lane in the city’s west has intensified with much of the world’s media congregating on the lawns of the normally calm suburban street.

Moments ago Chief of Police Manga Lionheart gave a press conference officially confirming that a news story was in progress.

“As this is an ongoing investigation I am limited in what I can say. However, I can now confirm that this is a news story – a significant, and very real, news story,” the Police Chief said. “I’ve been informed that all networks and major publications are represented here today either by journalistic staff or contractors. The AAP is also present, as are members of the public with camera phones.”

But Chief Lionheart remained quietly optimistic and urged calm.

“I am quietly optimistic and urge calm,” Chief Lionheart said.

More to come…

BREAKING NEWS
Media Under Fire from Nazis

10:02am – 5 August 2010

A left-wing lobby group with ties to al-Qaeda, Hitler Youth, recent oil disasters, the republican movement, and clubbing baby seals has claimed the media has gone too far with a recent news story broken by newnewsfaster.com. The group, known as the Ramsgate Under 13 Cricket Club, has claimed the story was a media beat-up, without substance, and forged a new low in journalism. The group accused newnewsfaster.com of “inventing something out of nothing” which newnewsfaster.com CEO, Malcolm Elizabeth Blackshirt, both agreed with and denied.

17 year old Mr Blackshirt responded angrily to vitriolic questioning at a press-conference saying, “with, like, the 24 hour news cycle and the public demand for, like,  instant news before-it-happens, no privacy, defamation legislation, dramatic music, alleged dramatisation, Lindsay Lohan, black-and-white, mysterious creature, on the run, vox-pop tarts, celebrity hair extension, we don’t always get things a hundred percent right. And when we don’t get things a hundred percent right we figure we may as well get them a hundred percent wrong. Our mantra was, is, and forever will be, ‘one hundred percent journalistic journalism’. That and ‘reach for the stars’.”

Despite being recorded on multiple recording devices, Mr Blackshirt denied having made this statement claiming that he was in bed with his porter at the time.

John Pickle remains in police custody for his role in the story.

More to come…

www.fishthink.com.au

Gotta Write a Story: an unauthorised autobiography

Gotta write a story, gotta write a story.  How about this, ‘A man and his dog…’ stupid.  I know, ‘A dog and his man’ yeah, this is better, ‘a dog and his man fought hard to establish themselves in the eyes of his superiors…’ this is going somewhere.  ‘His superiors were giant bees with-’ no, this is going nowhere.  Again.

‘The unshaven man watched as the hour hand crept towards eleven-’ since when do clock hands creep, I mean the hand is actually on the clock face, there’s no way the clock’s not going to notice.  This will never get published.  Try… ‘Time edged cautiously towards eleven pm.  Each tick of the grandfather clock a reminder of time’s sin. Captain Warner burst into his living-room to discover a dog and his man-’ again with the dog and his- this is starting to hurt.  Let’s try something bold…

‘”WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!  WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!” yelled the pilot as the plane hurtled violently towards the water.’  I like this, it’s so powerful(1).  ‘Lovers held each other as the fuselage shuddered and shook with the brutal force of the downward thrust.’  This is getting serious!  ‘The ground beneath them grew closer as strangers prayed with each other and flight attendants scrambled for breathing apparatus.  The plane hit the ground with a deafening boom. Everyone was dead.’  See, I lost it there.  I’m starting to get annoyed here, very climactic, then no climax.  Stupid, stupid, stupid(2).  Again.  ‘The ground beneath them grew closer while the passengers clung helplessly to consciousness itself.  The co-pilot slapped the pilot hard across the face, “Get a hold of yourself, Crawford!  Six thousand hours in the air and look at you!”  The co-pilot pulled hard on the shaft- Downward thrust and shaft pulling. My mother’s going to read this!  New genre… non-fiction.

