Acomplia no prescription needed, I made a lot of promises a long time ago regarding Tshirts and the time has come to put my designs where my online Tshirt distributor is and make good on those promises. There is now a link for roastytoasty based merchandising so to all who asked, I have delivered (or will deliver...at competitive prices). For those who can't wait till the end of this blog to find out more, click here: http://www.zazzle.com.au/roastytoasty

One of the advantages of running the store through Zazzle is that the Tshirts are CUSTOMIZABLE! All of the designs you can see in the roastytoasty store can be placed on any shirt you like which means you can tailor your style and price to match your taste and budget! All you have to do is click on a design and choose your style and colour on the right of the screen, acomplia approval fda. Any questions, let me know.

Now that I've started, Acomplia release date for usa, you should be seeing a few more but if there's something you'd like to see but haven't yet, let me know and I'll see what I can do. Oh and a big thanks to all friends of roastytoasty and apologies for taking so long to make these available.

yours sincerely,

dave, canada acomplia.

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My friend Tennille and I went to the shops for some anticipatory emergency New Years supplies and stopped in at a bookstore along the way. It was one of those bookstores that spring up from time to time in whichever empty shopfront they can find and are gone before you realise that the last page of the book you bought is missing.

Be that as it may, I generally always buy a book when I go into these shops because I spend most of my time wandering around the store giving the salesperson/owner a back story. It doesn't take too long before they've become down-and-out plucky little underdogs with a dream in their hearts (oh sure they were told they'd never make it in the real world but dammit they're going to do their darnedest to prove the world wrong). So due to an unnecessary amount of guilt developed through a series of unfortunate and thoroughly imaginary circumstances, I always end up buying a book...if for no other reason to show solidarity for those who dare to dream a dream. As we wandered through the hastily constructed shelves and display tables, I spared a thought for the salesperson I saw at the entrance. He was so eager to see a customer...oh poor, sweet 'Training' who was clearly so destitute they'd even taken his name. I would return to him with a book as an affirmation to him that he had made the right life choices. The quality and quantity of books in these places is anybody's guess. There are always at least a dozen suduko books available, a few travel narratives and a whole lot of self help books at unusually reduced prices. Beyond that, the range is purely dependent on the backs of the lorries that they happened to fall off. For example, why stock four different biographies of Barack Obama? If you're already three down, do you really need to go in for a fourth take on it? His biographies sat beside George W Bush, the only president that had trouble spelling his middle initial also had a comprehensive collection of his life's work. Unless curious George jr has managed to whip up his very own autobiography using glitter, safety scissors and macaroni, I've seen enough for now. I ended up going with “The Ecology of Commerce” from the nature section (or maybe the commerce section) which looked at proposals to redefine corporate responsibility to incorporate social and environmental responsibility as part of their business goals. It was either that or “Men Who Knit and the Dogs Who Love Them,” and although I stand by my decision, I think The Ecology of Commerce could have been spiced up a little with dogs in woolen kerchiefs. We took the book to the counter and greeted the salesman with the confidence that only comes from actually planning on purchasing something from a down-on-their-luck type salesperson. The conversation was short and sweet, pleasantries were exchanged as Trainee handed my book and my change to me. He did not however ask if I would like a bag for my book. This is part of the shopping experience. If they don't ask you, how are you supposed to look awkwardly at your hands for the next two minutes as you hum and hah over whether you do actually need a bag? He was re-writing the rules of transaction interactions and had made the rather ballsy decision to not finish the transaction, but rather stand his ground and merely snap-freeze it in awkwardness; willing me to ask him for a bag to help my stumpy little T-Rex arms. I refused to get suckered into his mind games and also stood my ground. It was just like the Wild West only with books and feelings. “Who is this guy to be challenging me?” I thought. I was doing him a favour here. I had taken the time to get to know him (for the person I imagined him to have been) in an attempt to humanise the situation and he had gone and cheapened it by going for a power struggle on our way out of the store. The audacity of this joker... Somewhere in this shared frozen moment, our eyes locked, beads of sweat dripping from our foreheads it occurred to me that perhaps he was just responding to the book. Maybe Trainee thought I wouldn't want a bag because of the subject matter of the book, but surely it's a little presumptuous to presume that just because I'm buying a book on environmental responsibility that I would be environmentally responsible myself. Clearly I was buying the book because I wanted to learn more on the topic and through that, look to change...but do it on my own terms. I was ready to settle in for some pretty serious glaring to resolve this Eco stand-off and felt that we had been holding this morally exhausting stalemate for minutes when Tennille explained that there was no epic battle of wits going on and it's not like we even needed a bag in the first place. And true to her word, the book made it home without being dropped. I grazed my knee but Tennille said I had it coming. Yours sincerely, dave

