Since I was a glint in my fathers eye, I have dreamt of having the opportunity to blog; and not unlike a certain director of the Lord of the Rings, I had to wait until the technology caught up with me...

As a toddler, I made startling monologues in my bowl of alphabetti spaghetti. As a small boy, I gained critical acclaim for some rather poignant observations left strategically in magnetic letters on the fridge and, during my formative years, I wrote many angst ridden letters to the editors of several reputable publications which delved in great detail into the essence of social and political nuance in this ever changing world.

I held a mirror up to multicultural society and dared the world to look at it's reflection. All this, I did in eager anticipation of a new, incredible medium hiding just around the corner (and I don't mean Allison Dubois who is neither incredible or hiding around the corner). The said medium to which I refer is blogging and ich bin ein guy who is ready to mix things up blog style.

Now some of you may be entertaining the thought that I am way behind the head of the pack when it comes to voicing my opinions in the wonderful world of wide web but to you I say that I am like a wily hyena who has the good sense to sneak up behind the pack and target the weaker, Sunday bloggers, thus working my way through the pack, growing more powerful with each of my fallen prey. Until finally, I shall reach the head of the pack and take the position of dominant alpha male. Although to keep in the spirit of the internet, I shall become the dominant alpha e-male...

The only significant drawback is that time has made me indifferent and lazy. Such cruel irony. Still, I'm sure there's more to blogging than just randomly typing rubbish... I will endeavour to find out and report back. So be prepared for all kinds of blog upside your faces.

Yours sincerely, Dave

Whilst great people the world over have spent today standing tall, righting wrongs, challenging conventions and generally being all american heroes, I bought a sandwich. However this was no ordinary sandwich for this sandwich would lead me to ponder the intricacies and tender bits of the human condition.

Anyway, there I was totally primed for an existential lunch sandwich, and that's what I got. So I took a bite out of what was to be my epiphany with a hint of ham and salad which I'd bought moments prior to the point I'm retelling you now, only to find that there was a surprise inside that could really shatter all of my preconceptions about the food in my hand and the lifechoices I make n' stuff - There was none other than a a bug inside it, scrabbling for dear life...

"AAIIEE!!!" I imagine you screaming..."A bug! How positively disgusting! I hope you were violently sick all over the shopkeep who did sell you that bug infested sandwich!" But I was not. Nor did I race back to bewail my lot...I was not capable of that. For you see, little kittens, that bug was a ladybird, and I let it scamper off my lettuce and away into the long grass or something. I smiled as it wandered off in a direction, wishing it good luck on it's travels(In the direction it chose to travel in). I wonder though, how I would have responded if it had been a giant tarantula or some primordial sized dragonfly clawing it's way out from between my buns. (of the sandwich).

After dwelling on my close call and it's subsequent life lessons, I was alarmed to think that I could have been so shallow as to let the bug get away with such an indiscretion as nestling between lettuce and ham simply because it is one of the hotties of the insect world. I wouldn't let some rough old girl with a lazy eye and a hairlip hide in my food, so what was the difference?

I guess aesthetics are so ground into our very nature that while we might nurture the idea that we are products of our own experiences and social understandings we can't ignore the pretty things; deep down, we know they are hot and sexy and stuff. And the worst part is, even understanding that we are slaves to what we as people and societies dictate as foxiness, we wouldn't have it any other way. Well I wouldn't but that's only because I'm big enough to accept that I'm a sucker for a pretty face. Or at the very least, a well designed exo-skeleton.

Yours sincerely,

Dave

Now as you may have heard, I'm not big on conspiracy theories; and if you have heard, I'd like to know who has been telling you. I have my suspicions, but I could really do with some concrete evidence...

Normally I dismiss conspiracy theories as nothing more than heresay and heresy like bigfoot, global warming and the running of the bulls. But once in a while, a story comes my way that is so eye opening, I am forced to start reading it whilst I'm asleep just so my eyes will have somewhere to go. I speak of none other than the legend shrouded in mystery that goes by the name of "Midget Villages."

