The Hot Squad (or how to achieve world peace through the medium of hotness)

And now, in a blatant attempt to get more people reading my not particularly pithy words of whatever by introducing pictures of really hot chicks, I will put forward the crackpot scheme for today. Do we all have our graphite motorcycle helmets ready? With reflective film across the visor? Good, because we here at Crackpot Schemes and Crazy Dreams don't want any of our l three loyal readers using inferior tin foil hats, cos we really care about your brainwaves. Some more than others.

After hearing reports of looting during the recent Queensland floods crisis, it occurred to me that looting is a fairly tempting to a certain percentage of the population, (I'll concede that the percentage neatly matches the percentage of scumbags in a population) it dawned on me that we,as a society, are using entirely the wrong deterrent in our fight against crime. We need to use HOT CHICKS!

The majority of crimes are committed for two basic reasons, the first being that the criminal wants to take something from someone else, the second being that someone is unbelievably pissed off with someone. Sometimes these two basic reasons converge, leaving society with unbelievably pissed off people, who also want to take stuff that probably isn't theirs. Admittedly, this is a highly simplified breakdown of a very complex problem.

Rebuild Brisbane, anyone?

If the police force was supplemented with really hot chicks, in uniforms so skimpy they breach OH&S regulations everywhere, the crime rate would drop. To prove it- take a good look at this picture of Vicky-Lee Valentino.

Now imagine a criminal, holding up a bank, with hostages, and a good, old, Aussie siege mentality. Traditionally, there'd be hours of negotiations, and a sniper hoping to get a clear shot. My Hot Squad could provide an alternative, and here;s how. Observers have long noticed a link between the placement of naked women and the direction of a mans gaze. Men are almost irresistibly drawn to the sight of Hot Chicks, particular;y naked ones. So, here's the proposed scenario: Hot Squad Officer arrives at scene of siege, removes her shirt and proceeds to attract the attention of the hostage holding offender. He either willingly comes out of the building for a better view, or moves closer to the window (again, for a better view), thus allowing the sniper to get a clear view of him and make the shot. (I'm presuming the sniper is desensitized to the Hot Squad, after months of naked training in the Bahamas, leading to a huge upsurge in snipers). Either way, the siege is over, and there'd be oodles of great photo opportunities.

As a deterrent, the Hot Squad would be more effective than traditional policing, if only because more criminal activities are committed by men who, as we already established earlier, really like Hot Chicks, and most likely don't wont to do anything that might displease said Hot Chick.(as evidenced by all those times your boyfriend ignored you for some Hot Chick)

But we don't have to stop there. Who's going to want to fight a war if they're surrounded by hot, naked, beautiful women? No one! Not even terrorists. No one wants to see awesome boobies get damaged. And nor should they.

There is one drawback. Looking that fine doesn't come cheap, and the Hot Squad would be doing the country, and humanity a favour, we're going to have to pay them well, and this will mean a tax hike, but if we call it the booby tax the public backlash will be short-lived, and it will legitimize the gratuitous use of the word boobies!

Please Note- the Hot Chick featured is Vicky-Lee Valentino, a woman of stunning beauty, inside and out. I hope she doesn't mind that I borrowed her photos, but I'm sure you'll all agree that when it comes to Hotness, Vicky-Lee has it in droves. Our security should be in the hands of women like her. And she's the hottest chick I ever met, and I'll add that she's friendly, down to earth and intelligent. And that name was Vicky-Lee Valentino. Spell it right.

Champagne, darlings!, and rhinestones.

I'm afraid we've reached an impasse. Between the flood crisis in Queensland, and the impending birth of the third child of a woman we'll call Mrs Superamazing, I haven't been nable to have any fantastic adventures to share with you. Spraining my ankle probably didn't help either, but we won't dwell on the negatives, instead we' ll rehash an adventure we had previously.

Cast your mind back, if you will, to the first Tuesday in November. Mrs Superamazing and I had a cunning plan to celebrate by overdressing, eating yummy things, and laughing a hell of a lot. We didn't really know anything about the horses running in the Melbourne Cup, and we didn't care. It was an excuse to dress up, and wear silly hats, and Mrs Superamazing and I were more than willing to look out of place as we dropped the children at school, if it was in the interests of having a fabulous time. Which it was.

