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March 5th, 2006
04:40 pm - These things are my things, that I go and like
People ask me a lot these days, "Hans, what are you doing?".
Usually i just finish urinating on their dog and go on my way but yesterday it prompted me to think: "What ARE your interests Hans". I mean, I pride myself on my popularity and in-demandedness as a PI and part-time male exotic dancer to some extent, but even I have free time every now and again. It is what I do with that free time that is the topic of conversation (and government inquiry) down at the super-market which prompts me to write this.
1. What do you do with your free time?
Often if I find my self with a few hours/days/weeks to kill, I'll spend time with Hank whether it be taking him for a walk, changing his parts or practicing Dutch sign language with him. This has for some reason made people think I don't have any friends but i say to them "How do YOU suggest i get utmost performance and loyalty out of a near-inanimate object". I tell you, that leaves them speechless, be it due to quiet contemplation, bewilderment or fits of laughter.
2. What media do you enjoy?
I was recently asked "What is your favourite movie, Tv show and band" by a speed-dating agency. I haven't watched a movie in a while but i thought that Manos: Hands of Fate was enchanting (dead serious, check it out-Pat), my favourite TV show is easily the soap-opera Emotions which I watch religiously and my favourite band would be a 3-way tie between Sentence Fragment, About 10 and Weasel's cousin's band Wolfbrother: A Loving Tribute to Wolfmother.
3. Will I be making any comeback appearances with "Hmpff"?
As you all well know, I was 1/4 (lead guitar/1 of 3 tenors) of the popular teen sensation rock band "Hmpff" back in the 80's until we disbanded due to a dismemberment incident. I am happy to report we're back in the studio and will be touring some time next year after our drummer Floppy has dealt with a long-running battle with Erectile Dysfunction.
4. What Are you doing right now?
Leaving
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October 31st, 2005
08:56 pm - The Doochen-Früker Limited Edition Henry-Hat 5 000
You know as I walk down the street each day many people ask me, "What the hell is wrong with you? What are you wearing for crying out loud?” And I tell them "If you don't watch your mouth I'll cram my foot so far up your *** it'll kick you in the inside of your face.” However, it was only when I said this to a 5-year-old boy that I really did think about what I was wearing. As the child lay bawling his eyes out upon the ground, he reminded me of my picturesque childhood back in Miniland, Legoland.
I remember the day well, it was a Tuesday morning (Please Note: I often do confuse Tuesday mornings with the Autumnal Equinox) when I was just a young whippersnapper at the ripe old age of 2...or 3...but definitely not 8. It was just as the groundsmen were hosing the vomit off the scale Lego model Statue of Liberty, that my father stepped over The White House and ran full speed at a Columbian midget, impaling him on the Eiffel Tower. Yeah, this was not at all related to our tale but I had a vision where my biological father told me to write more about him so there you go Papa Stevo.
A rather unfortunate and harrowing day in my life was the very one on which my adoptive family were brutally slaughtered at the hands of an Optus Service Centre Attendant dressed as Mother Goose. I should probably explain this as I’ve only told 3 people in my life. One was confused, one went crazy and the last punched me in the face before telling everyone he knew. Stupid Weasel. Anywhoo, on the night of my 16th birthday, like any normal family would, we went busking for money to buy me a gift, perhaps a guitar pick or maybe even a coil of fishing wire. It was in a dark back alley that we then witnessed a terrible sight, a man on his knees at gunpoint singing ‘Taxman’ by the Beatles in a quivering voice. What struck my humble family of 4 by surprise was not that the holder of the weapon was dressed as mother goose but the fact that the man on his knees had replaced the words to the song with ‘Batman’ rather than ‘Taxman’. Without warning the man wielding the weapon screamed in a high-pitched voice “DAKTARIIIIIIII!” before shooting the man kneeling before him. Now the natural reaction of a family living in the Mona Vale ghetto, is to at the noise of a gunshot, immediately run towards the source yelling “oo-wiggly wiggly wiggly, oo-wiggly wiggly wiggly, gimme that, gimme that, gimme that thing!” Anyway, needless to say he was suitably spooked and made a run for it. An hour later and we were returning home with much high-fiveing and Dutch carolling when it happened. To this day, I can still hear screech of tyres as the Optus Customer Service Van piloted by Mother Goose careened violently around the corner opening fire on my family. If it weren’t for my father Klaus heroically diving in front of my mother, I wouldn’t have taken a swing at him causing me to dodge 8 consecutive bullets in a row. And so all around me, my family died in a volley of gunfire…all except my father who clung onto life long enough to give me a key to a safety deposit box which contained a K-Mart Lay-Buy form of which there was one payment left to make. His final words were “I’ve known you were special, ever since we adopted you and had to purchase suspenders to stop you from pulling your pants down at every waking moment. Use this well…”, and then he was gone…a second later he came back and briefly told me about Stranger Danger. And then for the second time in my life, everyone who was dear to me was suddenly gone.