Let's examine the facts...Midgets and Dwarves and all other variances on the theme have been living amongst us since the times of pixies and fairies. Living certainly, but comfortably? Unlikely... If you're a fan of basketball and frequent the basketball circuit, you will notice that basketballers have to duck under doorways and squeeze into volkswagens far too often than they deserve. So it stands to reason that as necessity is the mother of invention, accomodations for these behemoths must be accomodating to their freakishly large requirements. Therefore it would be practical for basketballers to buy specialised merchandise for their many reasonable demands.

So let's now look at the flipside. Surely it makes sense for midgets to have houses designed for them in such a way that they don't require a step ladder to reach the stove or the light switch or indeed the hatstand. Also, it then follows that a whole town designed for midgets would be much easier for the day to day living of any upwardly mobile young midget. But surely there are not enough midgets or midget resources for such a great concept, right? Wrong... In 1938 - a casting call was sent out for what is known in certain circles as Midget Woodstock - better known as "The Wizard of Oz" offering midgets all over America a chance to meet likeminded midgets to act together, network and unless my sources are incorrect, speed date... This romance-a-palooza has never been equalled not even by "Return of the Jedi" in 1983 or "Willow" in 1988 but rest assured there was still some magic in the air behind the scenes... The population boom caused by these major events was put to an end in 2001 when Peter Jackson singlehandedly developed technology that would once and for all eliminate midgets from the big budget blockbuster payroll. But still, even by this time, by examining these breeding cycles, it becomes clear that a massive influx in the population would require a need for niche housing.

So armed with this explosive theory, I looked in the one reliable, fully fact driven place I knew - second only to the Encyclopaedia Britannica - The internet. It may interest you to know that the results were surprising and alarming. It appeared that I was not alone in pondering the validity of these villages. Others had done the calculations and read the stars and they knew that somewhere, somehow there were designer towns built to specific requirements and required specifications. However, the more I dug, the more I realised that these 'shires' if you will, do not want to be discovered.

Most websites seemed to agree that they do indeed exist but only through second hand accounts. Investigators have gone looking but we're quickly shooed away by angry housewives and crazed albinos (who apparently may have been cannibals). Worse still, sites that had recent photographic evidence had had their pictures removed from the site... It certainly is sinister but it makes sense (under the circumstances) to have friends in high places.

After 5 minutes of surfing the net, I gave up, determining they had covered their tiny tracks too well and left this conundrum to better, sharper minds to solve. As I walked away from the computer, I did not feel disheartened for you see, the more I had investigated these gentle creatures, the more I realised that the only reason they would want to keep their location a secret would be to save their villages from becoming tourist attractions and very public exhibits. Furthermore, I realised that deep down, the only reason I wanted to know the location of their village would be to get drunk, dress up as Godzilla and lay waste to their town... I guess I am not the ambassador to bridge these gaps but one day, I believe the world will be ready; and that will be a beautiful day indeed.

Yours sincerely,

Dave

Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great warmness in my tummy to announce my latest and thus far greatest discovery. It has taken months of research, but I have finally cracked the Hollywood genome, and now in my great benevolence, I am willing to share the secret. But first, you're probably wondering how I came up with this insight. If you're not, you may want to skip a few paragraphs forward because I'm about to get on my soapbox...

For years, I have suspected that Hollywood has lost it's way; only seeming to be able to function by remaking old movies and tv shows and re-hashing an extra chapter on an already tired theme. Now I don't want to point fingers at anyone in particular by way of example, but needs must... so let's talk about George Lucas. For years he has been resting on dubious laurels. That said, however, so has Quentin Tarantino, but we'll have much more fun with George so let's take a look at "Star Wars."

A series of films about star wars featuring a star sized planet destroyer called a "Death Star." Set against a backdrop where evil, dark characters are called "Darth"and small maintenance droids are programmed with complex personalities yet can only communicate by beeping. Where the good guys have flamboyantly heroic sounding names like Luke Skywalker and Han Solo, so the audience doesn't get too confused.

Making it so blatantly straightforward for the viewing public must have proved too much of a strainium for Lucas's cranium because he also fathered such characters as Ja-bba, Ja-was and of course, Jar-Jar. So I can't help but wonder, is this really keen literary prowess or is George just going through all of the "J" sounds?

