Avant garde, no?

Recently, I was contacted by Mr. Tully Hansen, of Tasmanian supergroup, Sam And Tully.

This is how it went down, bitches.


From: Tully Hansen

To: Dr. Cam Sexenheimer

Subject: The Flames of Damnation yet to Rain Down Upon the Heathen Faggot… er, Heathens…

Dear Doctor,

Dropped in on the world-wide-web-based wild world of Dr. Cam S (what synonym for "-based" starts with w? Curse my declining alliterative skills!) on my way from mjec.net looking for a good time and hijinx - and found these abounding at your domain.

Of particular humour-titillation was the piece on the Abstinence Bandwagon - I'm glad to know that cynical quasi-(post?-)teens are not a solely Tasmanian commodity.

Keep up the good work stoking the embers of an apathetic and misguided population with the fire iron of wit.

Yours,

Tully Hansen (mysterious alias withheld as my email address kind of gives it away, what with it consisting of my name and all… and now it occurs to me how the Feds were able to track me down so rapidly…)


From: Dr. Cam Sexenheimer

To: Tully Hansen

Subject: RE: Flames of etc.

Dear Mr. Hansen,

I very much wanted to open my email with a W synonym for Based. I would have been like, "Booya!" and "Word up, motherfucker!"

There is no doubt in my mind that you would have then hung your head in shame.

"For shame," you would have cried, "Oh... for shame."

But fuck, fuck and double mega-fuck X. The reason you couldn't think of a synonym is that there doesn't appear to be one. Feel free to prove me wrong on this point.

Anyway, despite my apparent desire to send you into a spiral of depression that would have culminated in you slitting your wrists in the bathtub while listening to Nick Cave, I was actually pleasantly surprised to see your email sitting there amongst the offers of free diplomas from mexican ebay.

I believe I said something like, "Tully Hansen, eh? As in.... The Tully Hansen? As in Tully "Driller Killer" Hansen, the guy that killed all those catholic schoolgirls with drills?"

As for your questions, the answers are:

1. Probably Cats.

2. Yeah, but not in a gay way.

3. Shane Warne, 1994.

Yours,

Dr. Cam Sexenheimer.


From: Tully Hansen

To: Dr. Cam Sexenheimer

Subject: And the synoynm is...

Dear Doctor S.,

The very rapidity of my reply perhaps attests the great importance that I place upon your correspondence… or perhaps the fact that I have no other friends online, let alone in that great FPS we call 'Real Life'.

As it is you have served me up a golden opportunity to Booya ya right back with my '-based' synonym… but I too have come up with nothing. Thus we continue to circle one another warily, each eyeing off the other's literary strength…

As for the Driller Killer moniker, I see it more as a sign of the declining standards in news and current affairs reportage in this country than a reflection on any psychosis on my part. I mean, that whole dramatic gun battle on the oil tanker (and subsequent explosion, during which both I and several million litres of crude oil made good our escape into the Pacific) - "Driller Killer in Spiller Thriller"? You call that a headline? The quasipoetic excrement of a jaded hack, that's what I call it.

Besides, I've always argued that two-and-a-half schoolgirls does not a "spree" make. I mean, if you go on a shopping spree, do you purchase a mere 2.5 garments? Does a sex spree involve the procurement of intimacy and flesh-to-flesh contact with fewer than three fourteen-year-old girls too young to know better? I thought not.

As I don't recall asking you any questions, I'll make the assumption that psychic powers number among your numerous character traits, and you have answered those questions which I am to ask you in this mail:

1. Favourite Andrew Lloyd Webber musical?

2. Do you have sex with others of your own gender?

3. Earliest memory?

Thanks in advance for the answers you are already going to have given.

Yours sincerely,

Mr. Tully Hansen.


From: Dr. Cam Sexenheimer

To: Tully Hansen

Subject: RE: And the synonym is...

Dear Mr. Hansen,

Apologies for the lateness of my reply, but I'm afraid that I had to infiltrate a diamond smuggling operation on Skull Island. That's the island that looks like a skull.

As far as the synonym is concerned, some variation on the word 'whence' seems promising. Whent?

But as far as the allegedy declining standards of the media are concerned... you're dead wrong, Tully Hansen.

Sure, there might be a few hacks out there... okay, more than a few... but still.. okay.

Anyway, the point is this: Are you having trouble swallowing?

Doctors (like me) call this dysphagia. Of course, they would - wouldn't they!

One of the commonest types of swallowing difficulty is due to a condition known as achalasia.

