Category Archives: Uncategorized

What we reckon: Part 15 in a series (Sydney Swans)

What Chops reckons:

I haven’t ever heard the Sydney song , so while I ruminate over its worth, I will offer a review of Brett Kirk.

Dear Brett,

I have to admit, Brett, I had dismissed you as a bit of a tanned Sydney deadshit until I was recently sitting at home in my glorious mustard velvet armchair, passively watching telly with my housemate and her mum, when we stumbled across Judith Lucy’s Spiritual Journey on the ABC. My housemate is nursing a broken shoulder from an acquired ice-skating date injury, so she knows what it is like to suffer from the pain of professional athleticism. Continue reading


What we reckon: Part 11 in a series (North Melbourne Kangaroos)

Apologies for the delayed post, readers – K and I have been absolutely flat-out watching the best show on television, Farmers vs Dum-Dum Girls. I retract my previous statements regarding Farmer Will perhaps having Downs’ Syndrome. I now see that that was erroneous and cruel, not to mention extremely unPC. What I meant to say is that Farmer Will clearly suffers from facial paralysis, or Bells’ palsy. Continue reading

Hey Dad

My dad (64) was suspended indefinitely from his indoor beach volleyball team.

Apparently, he disagreed with an umpiring decision so thought it pertinent to chuck a brown-eye.

The reason he was suspended indefinitely is because there was no precedent for such behaviour.

My dad also uses his keys to pick his ear wax.

Love you, Dad.


Sometimes I really love running the numbers on how people come to find CHOPS AT HOME.

Why is [sic] there so many collingwood club haters [?]

Dunno, mate. While we’re asking the rhetoricals, why are there so many songs about rainbows?

In A to your Q: Probably because you are historically a violent and offensive bunch, who can no longer claim working-class origins for thuggish behaviour. Exhibit A:

(I secretly I don’t mind you having a go at Milne, but.)

Awful dates I have endured: Part 1 in a series

I have been on a whole bunch of truly awful dates in my time. And I should have known that dating wasn’t for me from the ripe old age of 10, when a boy from my class at school left a message on the family answering machine (for shame!). He was ringing to ask if I wanted to go to Hungry Jacks and a movie with him. To hear my mother tell it, I was absolutely inconsolable, and thought for some reason that participation was mandatory. She asked her sobbing little ten year old what was so appalling. I explained.

“Muu-uuum! His spelling word this week is special. Mine’s physiotherapist.”

There were two omens right there: that my tween precocity would ensure I entered a wordy profession (I’m a publisher type by trade) and that dating was not nor was it likely to ever be my forte. Continue reading