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a wife must be in want of good fortune. Ok, maybe not universally acknowledged but in my current state of romantic singularity it doesn't hurt to pretend that it's all those “relationship” jerks that are missing out on a life worth living well. Bahaha! Who's laughing now? Not me...as I strut proudly around my bedroom in nothing but socks, eating ice cream from the tub with the end of a shoe...not me...

In absence of a blog worth blogging for, I thought I'd keep you updated on more of my amorous misadventures much in the vein of the legendary tales of Casanova (with the proviso that Casanova had been born a potato). They keep me honest, but more importantly, they keep me single. My favourite of late was the Chemist girl. During my lunch break I'd gone to the chemist to pick up a prescription. When I went to pay, I noticed a very pretty girl behind the counter who smiled as I approached and continued to smile as I fumbled for money in front of her. As I tried to iron out the crumpled $20 note with my fingers, I wondered why it was that the pretty girls didn't talk to me.

Still smiling, she gave me my change and spoke to me. “You have the most beautiful eyes,” she said smiling timidly. Wow...What a lovely thing to say! From a complete stranger too! From a very pretty complete stranger too! And without any sort of prompting or gentle coercing! Why this was the sort of impromptu opener that could generate grandchildren in the forseeable future!

You know that split second that your mind goes into overdrive as it generates hundreds of different scenarios that immediately follow a monumental event of that nature? I got nothing...well nothing except for one small thing... I have always been a big fan of my eyes; inside and out. They look good and they look good. Recently I just hadn't felt they were getting the dues they deserved, so these kind words really struck a chord with me. I thought to myself that yes, she was indeed correct, I did have lovely eyes; and really, it was a credit to her own eyes that she noticed their loveliness.

Standing at the counter, in front of a very pretty girl, caught up in silent reverie over just how lovely my eyes were. A reverie that bypassed polite conversation right out of the Chemist and most of the way back to the car.

I've never really thought of myself as a narcissist but I can see that I clearly managed to cock-block myself right out of that situation because of my own self interest. I guess part of being single is finding that you are capable of loving yourself...more often than not.

Yours sincerely,

dave

Let me transport you to another time. The year is 1939 and the world is on the brink of war. A young Adolf Hitler is throwing his weight around Europe in army form whilst an even younger nun, Maria (in human form) has found that being a governess is not what Mary Poppins would have us believe.

Even in the face of peril, the threat of the German war engine ever approaching does little to dampen Maria's high spirits as she weaves her homegrown magic into the hearts of a nation and also into the childrens curtain-clothes. Even as it is revealed that that the Nazis have taken over the Austrian Postal Service, Maria still finds the courage to sing out in defiance as she lists brown paper packages tied up with string as one of her favourite things, knowing full well that all packages arrive via Nazi Postmen.

Historians believe that this is but one of many indicators that suggest Maria was more than just an accomplished musician, singer, dancer, puppeteer, tailor, teacher, governess, nun and of course lover, but also a woman whose many talents hid a secret agenda which was to deliver a crippling blow to the Nazis by killing every last one of them.

Her songs were her weapon of choice when entertaining the Von Trapp children, but beneath their simple lyrics and complex melody structures lay the seeds of malcontent. She not only taunted the Germans with her “brown paper packages” line but also used this medium to release misinformation to the enemy should she ever be captured. Relying on popular folk song for intelligence, the Nazis would surely try to force her to reveal all resistance movements by confronting her with her least favourite things. Dogs biting and bees stinging were actually two of her favourite things (having grown up on a farm in the mountains) and a chance to frolic once more with the dogs and the bees would only strengthen her resolve and the Nazis would be trumped.