We looked fantastic, which shouldn't surprise anyone, we are the Real Housewives of Mount Druitt, and as such, it's our job, no, our sacred duty, to look damn fine, all the time. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it, and we don't disappoint.

Before we go any further, I must confess to a small problem. You might not have noticed, but I have a tendency to go off on strange tangents, leading to new, uncharted territories, usually because I've stumbled across something that intrigues, or sickens me. Or both. This tendency led to the subject of our Melbourne cup conversation.

You see, I'd been trolling the Internet looking for free breast implants (a bit like the modern womans search for the holy Grail, but much more important), when I discovered the recurring use of the term "designer vagina", which, I'm sure you'll agree, is the sort of thing that makes you go "WTF? Are you kidding me?", and then you discover that, no, it's not a joke. Though, perhaps it should be.

Of course, once I discovered the ancient art of vajazzling, I had to share the news. I approached Mrs Superamazing and squealed, "vajazzle?", and, in true form, Mrs Superamazing, laughed, and we began to ponder what sort of woman would add rhinestones and sequins to her genitalia. After looking over the women outside the school, we decided that it would be better if we didn't try to imagine any of THEM sporting vajazzles.

Then, we added champagne to the mix, and that made vajazzling seem like a really funny idea. I grabbed a pack of rhinestones, and we started  making the guys very, very uncomfortable. There's a sort of hypnotic effect caused by constant repetition of the word "vajazzle", guys can't leave while the conversation continues, but it's too girly a matter for real comfort, thus creating a time/space vortex from which there is no escape.

By 2pm I was drunk, and my stomach ached from laughter. "Vajazzle!", we cried, as I raised my glass and quaffed cheap champagne, and dissolved once more into giggling fits more suited to fourteen year olds than respectable mothers. I don't know which horse won the race, but I do know it was Jennifer Love-Hewitt, on the George Lopez show, who was the first to mention vajazzling on a televised broadcast, she recommended it a cheer up procedure, after a nasty break up.

We, or at least I, never tried vajazzling, but, without a shadow of a doubt, vajazzling provided me with the most fun I've had on Melbourne cup day, ever, and I doubt I'll be able top it without actually leaving the house.

There's no point to this story. But if you can guess the identity of Mrs Superamazing, you win bragging rights.

Would you like some treason with your antichrist?

Henry VIII of England was a big man, in the physical sense that is, as while not many remember him as an intellectual giant, the big ranga dude was far from stupid. Sure, he didn't have a great track record in his personal relationships, but even with his well documented matrimonial excesses, his first marriage lasted twenty four years, and in terms of Tudor times, his first wife, Katharine of Aragon, was a bit of a cougar, being older, widowed and more "experienced" than young Hal.

After all, she'd been married to his older brother, Arthur, whose existence was dooming Hal to a life in the church. Imagine that. Arthur conveniently died, without having consummated his marriage to the Spanish princess, leaving Hal free to score a wife and her dowry and a kingdom. Catharine was well loved, both as Princess of Wales and later as Queen, known by her contemporaries as a remarkable woman, who advocated education for women, and was lauded by luminaries such as Shakespeare.

We'll cover Henry's excesses quickly, he divorced Catharine, forming the church of England in the process, married the intriguing Anne Boleyn, about whom I could talk for hours, and then beheaded her, married Jane Seymour, a mousy little woman who died after childbirth complications, married Anne of Cleves, declared her gross and annulled his union with her (serves him right for marrying before the first date) which probably suited her fine as she's rumoured to have preferred the company of her own kind, if you get my drift. Catharine Howard (cousin of Anne Boleyn) was a silly little tramp and lost her head for it, Katharine Parr, didn't want to marry Henry, but, whats a girl to do?, and she did out live him. So did Anne of Cleves. Catharine of Aragon died of breast cancer, nine years before Henry, who fell into a very dark mood when he heard of her passing.
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I just love how a row of asterices breaks up a text

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Bet you didn't know our Hal obsessions with male heir was because he thought his line would produce the messiah, now, did you?