Now I can forgive a man for not giving his audiences enough credit to be able to work out a character's true nature by their actions and space age outfits, but not for a show of poor form. Also, whilst we're on the topic, what kind of monster spends millions of dollars on CGI effects for a movie about nothing more than a trade embargo? Anyways, I digress... But you shouldn't have pushed my buttons, Lucas; even if they do make beepy robot sounds...

So back to the topic, I was watching "Lars and the Real Girl" the other day when it hit me. The secret is to remake old movies with a reality based twist. In the case of "Lars and the Real Girl," this was clearly a remake of the hit movie "Mannequin", only this time he was delusional rather than embarking on a supernatural adventure whilst being locked in a department store.

"Donnie Darko" is arguably a remake of the Jimmy Stewart classic "Harvey". This story, for those who are unfamiliar, is about a man with a giant invisible rabbit for a best friend. In the case of Donnie Darko, we see it following the trend of rewriting the story to accommodate a delusional mind.

I should point out that although my recent comics involve a boy and his imaginary giant rabbit, we are only shining the spotlight on Hollywood at the moment, so back off.

Also, I don't think it is going too far to suggest that there are clear similarities between "The Breakfast Club" and "Elephant," and "Splash" remade into "Big Fish." I know... It's so obvious it's scary...

With an upcoming remake looming for "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure", I wait eagerly for the next in the trend as two fairly retarded youths skip through time causing irreversible damage along the way. If this trend continues, we can expect to see "Weekend at Bernies" the snuff film and "Porkys" redone as a gripping insight into the lives of a group of serial sex offenders.

So to any young film-makers out there, I suggest you find your old Betamax collection, because it is a cash cow waiting to be exploited in the same way that Quentin Tarantino has been doing for years. Get out there kids, rip off the past and make us all proud and thought provoked!

Yours sincerely, 

Dave

Today is blog day, and I have been busy like a bee. No, more like an ant. No, maybe more like some kind of half bee - half ant genetic experiment gone wrong - or right, depending on the morals of the scientists involved in creating that metaphor. All week, I've wondered what to throw into the literary fray. I had hoped to spend this afternoon shattering some of your preconceptions - namely taking what you knew, or thought you knew, and blasting it a new rectum with the awesome power of my mighty thesaurus-like brain. But I couldn't think of nuffin. Then, as I sat staring at the blank screen in front of me, I got distracted by a face full of disrespect in the form of pesky little ants trying to sneak into my room via my door. They all came marching one by one under the door, across the carpet, then into my life and subsequently into this here blog. I don't like to kill ants; I dodge them when I'm out and about. Even though I'm pretty light and I vaguely remember reading somewhere that they have the strength of ten incredible hulks or something similar. But I will not stand for home invasion. I didn't let the mongolian hordes in when they tried and I'm not about to let some vagrant ants sneak under the radar. I'd be happy to arrange some sort of mutually beneficial deal like leaving the scraps of dinners past out in a predetermined location for them and maybe even my first born if needs must; if it meant they'd respect the status quo. But they either choose not to care or possibly they don't understand the complexities of conflict/resolution strategies. Whatever the reason, they continually back me into a figurative corner and I am forced to take non figurative affirmative action. I've killed before...But I am so ashamed of it that I don't care to go into the gruesome details... Except to say that there was an iron, a steam button and a great disturbance as though a thousand tiny lives were suddenly silenced. But I will no longer condone a course of action that will lead my people to war. So, I'm all about the psychological warfare now. Since reason is a dish best not served to ants, this has not been an easy exercise to do. I have kept well away from the traditional methods like spray and pellets and spiders and chose not to encourage them by opening little motels all around my household. I've used cotton buds to mask the scent of the ant in front and watched them panic as their preconceptions got blasted a new rectum. More recently, however, I have taken to whispering dissentious statements to them such as "seize the means of production!" It is my hope that this sort of anty establishment discord will bring down the matriarchal society they live under. Admittedly, it hasn't slowed them down yet, but once the seeds of revolution have been sowed, we need only sit back and watch them simmer as they destroy society from within. I have heard that you have to be cruel to be kind but since I'm only being kind of cruel I'm not sure what the outcome will be. The intent may seem Machiavellian, but you can't argue with results. That is to say I hope I won't want to argue with the results. Because they can't be argued with. Yours sincerely, Dave