With her lonely goatherds relaying morse yodel back and forth between the resistance, she was soon able to establish her position one goose-step ahead of the Nazis. Her rallying “Climb Ev'ry Mountain” was now the catch-cry of the resistance. The Germans attempted a counterstrike by touring “Der Fledermaus” through the local towns in a thinly veiled attempt to drum up support for the invasion force but the tour didn't last. It reviewed poorly and one critic even went so far as to say, “this is a thinly veiled attempt to drum up support for the invasion force.”

The damage had been done; the Germans had lost their foot-hold and it was now just a matter of time before Berlin fell (6 years to be precise). For the villagers, it was 6 years of rebuilding and then living but for Maria, she realised that she had been chosen for a higher purpose. It seemed that the Mother Superior had been right to let her leave the convent but now there was no going back for Maria. She couldn't rest until she had foiled the Nazis at every turn, no matter if that meant opening the Ark of the Covenant, drinking from the Holy Grail or filming The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

Maria may not be with us today but her heroinism will not be soon forgotten. This is but the first of a series of explosive exposés (explosés) in which we'll rediscover some unsung  heroes and give them the appropriate big-ups. Until next time, we bid Maria adieu adieu adieu and leave you with this. In the months of painstaking research that in all probability did not actually happen, two things become quite clear to me. One of my favourite things is Maria, and the other is sixteen year old girls going on seventeen.

Yours sincerely,

Dave

Imagine you're a by-the-book kind of cop; the kind that keeps to himself but gets the job done. Now imagine that you get into work one morning and the Captain starts screaming for you in his office because the commissioner has been breathing down his neck for your balls in a vice. Not very pleasant at all especially when he wants your gun and your badge and wants you off a case you weren't even aware you were working on. Now let's replace the cop with a planet and the Captain with the International Astronomical Union and the book...well that can stay the same but it will have to be edited and re-published and the gun with a...this metaphor is getting out of control... What I'm trying to get at is that Pluto never hurt anybody so why strip it of its title? Or alternately, it's about time that useless rock did something useful with itself and maybe this is just the motivator it needs. Mighty Pluto (named by an eleven year old girl in 1930) was dull and uninspiring until the Chinese translated it as “The Underworld King Star.” Since that time it has been awesome. It was not until 2006 that Pluto experienced firsthand the truth that fame is a fickle mistress and the tide can turn like a tickled mistress. Pluto had competition; competition in the form of Xena (Warrior Princess). Xena was much larger than Pluto and by revisions to the definition, she was classed as a dwarf planet. Given that Xena was larger than Pluto, the IAU decided that they couldn't in good conscience be seen to be playing favourites. The result was that neither of them got to be planets. Xena, the ninth largest solar orbiting body was indeed affectionately nicknamed after the leather clad woman that beat up on gods on a regular basis. This of course was only temporary as it would set a dangerous precedent and lower the tone of Science Fiction writing for years to come if people were allowed to call planets after tv shows. So it was decided that the official name would be Eris (after the Greek goddess of strife). One moon orbits Eris which was named Dysnomia (the daughter of Eris in the same Greek mythology). And right there, if you missed it was the furthest reaching bit of comedy I'll probably ever witness. As an appreciator of fine wordplay, I felt it needed to be heard. So Eris was named because it kept the overall tone of the currently “in-crowd” of celestial bodies. The goddess Eris represents strife which tied in nicely given the trouble it caused for everybody by being discovered. But my favourite part of all was that the moon was named Dysnomia which translates as lawlessness. As I'm sure I don't need to tell you, Xena Warrior Princess was played by Lucy Lawless. Such a wonderfully full circle piece of comedy makes me smile when I look up at the stars (but mostly it makes me concerned that should the astronomers stop looking at the stars and decide to write comics I may just have my work cut out for me). Oh, also, it's probably nothing but Pluto is currently officially named 134340 which is a heck of a demotion. This is probably due to the fact that it's easier to remember now. I typed those numbers into a web colour picker and was not surprised to find that it was a dark aquamarine – not that dissimilar to what we can see of 134340. Now I'm not saying we're stumbling into some sort of universal colour conspiracy, just asking that you all stay alert and await further instructions. Yours Sincerely, Dave