Fast forward to the present time, or whatever time we're in. We have Prince William getting married, a direct descendant of Henry VII, through Henry VIII's sister, Margaret, but even though Wills is second in line to the throne, some think his lovely Tudor blood has been corrupted by his fathers German/Greek mix, so entering stage left, we have young Prince Harry, the party loving, swastika wearing ranga, carrying the name that could lead him to be King Henry IX. The last two Henrys' weren't born to the throne either.

If the rumors concerning the legitimacy of Prince Harry are true, and I'm not saying they are, but he got that red hair from somewhere,and anyway, I'm bored, so let me have my flights of fancy, then he has more royal, uncorrupted English royal that is, blood than other person in direct line to the throne. That was good enough for Henry VII.

Now lets get out the graphite motorcycle helmet that works much better than a tin foil hat at blocking the nasty powers that be, and their mind reading whatevers (you knew it had to turn crackpot soon, and I didn't disappoint), and lets very quietly mention that young, handsome Prince William is number one contender for the antichrist. Theres even a picture of him holding a sheep or goat or some other cloven hoofed critter if you're the type of person who demands conclusive and irrefutable proof. And his birthday, summer solstice? Spooky!

We all know that in every biblical apocalyptic scenario, the anitchrist gets his ass kicked by the messiah. I don't know about you, but Id much prefer it the entire apocalypse was downgraded to a right royal family feud, albeit of biblical proportions. So, I'm offering a prediction for you. Lay your bets on Prince Harry for next monarch, because, lets face it, the Brits have been ruled by bastards before, and it simply wouldn't be Brittish to put the antichrist on the throne of England.

So dead birds and floods aside, what really maters is that I got to reuse the dodgy thumbnail of Wills with the satanic hand sign.

Wrestlers provide better medical care than the hospital.

As I sit here, with my left foot elevated and iced, due to it's third grade sprain, which is about as bad as sprains go, I can't help but reminisce about yesterday afternoons foray in the public health system. Now, I don't know about you, but I'd generally presume, and hope, that six or so years in medical school, or however much training they do, would result in, oh, I don't know, maybe some sort of ability to treat things like illness or injury. Yeah, crackpot idea.

Backstage, I presented my co-workers with my ankle. I was seen to and treated immediately. Within minutes, my foot was iced, elevated and I was having a medicinal beer. I was assisted in every possible way. Wrestlers, not paramedics, not medically trained in any way. Wrestling is physical, some of my co workers work, or have worked, as personal trainers, and they know what to do.

Now let's look at the hospital. I hopped to triage, which was empty. Ten minutes later the staff returned, and it was another ten before it was seen. Triage dude thought it could be broken, so they get me a wheel chair, tell me to do the red tape shuffle at the clerical window, and then goof to xray. Sounds fine.

Until Miss Admin says to sit down and wait, she's busy. Hello? Sit down? I'm in a wheelchair with a technicolour foot. Here's a tip, looking at people provides invaluable information. Just saying. Fifteen minutes tick by. She finally takes the details and we're off to xray to wait somewhere else. A change, it's as good as a holiday.

They tell me the radiographer is busy. Radiographer. Singular. They only have one? No wonder they're all wearing badges that proclaim, "staffed to budget, not patient care". Such a reassuring position. We wait. And wait. The beer has worn off, I don't have it iced. The wait goes on. 4.28 pm, the world turns to pain as my foot swells even more and the throbbing intensifies as the wonderful sense of disconnection previously protecting me disappears.

They eventually x Ray it. Then its back to emergency to continue waiting. Just after six they give me pain killers and ice it. Hours after arrival, I finally received the same level of basic care I got backstage. It's all the administration. Gets in the way of the treating people part.

Side note. While I waited, someone walked to the shop for panadeine. Those painkillers got to me before the hospitals did. My advice is, when injured, look for the big burly dude without a neck, he doesn't have to deal with red tape, or get senior approval before applying icepacks.