Upon making the final payment, I found that what my adoptive father had begun to pay for 12 years previously, The Doochen-Früker Limited Edition Henry-Hat 5 000. The Limited Edition Henry-Hat was item of clothing of which only 5 000 were made as the magical fairies of which they were made became extinct. Supposedly all lost in a shipping disaster some 20 years ago; it was believed that the 5 000 Henry Hats were too powerful to be worn by mere mortals and that Whetwuan the Peruvian Sea God of Flatulence became jealous and destroyed the shipment in a jealous rage for he was so jealous with jealousy. The hat that I now possess is one of a kind, Serial Number #0001, the one hat that survived Whetwhun’s wrath escaping in the pocket of the Captain of the ship. Whilst reviewing the receipt I realised why we were so poor despite owning several oil companies around the world. It seemed that to print the price of the hat, K-Mart had had to change the printer ribbon 3 times.
Well that’s how I got my hat. Now please excuse me, George and I have a poker game at 9.
This is Hans Polcheck, signing off…
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July 10th, 2005
09:50 pm - The PolCoat...or the TrenchCheck
NNNYYYYYAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!
Sorry, I was just shouting at a local small hairy man that follows me into the bathroom each day. Now, why have I broken into the station tonight? Oh that’s right, I’m going to tell you about my trench coat while Julie from marketing dry-cleans it (yes, a police station has a marketing department. Who did you think makes all the speeding ads?) It’s a long story but it involves butterscotch, a tall female Swedish lumberjack and the chicken dance playing non-stop but that’s the story of why my coat’s being dry-cleaned. The story you came to hear is the acquisition of the Polcheck Trench Coat, which is sometimes known as the PolCoat or the TrenchCheck.
I believe it was when I was at the age of 18 that I travelled to Scotland for a top-secret conference on cappuccinos (keep in mind that this is still when I was a coffee boy at the MVPD). Now, after we finished a session on the finer points of froth, I took a walk through one of Scotland’s numerous, world famous flea markets. After ignoring the looks I received from several of the local girls (Polcheck charms the ladies wherever he goes…oh, and it turns out I’d forgotten to put my pants on that morning) I entered one of the many clothing/jewellery/drug alleys that dot the coast line. Then I saw it. It was like love at first sight. Just like when you see something for the first time, and then you fall in love with it, y’know? The Polcheck Trench Coat was sitting right there. Almost within grasp. Except for the small fact that it cost US $7,000. Some people would have given up right then and there but not me, oh no. I grabbed it; I walked up to the cashier, I punched him square in the right ear and I ran. I ran and ran and ran and then ran a fourth time. I ran so hard that my rib cage was bleeding, and to achieve that you need to run pretty hard. I nearly made it back for the lecture on hot milk before the police fired three rounds into my left leg. Luckily the amazing, mono-colour (brown) trench coat absorbed two of them but the third shattered a bone that I later found out is crucial for drinking petrol. The cashier, (McAnnarose, a surly man from Manchester) dropped the charges but I was forced to trade in my car to pay bail. The lesson I learned here was simple. Do NOT mess with the Super Market Ninjas!
Well that’s the story. Stay tuned next time and you might learn about my hat! Now I have to go because Julie from Marketing has been gone for almost three weeks now.
This is Hans Polcheck, signing off…
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March 5th, 2005
10:17 am - Firgud Fighting
Whilst rummaging through one of ex-partner’s desks down at the Mona Vale Station I came across several of my old files that I kept should I need them in the event of doing a journal entry. I suppose I’d better start by clearing up any questions you may have about the art of Firgud Fighting and how I came to master it. But first a brief history;
The Illustrious Art of Firgud Fighting is rumoured to have cropped up as Holland’s way of fighting the Swedish Battle Bovines (some historians also believe them to be known as Combat Cows) in the 12th century. It was said to be choreographed¹ by the Holland’s 3rd Grand Mootae² Steev Houchenpowker, made famous for his superfluous amount of young male servants. Ounce taught to the Dutch Royal Guard (formerly known as the Dutch Royal Dance Company) Mootae Houchenpowker soon had an unstoppable fighting force… that is until they were stopped by a superior Detachment of Tibetan Funk Monks in the now famous, 10,000 Nancy Boy Disco Battle (called this because of the amount of Dutchmen that fled minutes before engaging the enemy). Less than a hundred of the Dutch Royal Guard survived the trek back to Holland across the Columbian Ice flows and when they finally arrived home they discovered the country in a tragic state of turmoil³ after the assassination of Mootae Houchenpowker.
