Saucemaster

At work most people receive multitudes of emails not related to anything they do or want to know about… QHealth is no different. What’s funny is when an email like below is sent without any context to the entire 100,000,000 user base of the filthy orgainsation…

Colleagues,

Justin was readmitted to the hospital again on Monday for a scan, but was released again later on. We believe he is understanding things more with his wife’s assistance - but then forgets again afterwards. He is confused, and very much concerned with what happened on the night of the assault and has asked for assistance from the people who were with him to piece things together.

For friends who wish to visit, Justin’s wife has asked that when he is better, people visit individually as he is not doing very well with more than 1 visitor in the house at the moment.

With this in mind it is a pleasure to report at the last count over $6600 has been raised for him so far, and there is still money being collected by Technical Assurance (Block 7, Level 8), and by Data#3.

There will be a morning tea at Block 7 next week (details to follow) where, with the help of Data#3 - Techncial Assurance will try to sell the remainder of the raffle tickets. So if you haven’t bought one yet, someone from TA will be coming to visit your area in the next few days.

Thank you very much to Data#3, and the staff that have already contributed. Your support is very much appreciated.

Kind regards,
Technical Assurance Management Team

NOTE: Please do not reply to this email address (If you wish to contact Technical Assurance please contact: Lenita_Me—-th@health.qld.gov.au or on 363—–9)

It’s not just Justin whose having trouble piecing this together!

It was just like the end of every day at work except that over the road from my building, a multitude cesspool of plastic seats and meat heads in 40 gallon hats were watching a game of cricket. Who actually knows why anyone would think of themselves as so worthless as to waste their lives away watching this bile retching shite. But I tried to keep my opinions to myself. Whenever a co-worker or mild office celebrity approached me and mentioned the score with a lifeless smile, instead of twisting my nipples backwards and screaming joy like a schizophrenic locked in a kindergarten, I just humphed and nodded, returning an equally dead smile. Were they all pretending to be interested as well? Did that explain the cold look in their eyes? Perhaps everyone is pretending to be interested, even the meatheads outside, dressed in green and gold leotards, with the novelty penis shaped drink containers - maybe they don’t like cricket. Maybe they just pretend because they think their friends would disown them. Is it possible that the entire world hates cricket but is afraid to say?

I walked to the bus stop, fully aware that it was possible there would be a few cricket lovers already gracing the seats and I would have to stand while they stare at my crotch, wracked with a mixture of cricket elation and penis envy. I hoped at most just a few of them, the game wasn’t even over by that stage. I was far from correct. The pricks were everywhere, I had to stand in the chip barked garden because there was so many 40 gallon hats crowding the station you couldn’t even edge in. In a moment of self preservation, I plugged my ears with an iPod and pumped jungle beats into myself as I surveyed the scene. I wondered why they sat through the entire day, but decided to leave before it was even over. I also wondered why the fuck these 400 or so people trying to squeeze into a bus like sardines but failing to realise that taking off their 40 gallon hats might help the matter - weren’t at work. It was after all a working day.

My bus came and I pushed my way through the ranks, dodging jester hats, baggy greens and fatal looking plastic Boonie moustaches. Many whites turned angrily when they felt me pushing and saying excuse me, their faces turned, all screwed up and ready to throw punches. As soon as they saw me though, for some reason their faces tuned back just as quickly and though I would look at them again, they tried, most reverently, to not catch my eye. They probably thought I was some crip or blood turned office employee just waiting for the chance to regress back to my hood instincts, ya’all.

A couple of cricket fans in faded blue singlets got on the bus in front of me. They were in their mid thirties I would say and were still trying to hang on to that Jimmy Barnes look with Rod Stewart hair. Real slick. A young woman was in front of them, the guy with the long Stewart hair tried his luck with her. He said, in an animated drunken voice, ‘You look like you’re a cricket kind of girl love, hey, hey, are ya?!’ She ignored him completely, not even giving eye contact (a commendable performance), she bought a ticket and entered the bus looking for a seat. Number one with the Rod Stewart hair was fazed for about two seconds, but his ego rebuilt itself in the wake of alcohol and thirty years of misogynist experience. Number two was basically a hanger on, he didn’t seem excited or animated like number one, but he was definitely drunk, his eyes all dopey and red rimmed. They bought tickets and steeped into the human sea on the bus.

