Wishing to avoid all internet filters and the attention of international authorities and domestic police services, we here at the Joe Chip Laboratories  make it clear from the start that we are not in any way advocating, suggesting or even disussing the consumption of opium.  In centuries gone by, Professor Chip was a Romantic Poet, and if he could only remember he would tell you what his views were then, but be reassured, like Tony Abbott(1), Joe says No – to everything (not that anyone ever asks).

No, a tall poppy is not opium, and while one of the purposes of this site is to serve as a radical, trendsetting source of  gourmet insights, neither is it something to be eaten.  It is something to be mowed down and placed in a compost pile (2), where it may serve some use at last.

In Australia, we do not have  a thing known as “Tall Poppy Syndrome”.  Or we do, but it is not what we are led to believe it is.  One of the lies we tell ourselves here is that we live in a very egalitarian society, which is supposed to be a good thing.  However, it is seen as having a “dark side”.  The dark side is that we do not like anyone to succeed.  If anyone tries to climb out of the bucket, the other crabs allegedly drag the climbing crab back down.  (There is an assumption that we live in a bucket, and that someone is about to cook us all – James Packer, perhaps, though he has lost a lot of weight lately – I don’t think he’d cook us, but I have no doubt that he would use us a fuel for one of his super yachts.  The smallness of the Australian bucket is why every Australian worth their salt – by their own estimation – had to flee to take up residence in the dankness of England – Clive James, Germaine Greer, Clive James … at least Jeffrey Smart, oh he of blessed brush, had the smarts to take up residence in Rome instead of London.)  Apparently all Australians are poppies (I always knew I was a bit of a dope), but we only like poppies that grow to the same height as the rest of us (see, we’re not racist, we’re heightist, that’s why we pick on Vietnamese immigrants, if only they would grow taller and fit it).  Any time a fatuous celebrity is caught out misbehaving or comes in for a bit of well earned criticism, they play the Tall Poppy Syndrome card, that they are somehow better than the masses and the masses are trying to cut them down to size.

No, its just that in the past, we tended not to give free passes to the famous.  We held them to the same account as we held others.  TPS only existed in the mouths of their publicists.  I see that the latest revised edition of the DSM correctly includes TPS as a delusion of the slightly famed that they are somehow better than other people and must never be criticised, but if they are, the criticism can only reflect a failure of the critic.  The only cure is as indicated above, a good cutting down to size and a period of lying in a pile of rotting vegetation, to restore one to a proper state of mind.

Never eat a Tall Poppy, they taste disgusting and you never know what you might catch.


Happy new year scientists!



(1) Mr Abbott is the leader of the Opposition in the Australian Parliament.  He is commonly referred to as Dr No, because he wears speedos and says no a lot.  If you are of a certain leaning, you are supposed to hate him, as Joe Chip Sr does.  While I dislike many of his positions, I cannot find it in myself to hate him.  I think he is a bit of a lost soul.

(2) described by Joe Chip Sr as “a rat’s smorgasbord”.

Imagine if I could feed the world … with SONG!

That almost is a song.

My voice filling the airways, filling stomachs – when usually, it does the opposite: see

Check out the dying days of the Joe Chip Empire here


I dream of an ink vampire, draining chinese ideograms, celtic crosses, pictures of dogs, MOM, southern crosses, rebel flags, big boobed naked girls, meaningless epigrams, fanned cards, LOVE, band names, HATE, gothic script, military insignia, stupid lyrics, astrological signs, hula dancers, horned devils, feathered chiefs, bible quotes, affirmations, garish sleeves*.  How it thrives now, after years of sustaining itself only on sailors, convicts, military personnel and bikies#.  It has added hipsters and wannabes, footballers and crickets captains to its food supply.  All the skinny Zooey Deschanels^ of the world, not much blood, but lots of ink.  Spread the disease, so that the hungry may feed on the hipster inksters.  Share the plague, disseminate it throughout the world, so that the hungry hordes may rise up, then descend.  How they scream, the victims when they awake, searching their bodies for their specially chosen design, but finding only a faint outline left.  “Do you know how much that cost me?”  A small child wipes its mouth, hunger sated for the first time.  INK!  MORE!