Meathead, aka I Stuffed Up!

It happens. You step inside the ring, and you can and, all too often do, get hurt. We know that, and we accept the risk every time we don our tights, or hot pants, if that's your preference. When injuries occur, we take an almost perverse, and certainly contrary, pride in it. Our battle scars, testament to our membership in the exclusive Cult of Meathead. Although I have no qualms in saying that injuries usually occur doing some sort of wrestling move, but not today, and not for me.

The day dawned with the now usual grey sky and drizzle, which boded well for my Mercedes as it had developed a tendency to overheat, plus a light rain makes the squeaks less audible. We were all ready and were among the first to arrive at Mounties. I chatted and shared a cigarette with Tennille, hung about backstage with the old timer commentary team, in the obligatory old timer dressing room, I warmed up, under Skulls supervision, and by the way, he was rather impressed with my ability perform push ups. Proper ones. Not that on your knees girly stuff. All in all, I was feeling pretty good, I looked great, and I was singing, to the tune of Willie Nelsons "on the road again", my own, slightly reworked version.

In then ring again
Just can't wait to get in the ring again
Smacking chicks that I may never smack again
And I can't wait to get in the ring again.

Yeah, I was having a great time. And then it was our match. Wayne Pickford and Poison Ivy vs Antonio De'Ath and Niki Nitro. The entrance is great and we're all feeling good, the guys start and we're off to what should be a textbook mixed tag, until we hit the tag. I go into the first spot, and as I step off waynes stomach (don't ask, somethings you don't need to know) and put my left foot down, my ankle rolls under me. I felt a snapping pain, white hot and I cursed the rings padding. High density foam, boys, not as spongy and sounds better. In my opinion, the ring is too soft. I wanna know when I hit the floor.

I roll under the bottom rope, back into my corner, telling Wayne that I've just stuffed up my ankle. Across the ring, I seek out my counterparts eyes,and through time honured tradition of mime, I communicate the problem to her. The crowd has quitened a little, so I turn and shout unpleasantries at them, often containing the term peasant, which I only mention cos it's pretty unpleasant.

We're tagged in, and we stuff about and then get back out, giving the boys a turn. Wayne asks if I can do it, and I was sure as shit going to finish what I started. We took it home, Niki got the pin on Pickford, De'Ath laid me out with his trademark move. And I was free to hobble back stage. I got through the curtains and started hopping, sat down and took my boot off, there was already a swollen band across it.

Back to dressing room, having asked some of the guys to get some ice (Dan Damage, champion!) and then went through the laborious process of removing a spandex crop top, lace body stocking, sloggi stockings, cos I only like to give the illusion of being half naked, and hot pants, to get my jeans back on. Niki, no longer Nitro, but co worker, helps me get my jeans on. Skull hands me a beer, I sit on the steps and consume it quickly. Somehow, after the show, I hobble out, with the help my son, Texas, and no shoes to the awaiting car.

Hours later, doped the eyeballs, I'm feeling ok. I did my time at the E.R, and broke free of their clutches to return to the comforts of home and pizza. And I learnt something. Never underestimate the power of beer.

It's a sprain. I'm working on either being fine by next weeks show, or able to convincingly pretend I'm fine. That's the thing with the Cult of Meathead, and I'm unlikely to be deprogrammed. I'm a wrestler. We take our lumps, we take our bumps, and we pull together when it matters. We're Meatheads, and proud of it.

No Shit, Sherlock!

And without further ado, this has nothing at all to do with Sherlock Holmes, but as I never said it would, that shouldn't be a problem. This also has nothing to do with Bilbo Baggins, Heathcliff and Cathy, that George Smiley guy from the le Carre spy novels, Julian Assange or any other fictional characters. And you won't find mention of genuine documented people, living or otherwise, so this won't be about Princess Mary, Barack Obama, Lady Gaga, Isaac Newton or Harry Potters' buddy Rupert.

It certainly won't be about me, mostly because I'm spectacularly dull. I'd love to be exciting, but I'm not. I could probably make up some wild adventures that end with spectacular stories, culminating in great sex on top of large piles of money while my children no longer need supervision, or food for that matter, but you'd know I was lying, so we won't go there.