So since I have nothing to write about as such, I thought I'd tell you all a harrowing tale from my own neurotic back-catalogue. My day as an Altar boy. When I was a young boy, I lived in a fairly religious family, in a fairly religious neighbourhood in a fairly religious town. At school we learnt Religious Education and at church we learnt Religious Education. I don't remember there being much else on at the time. In the area I was in, it was not uncommon to be an altar boy so that's what I did. I'm not sure if it was out of an inner desire to be closer to God or whether my mum made me do it, but I do remember it was a chance to see behind the scenes of a weekly production. For me it was like having a backstage pass to the hottest venue on a Sunday morning. There was a magic to it, but the problem with magic is that it only lasts as long as you're able to believe in it. Once you break the illusion and see the strings and blu-tack, the magic is gone and you're left feeling a little bit silly. To the left of the Altar was a door that lead into the bit I was interested in; where I assumed they kept the angels and that direct line to God but when I entered, all I saw was a fairly unimpressive store-room. There were boxes of the Body of Christ (the manufacturers return address was a big disappointment), piles of spare bibles, crosses, incense etc... All of that wonderous parephenalia from Mass was suddenly reduced to nothing more than stock sitting in a props room. It certainly took the edge off my religious fervour; not the epiphany mum was hoping for maybe, but I guess God works in mysterious ways... So the magic had gone but there was still enough pomp and ceremony to soldier on as an altar boy. For my first morning mass I was willing to give it my all. This was to be my premiere performance; I'd never been in front of a crowd before so I knew I had to make it count. It started smoothly, we all knew our places and worked the crowd well, but halfway through mass the priest called me to the altar and handed me a key, asking me to put it on the table (pointing to the left door from earlier). I accepted this holy mission with great vigour and walked over to the left door as all eyes turned to me and my triumph over evil. This was my moment - I was a star...and their eyes were glued to me. But as I walked towards the door, another table came into view - it had been obscured from view at the altar area. Now I was in a conundrum - a crisis of faith, if you will. Did the priest mean the table by the door or the table behind the door? There was no time to think, this was a defining moment and I had to act fast. I placed the keys on the table by the door and returned to my spot on the far right. All eyes were back on the priest as he looked over at the table then back to me and called me back over. The Priest then told me he meant the other table through the door and would I go move the keys to where he asked them to be moved. What a prima donna! It was a cold walk of shame as I crossed the altar again and walked offstage to correct my mistake. Then I started hearing laughter. That's right, laughter. They all had a good old chuckle at my expense, and this crowd were supposed to be the good guys. I looked over to the priest for support and he was having a laugh too (because I might add, of his unprofessionalism, lack of showmanship and poor key placement in the first place). So then, the walk of double shame back to the right of the altar past the fickle, laughing crowd, no longer the hero of the piece but as the comic relief. Long story short, I threw in my shawl and badge that afternoon; I'd let it get personal and I needed to cool off. But I will say that to this day I still don't know if it was the priests way of showing me who the crowd was really there to see. Whatever his agenda was, I lost a little of the magic that day. The curtain was pulled back and I saw the Wizard for what he truly was. Now I will admit that a little magic can go a long way and I could not live without it, but it's only magic if you don't stare too long. (oh and it doesn't blow up in your face). Yours Sincerely, Dave