*I’m not talking about you.  I know that your (insert description here) tattoo has deep personal significance and relevance.  It is the others.  Keep it to yourself though.

#All personnel here at the lab are required to have a tattoo of Casper the Friendly Ghost, to remind them of the forces they are messing with.

^ bad example?  I only know hipsters from TV ads, and they definitely said “hipster Zooey Deschanel” on channel 10.  There are no hipsters here in Glossolalia, and certainly none in Katingal, where I grew up.

! Have I sufficiently alienated everyone yet?  Some rebel against their upbringing, but I was sufficiently indoctrinated.  Joe Chip Sr always remarked, “Why get a tattoo?  Buy a T shirt, when you get sick of it, buy a new one.  Whaddya gonna do when you get sick of that, buy new skin?  Scribble over it?”  Maybe that’s the next product line here at the lab, new skin for the tattooedly challenged.  I picture a sportsman being interviewed after an event, his torso covered with tiny ink stamps.  The camera zooms in.  It can just make out the writing: ‘Instead of being tattooed, I donated $500 to …’.

Soon there will be no more hunger!

At the JC Laboratory, we were discussing the most cost effective distribution methods.  A colleague, who I shall simply refer to as bucket head, was working on piped toothpaste.  In the fight against decay, he wanted there to be no excuse that the tube had just run out, and wished to pipe toothpaste into every dwelling in the land, just as radio was piped into every dwelling in Soviet Moscow (who knows what plaque causing program people might tune into if they had a radio they could control).  Cost estimates for the infrastructure were proving prohibitive, when I realised how to do it cheaply – CGI pipes!  CGI pipes required no digging, just an initial investment in software, most of which we could surely steal from somewhere.  If we wait until ‘The Simpons’ finally finishes, there will be untold Korean animators available to assist in this project.  If they were coupled (asexually of course, this is not that sort of blog) with their North Korean counterparts who, when they are not building “satellite rockets” and “peaceful nukes”, are simply hacking into everything going, that would solve the problem plus reunite the Korean peninsula.  Yes!  We are rolling out the patents now, so don’t try to get in ahead of us. Plus, we have our own peaceful nukes, and own the rights to most of your DNA, and you wouldn’t want us to withdraw your access now, would you?

The next stage will be edible CGI.  I know, I know, the technology is not there yet, but soon, we will be beyond the mere confectionery stage (where we are with 3D at the moment), and a credible edible food source will be available anywhere there is the internet.

Now I know what you are thinking.  Not everybody deserves to eat.  They don’t work hard enough, they don’t pay taxes, they already get enough government hand outs.  We plan to set up a think tank on this with Romney Corp (hey, I have to prepare for my retirement too!)  Mr Romney never said there were people who weren’t worth feeding.  He just said there were people who shouldn’t have government sponsored cordon bleu shovelled down their throats.  Who can argue with that?  We are just looking at a bare level of nutrition, to keep everyone going, but not that they would enjoy.  Think of it this way: we will give 3D films to the whole world, but we won’t be distributing any glasses.  That way, we keep the hungry happy (well, happy-ish, with their stomachs full, but blurry), and we don’t upset the rich too much either!

(For other developments in the World of Chip, look here.  your mate would appreciate any help on the spam thing.)

Well, there was going to be a blog about what bullets taste like, and it was going to start with a mock complaint:

Thank you fascists, blocking scientific progress yet again

and a rant about how the local authorities had stopped us testing bullets because of so-called safety concerns, and a whinge about the nanny-state, and how regulation forces bullet tasting underground.  Bullets would turn out to be crunchy and bit peppery, because they add spice to life.

My poor attempts at satire are inappropriate, yet again, in wake of another peace-time massacre.  Its not my country, perhaps not my place to say anything, and what do these few words read by even less people mean in the face of so much suffering.