‘The Referencing Technique (RT) most commonly used when highlighting inferior forms of carpet worms is Hypocapture, a technique first simulated within the case study 3481 Delta.  The main focus of RT is-’ See, who’s going to read this?  I’m falling asleep writing it.  Definitely fiction – or how about based on a true story – mix it up a little.

‘Queen Victoria was walking down Appleby Lane when she was stopped by her husband Albert.  “Where did you leave the pints, Vic?” he asked, assuming an overwhelmingly regal indifference to the paupers in his periphery.’  Now, this could be considered slanderous, no-one likes slander… except the litigious.  I’m stuck, I really should consult my footnotes(3).  You must have some ideas(4).  Who’s Steve?(5) Trevor’s not- Oh doesn’t matter.  You’re as good as useless(6).

Last chance. Deadline’s looming.  I could write a story about someone who can’t write a story. Maybe that could work!(7)

____________________________

1 No it isn’t.
2 Stupid.
3 I don’t know what you should write.
4 Nope… no ideas… have you thought about asking Steve?
5 No idea, made him up. Convincing name though. I deliberately didn’t go for some crazy name like Harlequin or Trevor.
6 I didn’t ask to be involved.
7 The End(8).
8 Finally.

www.fishthink.com.au
Editing and Copywriting

A Brief History of Filosofy

Sharpening Occam’s Razor

You should by now be familiar with the philosophy of Occam’s razor, the theory that states all things considered, the simplest explanation is probably the right one.

However, what most people aren’t familiar with is that Trevor Occam, former real estate mogul to the stars, often cut himself shaving with his now famous  razor.  This was not due to what most people believed to be carelessness (the simplest explanation), but rather a series of strange events which led to the opening of a nebular wormhole linking our universe with three parallel universes eventually absorbing Occam’s soul and  Albania’s entire supply of carob.  It is believed that Trevor Occam actually invented his razor theory in an effort to hide his embarrassing shaving mishaps and accidental threats to existence.

Needless to say he was also a vocal opponent to all brands of aftershave.

Relative Theorising

The theory of relativity was Einstein’s ode to his relatives, focusing in particular on his immediate family. Einstein’s genius is exemplified by his theory’s clever combination of explaining how his brother Norman Einstein could walk through a crowded hotel gathering unnoticed, while simultaneously positing that space and time can bend like a wobble board.

In 1910 when Albert attempted to tell his Uncle Stan about how light can bend around an object, how space is elastic and how two O’clock can be twelve o’clock if you squint, Uncle Stan quickly slapped him around the head and neck, and aggressively asked for egg salad.  Einstein’s mother and father were largely indifferent to Albert’s theories, whereas his cousin Helen was often found blowing her nose in Connecticut.

Albert’s Uncle Stan went on to an illustrious career as metaphysics teacher until he was caught in bed with one of his pupil’s imaginary friends. He now screams obscenities at strangers from the steps of the public library at the ripe old age of 140.

www.fishthink.com.au

Friedrich Nietzsche’s Breakdown (the mental sort, not a brief ultra-cool musical interlude)

Not much is known about the works of nineteenth-century philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche after his mental breakdown in 1889, however, new writings have been recovered in a journal thought to have been lost when his dorm was unexpectedly overrun by a stampede of wildebeest.  In typical Nietzsche style, the new writings contradict each other and his many previously philosophised theories.  Below lists a selection of some of the more notable excerpts from those discovered writings:

12 June “The Death of God, what was I thinking?  It is clear to me now that God was in Margate on holiday.  Morality is back, baby, morality is back!”

This self-criticism of his own ‘death of God’ theory was initially thought to be the ramblings of an incoherent madman, but on closer inspection were revealed simply as mad ramblings of an incoherent man. The journal entries that followed were just as engaging and eye-opening:

13 June “I have spent too much time and energy philosophising about nihilism.  I just don’t care anymore.”

Although it’s hard to get too excited about this one it does demonstrate a certain ineptitude so desired in modern philosophy. Some very strange people see this entry as an early prediction of Lindsay Lohan’s fall from grace.