As Summer slips away from us here in the Southern Hemisphere and the trees are losing the will to leaf, we have started to hit that transitional phase in which we're still wearing our summer clothes in defiance of the chill that is coming. The downside of this act of defiance is that we're all starting to get sick again. Flu shots are being loaded into both barrels and supplements are carefully being suppled from the tender teats of the great big medicine companies to keep us all smiling. That said, I do remember somebody once told me that by taking flu shots en masse we were only perpetuating a new super flu that would be so resilient to our regular defences that it would walk tall like mortal men and pull a knife on us as we walk out of the chemist. As a result of this I spent many years just dealing with the sniffles in an attempt to single-handedly save mankind from such a freakishly absurd fate. No need to thank me, I gave up on that whole business when I caught pneumonia a few years back – now I take whatever I can and learnt how to handle myself in a knife fight. After all, if the germs are willing to become more versatile to new situations, so should we. I'm not sure if many of you would remember “George's Marvellous Medicine” by Roald Dahl but when I was younger I really liked the idea of just going into the kitchen and creating a perfectly balanced 100% cure for what ails you from whatever was lying around. I still like to think this can be achieved well, but one thing that cannot be included in the recipe is common sense. You have to think with a bit of magic for it to work, but it always made me feel better so it can't be all that not right. So for example, if you're fighting a cold, you just have to go find things that are hot like tabasco sauce and pepper. To bring the colour back into your life, you add something like tomatoes and different varieties of capsicum. There's no great art to it – you have to go by gut, but by the time you've added the contents of a tin of chicken soup, a great deal of garlic, lemon and lime and ground up a few cold and flu tablets for garnish, the effects are startlingly positive. If a more pharmaceutical method is how you'd prefer to roll this Winter, I can give you a bit of help with that too. For every comic I draw, I insist on doing a lot of research into them because I know that to my loyal readers, they are more than just silly little pictures but an insight into the human condition, so it's important I step up and know what I'm talking about. Recently I infiltrated an Embassy to get into the mindset of a foreign dignitary and back even further, for the rent-boy comic I...perhaps that is a story for another occasion. So here's the scoop on the major players in the comic to help you all out... Vitamin C has not been clearly proven to help reduce the effects of the common cold. Cutting down on your sugar intake will do more good for you whilst suffering from a cold. So even though a spoonful of sugar will help the medicine go down, once it is down – you're pretty much screwed. Echinacea alone has been proven to reduce the length and severity of the common cold, and when combined with Vitamin C will achieve even more. They are the Voltron of the medicine cabinet along with the mighty Zinc (He was not mentioned in this weeks comic because I am an artist – not a doctor). Cod Liver Oil does improve the immune system. A colleague asked me what makes cod livers so much better than ours? Well for one, they spend a lot of time in cold water and I have never seen a fish with a cold, so the livers are clearly doing something right. It is however, scientifically proven that cod liver oil is a douchebag and should be avoided on any social level. You can thank Doctor Internet for those startling facts – although it is difficult to take medical advice from a website that does not have degrees stuck to the background. There's something re-assuring about those things even if they were achieved online... The upside of that advice being false is that I will have ensured more people will be staying at home looking at my webcomic. The downside is that my fanbase may have one of the highest mortality rates of all the online comics! So do be careful this year, and take all advice with a grain of salt. (next week we'll find out if that will help). Yours sincerely, Dave