My Dearest Darling Readers, If you are reading this then I fear the worst has befallen me. As you know, when I first started this website, I was but a poor street urchin, begging for scraps and picking pockets also for scraps. I had such high hopes but since roastytoasty was established way back in 2007, it has not generated the revenue that I had promised my investors nor has it covered the number of fairly significant donations I contributed to many a government official. As such, I have had to supplement much of my income in the bustling trade of online silks and spices. This has brought me a great deal of riches and power and has put me in good stead with the Queen of Spain. However, due to a series of rather unfortunate oversights, it appears that I have inadvertently launched this website in what has turned out to be the online equivalent of "International Waters". Who knew that "www" stood for World Wide Web? I thought it had something to do with the wrestling... The short of it is, that this website has been boarded by pirates. I don't know exactly know how it happened, but here we are. I have been confined to my quarters with naught but a flagon of ale and a high speed internet connection. Upon landing, these dread pirates plan to demand a hefty ransom from the governor. Do not fear for me though, the Queen will pay and I shall see Spain once more. I may have lost my website and my fine silks and spices, and I may have caught a little scurvy and had many of my finest webmasters die by the sword, but I shall return with an armada and destroy all those who opposed me. Roastytoasty will once again sail these glittering shores, unfettered by insolent sea dogs, you have my word. I shall reclaim that which was taken from me. With strong winds, I estimate the pirates demise by the end of the month. But until then, they have free reign. My apologies if they cause any trouble. Yours sincerely, Dave

The end is nigh, people. I had it explained to me. The Doomsday Algorithm. The mathematical prophecy that will see itself fulfilled with the end of our beloved species. I won't bore you with any details (my brain switched off a little bit when the equations joined the party). What I do remember was that they sounded like the kind of equations you could really trust. There were lots of n's and x's and it turned out we're all doomed. My flatmate Daniel was telling me about it. He works at the Uni as a lab tech. Or to be specific, a lab tech that has the tools and the know how to manipulate the fundamental building blocks of the universe. Now that seems to me like a pretty significant responsibility. When I was his age, I was still manipulating the fundamental building blocks of my Harry Potter Lego set... He then went on to tell me that the machines down at the lab could rip the universe a new W hole and propel us all into another time. The theory was sound. He explained it with more equations and got lost in a time of De Loreans and flying skateboards. But even though I looked blankly at him, I believed it. Which makes me wonder why I felt compelled to tell him to get down there and crank that puppy up. "Theoretical science be damned!" I said, "It's time to either make history or erase it altogether!" I don't know what came over me. I guess it was a thrill to think that me, insignificant me could become a major player in the downfall of the human race. What an honour! But even without my cajoling, the human race is done for. We're lucky if we get to see the sunrise on any given morning. The planet Earth is like a toddler with the keys to the medicine cabinet, the gun rack and the broken glass and asbestos case. So given that, why do we continue to risk our existence with scientific chicanery? Thanks to some poorly orchestrated nuclear testing back in the 1960's, everybody on the planet now has traces of plutonium surging through their veins and we keep giving them nobel prizes and wonder why everybody's wearing bandanas. So what are our options? Renounce science and wait for the rapture? My sources say yes; but that's what I've come to expect from having Amish sources. In the meantime, let's keep a watchful eye on the scientists. Perhaps it is true that we fear what we don't understand, but let's spend a little more time fearing what the scientists don't understand, because they will investigate and they will destroy us all. Yours sincerely, Dave