Nietzsche did not only use his journal to chronicle his philosophical ideas and ideologies. Some extremely personal entries give an interesting insight into his life life at the Institution for Psychopaths, Sociopaths, Gifted Children and Other Psychopaths (the IPSGCOP):

21 July (am) “I hate this place, all these guys are nuts!”

and:

21 July (pm) “This place is great, there are some real free thinkers here.  Steve in the dorm down the hall called me a sandwich then slid the entire length of the corridor in his socks.  My whole life I’ve wasted.”

It’s at this point that the journal entries change tone dramatically revealing a Nietzsche of unimaginable soporiphicism, such as this entry written using a clamshell on 15 March 1892.

15 March “16 March was a big day for me.  After pondering the concept for many years I had finally proven Heine’s eternal recurrence theory. By chance I stumbled upon my exact double in the IPSGCOP’s kitchenette that thought not just the same thoughts as me but was able to predict every word and intonation I said verbatim and say them with me.  Of course it seemed forehead-slappingly obvious when the doctor pointed out that my double was in fact my reflection in a particularly shiny saucepan.  Still, I got more sense out of that saucepan than the guy who brings the drinks.  Amor fati.”

Interestingly Nietzsche chose to write about the events of 16 March the day before they happened. It was exactly this indifference towards writing retrospectively about the future that made Friedrich the desire of every housewife from 1944 – 1946.

Upon the discovery of the journal Friedrich Nietzsche was asked to clarify some of his bizarre contradictions but declined to comment claiming to have died in 1900. A small group of journalists remain by his grave hoping for a scoop.

Naysayers have doubted the authenticity of the journal, but scientists are confident of its genuineness because it looks exactly the same as when you stain paper with tea to make it look old.

Paul the Oracle Octopus

The question has recently been raised over the paranormal powers that Paul the Octopus may or may not possess when it comes to predicting the future – or at the very least the ability to pick the winner of important football matches. Some people have argued that he’s just a very hungry, very lucky eight tentacled beasty that has captured the attention of a soulless world yearning for something bigger than themselves. Others have argued that it’s not an octopus at all, just a small, energetic man who fell into an octopus suit and can’t get out.

All this is of course nonsense. The truth is simple. The octopus is psychic. Paul searched deep into his cephalopod cranium and saw the victors of each of those matches. It’s obvious. You can see it. I can see it. And Paul saw it years ago.

The pertinent unanswered question remaining  is what now to do with Paul. Eat him? Put him in a zoo? Release him into the wild? All these numbingly boring suggestions have been put forward ad infinitum. “He’d taste good with chili and salt LOL!!!!” Of course he would – even sheet metal tastes good with salt and chili.

Once again, the answer is slapping us repeatedly in the face with its eight slimy slappers: We find an equally psychic creepy creature, dress them both up in superhero costumes and watch them fight.

Imagine this if you will: a large octopus called Paul, wearing a cape, fighting some weird cross-bred rhino/wolf creature with wings, wearing a skin tight muscle suit – both with above average psychic ability. I’ll give you a moment…

…

You’d watch that right? Then, after the fight, we could eat them both.

Next week: what happened to Stephan the horse and where I left my keys.

In Search of a Timeslot

Tuesday, 11:15pm. I was walking home from my office up Columbus when I was stopped short by a bad TV Drama in search of a timeslot. I could tell immediately it was distressed. It seemed unsure of its premise and its writers weren’t clear on what they were trying to say. Not interested in committing to a drama I knew nothing about, I mentioned that I had to see a sit-com about buying laughter by the can and made to leave.