This isn't about restructuring our drug laws, even though those laws could do with a shake, and it's not about the health or education systems. It's got nothing to do with Oprah or finding your bliss, and as sure as the pope frowns on multiple orgasms, it's ain't related to her book club.

It's not even about you, so if you're the narcissistic type, heads up, nows the time to stop reading. You know why? You really want to know what it's about? I'll tell you, but only to reward your persistence. It's about tin foil hats.

They don't work. They may, in some cases, actually amplify signals. So, like, while I applaud your fashion forward stance and fully stand by your right to wear tinfoil millinery to any social occasion as you see fit, its not going to save you from the daleks.

Tinfoil hats- because everyone who disagrees is mentally ill.

And The Skies Poured Sorrow.

Queensland. Beautiful one minute, perfect the next? At the moment I'm pretty certain that both the locals and tourists (now, that would have been one crap holiday) would agree that if litigation were to arise regarding false advertising, Queensland wouldn't have a leg to stand on.

The footage is harrowing. Images of cars carried away in a sea of brown water, the faces of passengers being delivered to an unknown fate, one minute a figure on the news, lost the next. Words, spoken by politicians, describing Queensland's darkest hour, sound hollow and cliched as news of those trapped filter through. The numbers of dead and missing rise. 8 dead, 72 missing. A child care centre with ten kids trapped, undoubtedly petrified and wishing for the comfort of their mothers arms. Children still trapped in schools, victims of the sheer speed at which the wall of water came through.

The news choppers fly over head, capturing images of people on rooftops, but unable to offer any help, as has been the case in so many other disasters. 9-11, Hurricane Katrina, the Indonesian tsunami and now, the Great Northern Deluge.

The rain started in October, and it's barely paused. I was there in mid October, flew up during a gap in the showers, on one of the days when the rain was replaced by a buffeting wind, leading pretty young girls on my flight to think they'd plummet to the ground in a fiery inferno. They were wrong, the disaster was still a way off, but it was almost as if they could feel the storm brewing on the horizon.

I have family in Queensland, a niece, a nephew, a sister, a brother, in laws, and then there's my Peacock Family. Those beautifully plumed people are why I went there. And they're why I'm glued to the screen, picturing them on those roof tops. I'd never even met them, and these wonderful people flew me from Sydney to Brisbane, to celebrate my amazing and fabulous peacock sister/fiance's birthday.

My Peacock Family.

A face I knew from Facebook greeted me like a long-lost brother, a friend of my Peacock Family drove us to Peacock Manor, nestled between Ipswich and Brisbane. I arrived and fell in love with the whole family. And now that family is in harms way. Every time I see images of people sitting, drenched, on rooftops, I imagine my Peacocks, clinging to safety, the father hanging on protectively and valiantly to those he and I both love, the child confused and uncertain, and my beloved peacock sister/fiancee, worrying for her child and her family, and lets face it, her stability and way of life.

Its an uncertain time for Brisbane, as the water approaches with all its power and fury. My Peacock family is just one of the families at risk, and when we watch those people and see everything they own being carried away by the water, remember they're someones special people. Everyone is someones special family. At the moment they're newsworthy, but when we've forgotten those forlorn rooftop figures, those lives will still need rebuilding.

Lost in the deluge are countless snapshots of happy moments, frozen pieces of time from people's lives. Favourite shirts, comfortable, well loved shoes, beloved toys, and pillow's people cant sleep without. All small things, but gone, and the sum total of these losses is immeasurable.

And it's not over. The waters haven't hit Brisbane yet, but they will. And they'll continue their terrible onslaught until nature bores of her game. Think of all those many families in the path of the Deluge in the coming days, and send hope their way. Think of my Peacock family, roads already cut off in various places around them, and for so many, nowhere to go even if they could get out. I'm sure you have a Peacock family up there, too, you do if there's anyone special to you in the flood zone.

Nikhaylah, Richard and Boots, I wish I was there with you. My heart is there. And I really do love you.