Who am I? Where did I come from? Where am I going? If you answered yes to any of those questions, you'd be wrong but at least you tried... Forgive the barrage of questions so early on in this month's blog but it was necessary for eroding your brain's natural educational defences for the learning to begin. Is the cup half empty or is it half full? Popular science says half full, but surely that is mostly because it keeps popular scientists popular. Unpopular scientists flaunt their doomsday algorithms and black hole suns but they never get tenure. So here we have two opposites. Those that perceive life as a series of constant opportunities and unlimited potential and those that perceive life as a constant onslaught of bad vibes and cabbage smell. This perception ultimately affects it's surrounding environment. Let me tell you a little story to demonstrate my point. So there were two gentlemen sitting at a bar. They both had identical glasses at the bar with exactly the same amount of whiskey in each. At exactly the same time they looked down and saw the glasses in front of them. One of the men says, “My glass is half empty,” and the other gentleman says, “My glass is half full.” Anyway, long story short, it turns out they had been drinking out of eachothers glasses for most of the night. Not long after, they got into a knife fight and I took the liberty of polishing off both their drinks. I say they are like the yin and the yang. The sun and the moon. Sonny and Cher. Forged together but locked in an epic battle for all eternity. If there is a battle between the two, I'm siding with the optimists (not the “Let's not do anything, I'm sure everything will work out just fine” kind, but the “I look forward to crushing the insurgents” kind). I have looked forward. I have seen what lies ahead. But who needs the bloodshed? Anyway, you can only stay optimistic for so long when you're trying to get the blood of your enemies out of your carpet. I would like to offer my solution to this monumental dilemma that could create a new dawn for mankind and usher in a time of great peace and unity. A solution to the burning cup issue. (Not the cricketers on a drunken tour in Bangkok kind). My rather modest proposal is that we distribute worldwide... smaller cups. It's the only way to settle this once and for all. If our glasses are either half full or half empty, simply reduce the size of the cups. This will ensure all the cups will be full.  The added bonus is that even though the cup is smaller, there will be many, many smaller cups for anyone who wants seconds. And that's just one of the many initiatives that roastytoasty has been greenlighted to spearhead over the coming months. We're also developing a substance known as “Parmesan 29”. A cheese so dense that even...no...I've already said too much...  Just as long as you're all aware of the high level of professionalism, discretion and attention to detai] that this webcomic is about. Yours sincerely, Dave

'twas on a glorious afternoon such as this that I found myself outside on my balcony basking in the glory of the previously mentioned afternoon. It had been storming like a mofo but the sun had put a stop to that with some well placed ultra violet menace and was now busy decimating the puddles and putting things right. I took a moment to appreciate the natural order of things. The birds were singing, the trees were growing, and a little bee buzzed into my reverie and landed upside down in a puddle. Now, I like bees; I like their honey, their defiance of the laws of aerodynamics and I admire their work ethic and strict dress code, but I am also wary of their dangerous bottoms. At first I thought, "Best leave it alone; a greater man than I will step in and save the day". But alas, no such greater man did. If I got involved it might lash out like a woman scorned and sting me on the finger (not so much like a woman scorned) not realising my bee-friendly intentions. It was a quandary...and althoughI have heard that fortune favours the brave, I decided to look before I leapt and let sleeping dogs lie. But then a fly flew down near the puddle and appeared to be mocking the bee. Now, I have no time for flies, especially for ones with low morals and no sense of sportsmanship. On the whole, they are icky and annoying and never get the hint that they are not welcome near me at any time. So I shooed the fly away toot sweet and, buoyed by my victory over the fly, picked up a twig and used it to help the bee free itself from it's potential watery grave. I placed it down near the puddle and then watched it as it tried to regain a little of its fluffy dignity in the warm sunlight. After a little while, it had dried off sufficiently to be able to walk again, if a little unsteadily, and it unsteadily walked right off the railing I had placed it on; falling to the floor of the balcony. But its imminent painful landing was saved at the last minute by a spiderweb. That was certainly a close call. Until a quick witted spider shot out of its hiding place and began to wrap the bee up in its spidery clingwrap to be eaten at its leisure. This was a bit of a shock to me (probably more for the bee) and I considered saving the bee yet again . Now, I'm relatively indifferent to spiders; I approve of their fly killing policy but am hesitant to support their bee killing policy; and may well have tried to save the bee again, had it not been for a certain movie called "Final Destination." I know how that movie ends (probably much the same as the sequel) and I decided that if I did try to save it again, fate would have to take what it was owed in other ways. If I saved it from the spider, who knows what fate would throw at it? Maybe a light aircraft would crash land on my balcony, burning that bee to kingdom come and possibly injuring me at the same time... Now, I like bees... but not enough to meddle with forces outside of my control. Maybe all those wildlife documentarians aren't really just a bunch of dicks who get some kind of sick pleasure out of filming zebras getting mutilated. Maybe they were once just like me, and tried to save the zebras; only to have them savagely torn apart by giant spiders... If there is one lesson to be learned from all this, then surely it is that you should feel free to be a hero if you have to, but know that fate is a fickle mistress who has been turning tricks for much longer than you or I have. ps. It could also be that flies are jerks and zebras will do anything to get on the telly. Yours sincerely, Dave