The drama waited for me silently to turn back. I couldn’t resist, it was late, I was tired, and sometimes a bad drama can grab you. So I turned. From a distance it didn’t look so bad. We talked for a while about programming and the duration of infomercials – do they constitute local content? – when I realised that I was late for an engagement. The drama begged me to stay and confessed that all it needed was one viewer and boom it had its timeslot – ha! A couch potato junkie. I had to be firm. TV shows are like dames they tantalise you with teasers and next thing you know you’re hooked. Who killed the maid? Did Chad get Mary-Lou pregnant? Well, not this time, I have to admit I was curious where the program was heading, but I stood my ground, turned on my heels and walked quietly and quickly away. Little did I know that the damned drama was following me. It just didn’t know when to quit.

I turned the corner where Pat’s used to be, you know, across the street from Susan’s Fruits. Somehow the drama had beaten me there. Clearly it was time to talk tough. I told it that it was good for nothing, I told it I’d slash its budget, I said it would be axed. The drama dropped to the ground and pleaded with me. This badly produced, badly written excuse for entertainment honestly thought all it needed was a few guest stars and a new title sequence and it would find its feet again. It came up with too many unconvincing excuses, poor reception, brown-outs, Valentines day killed the ratings. It’s repressively sad to see a TV show in such despondent denial.

A wry smile spread across my lips as I said maybe a new timeslot would do the trick… perhaps a follow-on audience from CSI: Albuquerque. It instantly recognised my irony, but instead of retaliating, it burst into tears and wished its writers could come up with lines like that… caustic wit. I knew then that the poor drama was truly desperate. We went for coffee at Monica’s by the river. I sipped Monica’s dark, brown grit and went over some ideas… strengthen the B story, give the characters more depth, but under no circumstances include snappy self-referential dialogue or a phone-in audience vote. The drama was taking notes and looking hopeful. It was obvious that the two of us had chemistry. I could recognise its shortcomings – high production values, but little substance – and yet I found it strangely charismatic and difficult to switch off. We exchanged business cards, walked out of the coffee shop and let the heavy, wooden door swing closed behind us.

Wednesday, 8:30pm. I rounded the corner on W82nd Street and Amsterdam, half a block from my apartment with a half finished bagel in my hand when the shop window of Chang’s electronics caught my eye… filling the screen of a 42 inch plasma television was the bad TV drama. I watched the stilted performances, the emotionally void dialogue, and unnecessary dramatic pauses. The stupid programme had ignored everything I’d said; there was Cyndi Lauper playing Mary-Lou’s mother. A woman and her young family stood next to me as I watched the drama to its conclusion. I stared blankly at the gratuitous sex scene accompanied by a moody baritone sax and half-heartedly finished my bagel. I always knew the baby wasn’t Chad’s.

Saving teh Planet with an Alternative Definite

It seems to me that we are going about this the wrong way.

There are so many people in the world mistyping the word “the” as “teh” that the good monkeys at autotype automatically correct it for you. Think of the number of times this word is mistyped per hour across the globe. I don’t know but I’m going to estimate: a gazillion. Every one of those gazillion (approximate) times people type ‘teh’ a little chip in their computer goes whirrrr and the ‘teh’ magically becomes ‘the’. Wow. Fabulous. Amazing. The future is now.

But unfortunately… the future is now. That means we don’t really have any trees left, and our baby seals are being clubbed to death, and the gulf of Mexico looks like chocolate pudding and smells a bit like the Queen. Our environment is dying/really quite sick.

The solution
Get rid of the automatic correction and adopt ‘teh’ as an alternative definite article. Obvious conundrum – ‘alternative’ and ‘definite’ kind of contradict each other. To the point that if alternative walked in on definite in the shower, existence would be sucked into a cataclysmic astrological quagmire and all that green tea I drank would be for nothing.

But think about it… if we accepted ‘teh’ in place of ‘the’ we could prevent the gazillion computers going whirr a gazillion times an hour, surely that must prevent some significant bagful of CO₂ entering the atmosphere.

Surely.

Now who’s with me?

Note – Number of times during the writing of this article where I wrote the word ‘teh’ only to have the computer automatically correct it to ‘the’ which I then had to change back to ‘teh’: eight (8)

Next week… buying a horse and calling it Stephan.