The Art of Firgud fighting was then lost throughout the ages only being passed from father-to-son (it was a wildly sexist style) in remote windmill villages on the Dutch border. That was how it was passed to me. However, I learned it from two very different perspectives. You see, my style is a mixture of my biological father, Stephan’s evil Firgud (only learnt by evil dairy farmers) and my adoptive father, Klaus’s good Firgud (learnt by all young men when they reach the age of 16 and are not an evil dairy farmer). This hybrid Firgud gives me the awesome power that I often display whilst defeating enemies and was how I took out the first and last International Firgud Championships back in ’98 (unfortunately all my opponents perished due to my ridiculously powerful style).
I currently run Firgud classes in my garage every Wednesday morning at 3 am as part of my community services.
Well I must go, my knee needs stitches and I’ve just realised the danger of typing on a laptop whilst riding my scooter.
This is Hans Polcheck, signing off…
¹choreograph - Dutch for “make really cool fighting move”
²Grand Mootae - Dutch term for “Head Guy at Running the Country”
³turmoil - Dutch term meaning “great celebration”
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February 6th, 2005
09:23 pm - Humble Beginnings
Polcheck Log
Well this shall be my first official entry so I’d better start it...officially.
Dear Diary
Today I popped down the precinct to settle some fines that I picked up the other week (I swear, the bear came onto ME), when I started to leaf through some unattended documents that were in a nearby filing cabinet. After checking out some surveillance pictures of the office cock-fighting tournament I found my permanent records. After they fell open by accident with the aid of my hands I saw that my personal details were completely blank other than physical stats (and sexuality, complete with testaments from female ex-officers). Sitting down in my old office (now toilet cubicle...wait, come to think of it, it was always a toilet cubicle) I reminisced as I filled in my details.
I was born Hansel Christian Polcheck to my Icelandic Mother Loraine, and Dutch-Colonial Father Stephan, both dairy farmers of the Fourth Reich (an outrageously unsuccessful Heavy-Metal, Death-Jazz Band). We lived happily in Denmark as extras in Lego-land until when I was aged three, management realized that we weren't the same size as the mini-men that adorned their picturesque midget-sized wonder world. In an effort to shrink themselves, my parents (being firm believers in reverse-physiology), frequently took elephant growth hormones in their cereal until they each suddenly died of lactose-related-self-combustion. Later I was told by medical professionals, their plan would have worked if they hadn't drunk the milk that was left when the cereal had been eaten. Orphaned, I was put under the foster care of Klaus and Joelene Vunn Der Schmidt who immigrated shortly after their acquisition of a strapping young, handsome boy...my adoptive brother Clyde. After coming to Australia we moved into a small unit in Sydney's inner-west suburbs which was affectionately known to us as "The Crap-Shack". We lived here until through my foster-father's mail-order Turkish Husband Program’s wild success, we got the money to move to a roadside property in the Mona Vale ghetto. I lived here a further six years till, at age 16, I witnessed the brutal murder of my foster-parents and adoptive sister (formerly brother) by a man dressed as Mother Goose. This confirmed my suspicions that Mother Goose in fact, didn't exist, but was an alias used by all crazy Optus Service Centre Attendants. After this traumatic experience I fell into a self-induced coma that I could only awaken from between the hours of 7 am and 9 pm after which I would return to my bed and fall back into it. After 6 months, with the help of several caffeine-pills I broke the coma and developed a taste for justice which led me to the front door of Ted Hofflestein, Head of The Mona Vale Police Department. After spending 4 years in training as a coffee boy at the MVPD, I was put in a low-ranking CSI team, CSI: Upper West Terrey Hills. After several weeks I quickly ascended the CSI ladder to be put in charge of the top team in the Southern Hemisphere, CSI: Mona Vale. It was here that I met good friends George Theonopolis- top hand cuffer in the Western World and Barry Fitzkachutnicked- skilled colour co-ordanist who went on to host Homosexual Ocular Muscle for the Heterosexual Homo-sapien Male.
This is all I’ve been able to write as I’ve run out of toilet paper and was supposed to pick up Hat #3 from the dry-cleaners an hour ago.
Until next time,
This is Hans Polcheck,
signing off...
P.S. I'm single
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