It's basically a failure of the muscle ring at the bottom of the gullet to relax.

The gullet, Tully.

Anyway, inre: my psychic powers - you are indeed correct. Though, I must admit that is not innate, rather it is a result of my wearing the Amulet of Lothan the Wise. It also gives me +4 strength.

In answer to your questions:

1. Dramamine - about 12 tablets thereof

2. Because if it remains high it can cause serious problems like heart attack, a stroke, heart failure or kidney disease.

3. No, not since I vomited on the curtains.

Kind regards,

Dr. Cam Sexenheimer

And when no response was forthcoming, I sent off this barbed missive.

From: Dr. Cam Sexenheimer

To: Tully Hansen

Subject: Permission Sought

Dear Mr. Hansen,

I can only assume that your lack of reply is due to an increased amount of bucket bong time, following the completion of your secondary education.

Or perhaps you're busy stabbing teenagers to death on one of Australia's many fine beaches.

Either way, fear not, I'm very easily offended, you fucking rude bastard. Imagine, not replying to an email, fuck fuck motherfucking fuck. I just want to hit something, you know.

Anyway, having said that, I am now going to politely ask for permission to publish our short (What, you think you're better than me, you goddamn ratfucker?) communication.

Thanks in advance, you bastard,

Dr. Cam


From: Tully Hansen

To: Dr. Cam Sexenheimer

Subject: Permission granted

Dear Dr. Cam,

Why don't you go fuck a crab or something equally excruciatingly painful and difficult? Just because I don't dote on your every whim and grace your miserable life with my illuminating correspondence every hour of every day you feel the need to come running up crying like the snotty-nosed white-bread upper-class over-fed excessively-hyphenated little shit that you are. Fuck your mother and the horse she rode in on, carrying you, her illegitimate half-breed mongoloid son in her festering womb.

Furthermore, the aspersions cast on my current state of mind re: bucket bongs/homicidal tendencies are unfounded and malicious, and serve to hilight only your own inadequacies in the field of investigative journalism. It came as no surprise to see Malcolm Knox and Caroline Overington take the Walkley, with your good self not even shortlisted for the category - for I, sir, am a man! A man of leisure who was well fucking shot of the education system when finally excreted from the weeping anus of secondary college life in 2003. Sure, I may have spent this past year engaged in nothing better than minor embezzlement and wild sexual antics with which to shock my (all-too-)prospective grandchildren, but I maintain that I have been on a GAP year (naff as that sounds) and not (as your correspondence implies) doing my time at the chalkboard. Check your facts, sunshine.

As for your request: permission granted, prick.

Much love,

Mr. Tully Hansen.

PS. It's like our own private Ida- I mean, Jeopardy.

1) I am a teenage boy who has great trouble getting to meet girls my own age (or indeed any age). What do you suggest?

2) Why shouldn't I give my cat marijuana?

3) Have you ever had any desire to work in haberdashery?


From: Dr. Cam Sexenheimer

To: Tully Hansen

Subject: No need for pottymouth, Hansen

Dear Mr. Hansen,

I couldn't help but notice that your reply was riddled with obscenities.

I'm not afraid to say, Tully, that you wounded my heartfeelings.

"Wouldn't Tully prefer to be a heartfeeling-soother," I wondered, "rather than a heartfeeling wounder?"

Hurt as I was, I remained cool, calm and collected.

"Remember, Campbell," I said to myself, "Remember what Dr. Spock taught us to do in just such a situation."

But before I could keep a poker face, set limits, substitute fun but clean alternatives, teach respect, make an obvious crack about Star Trek, or not let swearing get results, I snapped.

White bread?

Upper class?

Maybe you should do YOUR research, Hansen, you capitalist running dog. Don't you know I'm technically a member of the Socialist Alliance*. Don't you know I have a Che Guevara t-shirt?**

As for your cheap shot inre: my skillz as a journalist, don't you know that the Walkley awards are run by the Zionist conspiracy?

Of course you do, you filthy yid.

You ZOG motherfuckers denied my loan as well. I knew I should have done the secret Jewish handshake. That's right! We know all about that!

And Caroline Overington's kiddy porn cache could choke a dozen donkeys - perhaps the dozen donkeys that Malcolm Knox keeps in his Surrey Hills stablery for the occasional "servicing?"

Thanks for the permission, Carnac the Magnificent!

Regards,

Dr. Cam

P.S. No, I've been assured that that isn't on my permanent record.

*To jazz up my ASIO file.

**Not really, this is an amusing lie.