So I was thinking about exercising this week - which is half the battle; and when you consider that God is always on the side of half of the battlers I felt that in many ways I was already a winner and celebrated my moral victory with a couple of pizzas and a few beers. A victory not shared with my Wii fit. Surely the most hurtful of all the plastic boards I've ever stood on. I thought that I could justify buying a console if it would get me doing some exercise but it turned out that it is really hard to take health pointers from a glorified scale with a voice like a member of the Lollypop Guild. It knows how old I am and yet every time I stand on it, it says the most hurtful things. If I balance like a 50 year old and exercise like a 50 year old, that doesn't make me a 50 year old. It just makes me angry. It tells me I'm the perfect weight for my age and height, so it seems like the only reason it plays this little game is to hurt me. I had been backed into a corner and was tired of being abused by the Wii so I started looking elsewhere for my exercise. I happened to find a workout DVD that appealed to me more than the Wii could. I like old Kung Fu movies and I approve of the concept of exercise, so when I found a Shaolin Workout DVD I thought, “finally – a system that works for me.” I was impressed to see that the trainer was Asian with a broken English accent (a must have for anyone on the path to true enlightenment in body, mind and soul – although in a pinch, a strong English accent demands a certain level of respect also). He was even wearing a traditional orange dressing-gown like they do on TV so I was pretty much sold. He explained in his softly spoken voice that throughout the first of three one hour long workouts we'd be establishing correct breathing – which was great for me because I have always suspected that I've been breathing wrong up until now but was too embarrassed to ask anyone to compare techniques. We pretty much have to hit the floor running on that one and I am surprised more people haven't questioned their form. Anyways, on we continued with our breathing and like the mighty ocean our lungs ebbed and flowed and I caught a glimpse of what it must be like to transcend. Then after five minutes, he explained that our training could begin. I thought that our training had already begun – I'd worked up a sweat and thought I was in a pretty good place, but I was wrong. He wanted to do some stamina training and I accepted. I'd aced the breathing so sure, why not - any apprentice must struggle if he is to ever defeat his master and battle the rival dojo. It wasn't long before I noticed an alarming similarity between my master and the Wii. His soft slow voice was now a fury of wind and fire and his words of bending reeds had snapped and now lashed at my tender bits. Ten minutes into the workout I collapsed, a broken man. I watched on for another five minutes just in case this was one of those tests where the master must break you to make you whole again, but he didn't; he just kept on trying to break me. I skipped ahead to the third hour and saw some pretty neat punching and kicking but realised this was way out of my league. I realised then that it is not my body that requires exercise just yet – it's my ego. I need to be patted on the back every step of the way. I want a high five for taking the stairs. A thumbs up for running for the bus. I want a gold star for watching Monday morning Aerobics on the television. Only then will I be ready to continue my training. Only then will I be able to shape my destiny. So until that day I will dress in my regular old dressing-gown, put my feet up on the Wii fit and watch my soap operas like every other self-disrespecting male out there. Yours sincerely, Dave

What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive! Am I right? Ok, I'll elaborate a little...This week I refreshed my memory on why telling a little pork pie here and there can cause much unrest. Not just in my tummy but also in the very fabric of modern society. So I have a little sideline from the comics, writing silly poems at work which get posted into a networked poetry folder - we had an offshoot here at roastytoasty called 'Auntie Agatha's Shallow Grave of Poetry' which I will be bringing back as soon as I work out how to display it online. Anyways, the theme for the week was pride so I wrote a poem called 'Gay Pride' which went as follows: In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lions play Belgian trance and go antiquing.' Silly really...but certainly not what I would call offensive. The post was removed the day of its posting which really ground my gears. So I wrote a complaint to the folder moderators. To press the point home, I told them that as a gay man, I found this to be fairly discriminatory; and in my defence, as a gay man, I'm sure I would find it discriminatory. I'm not gay as far as sexual orientation goes but I am more comfortable with the idea of the “gay” lifestyle than I am with the “Alpha male drink-scratch-monstertruck-football” lifestyle; but I don't feel that sexuality really has much bearing on whether a fairly lightweight poem should or should not be censored. To elaborate further, I'm not sure if you know, but Xbox live has been causing a stir recently by removing any username containing the word gay or lesbian. Microsoft have refused to move on this point; essentially ruling that gay and lesbian are dirty words. Back to the white lie...So there was a retraction of the retraction and I was advised that there had been some rather unfortunate poems coming through to the folder in the light of the recent Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras so to keep from offending, gay themed posts were removed; but after reading my email, it was allowed to be re-submitted. Now I felt bad enough for my deception and I guess for somehow cheapening my reasoning for getting all up in their business so I apologised for being snappy and made a flimsy excuse about not having enough morning coffee but felt justified in standing up against any broad-sweep censorship being undertaken. What followed was some rather serious damage control on their part and as each new email came through (establishing their lack of sexual discrimination), I sank further and further into a malaise of my own creation. I was way in over my head. I felt dirty and ashamed for what I had done but was too far in to admit the lie and clear the air. After about ten emails placating my moral outrage, the moderators commented in the folder on the commendable poem that I had written. One had gone so far as to liken my poems to a poetic version of The Far Side – which got me onto the subject of the website (I now promote without even thinking about it). So I gave them the web address, only realising later that there are a few blogs that I've written which describe my amorous misadventures - all quite clearly describing which team I bat for. So what I had ultimately achieved by standing up for those who didn't request it, was a small victory against censorship and discrimination, some possible hurt feelings on behalf of the moderators, a weight of concern for my moral fibre, and the additional concern that my poetry will now be received like the emperors new clothes. “It doesn't matter what the content is, because it's the emperor, and isn't it great that he is out amongst the people!” Not the desired effect, but machinations have a tendency to get out of hand. So is that what this blog is about? That we sink so far into our own deceptions that it becomes harder and harder to redeem ourselves? Or is it that whilst a little censorship is probably a good thing, a lot is certainly a travesty? Or perhaps it is that we significantly shape our own lives based on the perceptions we let others make. It could just be yet another anecdote of the B-grade situational comedy of errors I continue to let myself get into. Yep. Probably that one... So to finish, I would like to apologise for my misdirection – happy though I am with another blog to post. Even if it does cause me to be “in'd” by any folder moderators that may be reading this. Oh, it is also worth mentioning that because I had been allowed to re-post my poem, the following day somebody else posted a reasonably offensive gay related poem – referencing mine which made me sad. As a gay man, I was seriously offended but thought better than to get back on my high horse. To quote the great Kenny Rogers, "You've got to know when to hold 'em." So I cut my losses and walked away. The moderators removed the post later that day. Yours sincerely, Dave