I followed them on and quickly found a seat in the middle of the bus next to an old lady with a cardboard looking face. The meatheads preceded right up to the rear, but the back seat was all taken, so number one sat beside a mother and number two across the aisle. Number one immediately started a conversation with the mother’s kid, asking it all sorts of things, what grade it was in, does it like school, has it seen Bob the Builder or the Dark Crystal (seriously, he said those two movies together). The whole time he’s looking the mother up and down in gynaecological detail. She’s just smiling and looking out the window, happy she doesn’t have to entertain the kid any longer. But rod-stewart-hair wasn’t satisfied with the kid, he tried talking to everyone in the vicinity, he even tried talking to the woman that had ignored him earlier. She ignored him again, but still he went on. At one point he left the kid to grapple with the idea that Australia had to beat the Poms because they smell really really bad, in his own words. The kid sat with a confused look on his face as rod-stewart-hair played his cards and moved seats.

He’d spotted a newly vacated seat next to plump but somewhat attractive woman, who turned out to be an English girl on holiday. Rod-stewart-hair thought nothing of his previous comment and began talking with her like he knew her fucking mother or something.

This kept him busy, number two looked on with jealousy as it seemed rod-stewart-hair was getting somewhere. He could get a good conversation in (mostly about cricket) because the bus was stuck in traffic, all caused by thousands of blue singlet wearing jimmy barnes clones crossing the roads in an attempt to escape the Gabba. Now and again rod-stewart-hair would look around and remark that it was disgraceful the bus couldn’t move. He didn’t realise it was caused by FUCKERS LIKE HIM!

Disaster struck, as the bus cleared the congestion after half an hour of standing still, the English girl got off and rod-stewart-hair was back to the drawing board. He tried talking to just about everybody, except me (laughs), but no one was very interested in him.

Eventually he turned back to number two and started talking in a slightly depressed kind of way:
“No one talks on the bus anymore mate, have you noticed that?”
“Yeah, but it’s not some country town anymore, Brisbane isn’t. What do you expect?” Number two said.
“I expect talking! People used to talk on the bus, you know, strangers and shit”
Number two just shrugged, even he couldn’t be bothered discussing such a stupid topic further.
Rod-stewart-hair just kept repeating over and over again, like a Dalek:
“No one talks on the bus anymore”…

People looked at each other, wondering why he kept repeating it and was he going to slit his wrists over it. Twenty minutes later they were getting off the bus, rod-stewart-hair shoved his face back through the doors, he was all animated and stupidly happy again. He yelled in for the whole bus to take care and start talking on buses again soon. Then they were gone.

People started turning to each other and saying, “he’s obviously had a few” and “but quite a nice young man”… I guess in the end, his dream came true; everyone was talking on the bus. Unfortunately rod-stewart-hair didn’t get to see it, the dumb fucker.

May all your horrible family members gather around your house and eat their own faeces from a fondue set in the garden.

May your stocking be full to the brim with goatse cookies, pube infused speculaas and a beautiful black calculator.

Saucemaster wishes you all, a very merry fucking Christmas.

This was a pleasure to do, seriously fun doing this whilst hiding it from office ozzie bevans who might take offence and kill me.

Sausage found a big picture of Iron Chef French Hiroyuki Sakai, a rare find. In fact I’d looked before, ohh..months ago now, but had to satisfy myself (literally) with a picture of Celine Dion. With the goods from Sausage, I went about forming my Iron Chef Australian. There was so much I could do, and so many things I could cram into the photo (I somehow wanted him to be cooking in a kitchen setup whilst the Cronulla riots waged around him, but this was just too stupid and difficult). I opted for simple, but hard hitting.

A search for “Bogan” in google images produced the face you see as our national Iron Chef. I then colorised the uniform to make it blue, then replaced the pear with a plate of fat saturated Fish n’ Chips. I could see just him raising onto the stage every Saturday night with a plate of chips and beer battered carp meat. As for a name, that was easy, I just picked a random first and last name from the work address book and “Kevin Duke” was born.