So I thought we are well overdue for a good blogging and it's always best to write about what you know, so let's talk for a bit on the subject of love. Specifically the connection shared with two people and following through into the lack of connection between brain and mouth that inevitably follows. Now I should like to point out that I like love; it's good and for the record, some of my best friends are lovers. That said however, a friend was explaining to me that I have a serious affliction as mentioned above, whereby the strength of my heart tends to cause confusion between the things I think I'm about to say, and the things I actually end up saying; with consistent results. I am told that alcohol seems to make this affliction worse – although I am adamant that the more I drink, the more charming I become. My younger brother suffers the same affliction and I can confirm that he is definitely more charming when he's drunk; although I'm usually quite charming when I notice it... I mention my brother because he was the one who introduced me to the affliction many years ago whilst drinking with me at a nightclub. To protect the innocent, I am going to call him Billybob. So Billybob had noticed a girl that he knew through friends sitting with a guy, clearly not all that interested in the conversation and sat down next to her asking some sort of equivalent of “Is this clown bothering you?” To which she replied that she knew him but would rather not be talking to him, as he was a bit depressing. Now the brain kicks in with a suitable response to show this girl that a more rewarding conversation could be achieved in this direction. Something like, “You are as pretty as you are beautiful,” but somewhere along the way, it got confused in a split-second microscopic game of Chinese whispers and ended up as, “Well maybe if we both wish really hard, we can give him cancer.” (We have to wonder here exactly when common sense decided to get up and walk away). To which she replied,“He's an old family friend and he was just telling me his mother's been diagnosed with cancer.” At this point both his brain and mouth decided to keep very very quiet indeed. He bid her good day, and took his leave... From that moment I became very aware of the affliction and started compiling a list of things I have learned (the hard way) not to say such as, “I eat bubbles, I like princesses oh so very much, I've seen prettier but not many, and I swear to God if you touch my hand one more time this broken beer bottle is going in your face,” and the classic ice-breaker, “Why do girls wear make-up and perfume? Because they're ugly and they smell bad.” Recently I had an encounter where I tried to recover from an attack and save the day only to sabotage myself again to press the point home. I was drinking (again with Billybob) and started talking to a lovely girl about herself or something similar. The conversation was going well until I asked her what she did for a living. “I work in a retirement village,” she said. “So you're a respite worker, then?” I asked.“No, I'm a receptionist. They just pay me to answer phones and look pretty.” She smiled and paused as if waiting for a response. Now it was very clear to me that she was indeed very pretty and yet I looked at her earnestly and the affliction said,“Well at least answering phones is easy.” Now for people who know me, they would understand the subtleties of that remark and the way it held a mirror up to social interaction in modern society, but to those that don't, it came across a little bitchy... But I showed resolve and tried to ignore it until the end of the night as we stood in the taxi line and I went for double or nothing. “Y'know what, Billybette?” I said, “I didn't instantly hate you.” In retrospect I see now that this implies it took time to work up a loathing... She caught the next cab as quickly as she possibly could. But I should mention that the man in front of us in the taxi line burst out laughing when I said it. I wonder if I would have had more success with him... At least he seemed to get me... So until I can get my own personal Cyrano de Bergerac to proofread any remark I make, I must tread very carefully indeed. But if you are like me and Billybob then I want to tell you that you are not alone. And if you are female I want to let you know what a great big jerk you are. Dammit. Yours sincerely, Dave