I live in a country that has many failings.  We are a capitalist, mixed economy, which is muddling along, and has weathered the various incarnations of the GFC pretty well.  If an American was to visit, and of course many do, I doubt that they would feel that we were much in danger of being overtaken by either communists or fascists, or that the populace was particularly oppressed.  We have a good standard of living, low inflation, low unemployment, clean-ish air, and a whole lot of things we could do better.  We also have what they would probably call socialized medicine, and strict gun controls.  Those two things make our lives better, not worse, and are not sending us on the way to being North Korea.  I know its not something I can convince anyone of, but if you lived it, you would see that it was true.  The gun fetish in particular can only be described as weird, to outside observers.

Guns don’t kill people.  Mostly, its the bullets.

Forgive me please, I have tried.  I try to be good.  I want to save the planet, the trees, the whales.  I believe in conservation, I really do.  I am a nice shade of light green.  However, no matter how hard I try, I cannot eat recycled food.  If food has already been digested by someone else, I just can’t eat it.  I know it’s the future, I know it is necessary, but I cannot do it.


What is wrong with me?  Does this make me a bad person?

Never put other people’s eyes in your mouth, you never know where they’ve seen.

Hey, I’m a manly man*.  I know its cool to suck on eyeballs and then crunch down and pop them so gunk flows out, but I confess, I just can’t do it.  I can’t eat something that something else has been looking out.  Except perhaps a window.  But that’s for another post.

(However, it is ok to lick the blind.  But not a window blind.  Ironic?  No, just stupid.)

*says me.

Someone at the lab remarked just the other day “isn’t it funny how we don’t eat rocks?”.  We do indirectly of course in that plants obtain nutrients from the earth, but we are heartily sick of plants being our middle man.  Person.  Sorry.  Like with that great social evil, photosynthesis.  Our teeth are made of stern stuff here (stainless steel – we have the technology, we can rebuild ourselves – some people get tattoos, we pick a bone every year to have replaced), so we weren’t afraid to chomp down.

We found that a lot of rocks are actually unpleasant to eat.  In our region, there are many sedimentary rocks, so we had a diet based around sandstone.  Its very gritty, isn’t it? Sure, a high fibre content, and like the emu, our stomachs now have lots of little buddies to assist with grinding down the other more ordinary food.  Its just that the little bits hang around in your mouth for days afterward.

Much of the soil we consumed was of little nutritional value.  There was no ice age here to grind down metres of rock and release nutrients and minerals, so while eating, one had the sense of one’s mouth being filled with great eons of time, which is a bit creepy, and the sensation of cold winds sweeping across iceless deserts.  Howling spaces.  Call it Gondwana-mouth.  Some rocks and ores were denied to us completely.  Gina Rinehart owns all the iron ore and has promised it to the Chinese, so we were stuck with sampling rust, which is not the same thing at all.

Perhaps we should have imported a greater variety of rocks to sample.  As a multicultural society, it is not clear to me why newcomers to our great southland have not brought a wide range of rocks from their homelands with them.  This is a subject worthy of greater sociological study.  Our government should be encouraging immigration from more geologically interesting societies.  We are sick of bland anglo-saxon and western european rocks.  Surely there is some ethnic rock out there that tastes like chicken?  Now that would be a scientific discovery.

…the horror…

…the horror…

Reader, I cheat again, but you will see why if you click here

Here at the Joe Chip Laboratories, we try not to eat the living.  or even bits of the living.  And you wonder how the zombie apocalypse is actually going to start – its going to be with guys like these.

“Ma, I don’ feel so well.”

“You look awful – you bin eatin’ anything strange?”

“I didn’t eat it, it were only in my mouth but a moment.”

“Well Bubba stop chewin on me!”

[HP Lovecraft would envy my dialogue.]

Stolen from Mr Battersby.

Hair don’t taste like chicken,

except for chicken hair, which is very rare,

because chickens grow feathers most everywhere.


Useless reptilian descendants,

scratching round, pecking the ground,

you’re just the dinosaur’s genetic burial mound.


Pointless hairless, flightless birds,

can’t feed your children with lactation,

have you absolutely no mammalian aspiration?


Eek eek.