Not my words, but the powerful europop ramblings of Eiffel 65 frontman Jeffrey Jey. His daring take on the world's unwillingness to commit to the imminent threat of climate collapse really blew the late 90's music scene out of the water. But now, almost a decade later, how has his legacy been continued?

At times I worry that I might be one of those opulent westerners you hear so much about. I think I have probably spent more time asking what the world can do for me and not enough time asking what I can do for the world. But now that my webcomic is such a delightful shade of green, I can't help but think about helping, and surely that is the first step to actually helping.

The problem is that practically everything associated with protecting the environment works against some well established conceptions we all picked up from a very early age. As children we were forced against our will to tidy up and take out the trash etc...all chores, all laborious and tiresome and all taking us away from something infinitely more important. As we've grown older, we have had to condition ourselves to accept them as necessary evils and get on with the job of cleaning up. For me, like most males, it was about 3 months of living by myself that made me realise I was responsible for what was rotting in the kitchen and what was growing in the bathroom. Ecological balance needed to be set. Sure it took a while to contain and maintain but it's not something I now drag my feet to do like it was for me as a child.

So what's to stop us achieving the same on a global scale? Well for one, mother nature can't send us to our room if we don't do it. Technically we're already in our room, so the punishment hardly fits the crime. We can't change the world in one bold step for mankind, but maybe if we continue plotting a course of baby steps, we might have a chance. The time has come to admit that it is not enough to tisk our way through “An Inconvenient Truth” and feel morally stronger for having watched it. The time has come to actually do something.

I have started doing my bit – well, a bit for the earth. Mostly due to my flatmate the eco warrior (rank undisclosed). He's been slowly wearing my pollutative defences down. We use our own bags when we shop, we have a bin for something he calls “recycling,” we try not to use the aircon and we also use a bucket in the shower to fill and then pour into the toilet cistern. I have graciously accepted these changes, but told him that it is his responsibility to take the bucket to the toilet. After all, what's the point of us both getting out of the shower?

So that's how I sleep at night, but how are you going to manage with the weight of a dying world on your shoulders? Very uncomfortably I'd imagine. So baby-step up whilst there is still time; if we all commit to making a lot of little differences, that should add up to a big lot of difference. So your mission, should you choose to accept it, is simple...

Save the cheerleader, save the world. Help ensure that the world will always have an alibi.

Yours sincerely,

Dave