Iron Chef Australian, Kevin Duke, once dubbed the most prolific deep fryer cook in the whole of Oceania. He mixes traditional ingredients such as tomato sauce and potatoes with new styles of Australian cuisine - meat pies with peas and bread, to create never before seen dishes.

This weekend, a battle like none before will rage, Iron Chef Australian will tackle Iron Chef Mexican, Chep Hernandez, in a never been done before duel. The theme ingredient: Chiko Rolls. Don’t miss it.

Considering this title, Delicatessen 2: mr miyagi’s sushi train, one is first digusted and then one comes to a realisation: it all explains the disappearance of Daniel in Karate Kid 4. Was Hilary Swank fed long shanks of Daniel’s calf on a bed of rice and vinegar in Karate Kid 4? It’s possible, after all, Miyagi-san only hints at the fate of Daniel in the film. If nothing else, it would definitely explain why Hilary Swank’s face looks that way.

Amended KK Timeline

1. The Karate Kid 1984
2. The Karate Kid, Part II 1986
3. The Karate Kid, Part III 1989
4. Delicatessen 2: mr miyagi’s sushi train circa 1990
5. The Karate Kid, Part IV, The Next Karate Kid 1994

Few of you would remember ralph macchio’s days of struggle as a little known amateur on pinoy radio. Before his rise to fame as the karate kid, ralph was known affectionately as ‘little happy ralph boy’, on the underground fillipino american live radio circuit.

This official saucemaster version patch of the macchio radio station based in Manila, is an ideal patch for any jacket, be it an eastern german green or a leather bike chapter - carry sauce with you.

This stamp didn’t really require much photoshopping, as it already contained an over-sized dutch speculaas, a little black kid that looks a lot like sausage sizzle did when he was 12, and a bearded priest. This is a rare find indeed. Is the bearded priest offering sausage the cookie in an attempt to convert the little bastard or is the priest wracked with penis-envy even after growing out of his chester kid habits? Sauce doesn’t know, but thanks Brewen for this fabulous find!

The official Saucemaster Postage Stamp®©:

The Saucemaster himself, on this day, second of October, is calling for action. He is calling to all Saucemaster affiliates, retainers and friends, he is calling to all creative and not-so creative talent on usenet and www2… It’s photoshop time - what we need is saucemaster based concept art:

• wordpress themes
• potraiture
• avatars
• caricatures
• surrealist
• minimalist
• cubist
• sexist
• anything…

For themes and inspirational sources:

• Ralph Macchio
• Traditional Zimbawean Dress
• Australianisms
• Bitting Spiders
• Half white/half black kids
• North Korea
• Sausage
• Emu cult ceremony
• Iron Chef Hiroyuki Sakai
• Ultima 6
• Harare
• Everybody Remembers Chester the Child Molester
• Bin Laden
• Goatse Cookies
• Cronulla
• Dutch Spiced Cookies (optional Pubic Hair)
• Fillipinos
• Delicatessen
• Paul Thurrott Is A Total Cunt
• Microsoft Word Raped Me
• Jamaican Teachers
• Bad Noir Film

Entries must be safe for work! but if you really want to use nudity, I guess it’s ok.

Saucemaster retainers can post there entries directly, all others
post to the comments with a URL or send to retroburst_@_gmail.com.

Saucemaster’s personal contribution is as follows, the Sauce himself as Ralph Macchio. He has basically pasted
in his own lips, nose, eyes and eyebrows over Ralph’s and therefore became the pyramid intercept between east, west, black. It’s very deep.

The Saucemaster official avatar:

After swearing allegiance to a picture of an emu, in an animal-theistic cult type ceremony, I, the Saucemaster, was thus named an Australian citizen. This is a good thing when having to return home to Zimbabwe could possibly mean being hung upside by my own scrotum skin (and that’s before I even leave the aircraft). The downside to being ‘Australian’ is that I have to vote. Who really wants to do this? The only people that get excited on poll days are seriously troubled individuals. And none of it makes sense either, they won’t let retards or jail inmates vote, but it’s ok for a six foot Zimbabwean wearing a North Korean badge to stroll in and have a go. I’d be freaked out by this and I am a six foot Zimbabwean…

The whole problem on poll day for me was, where do I go to do it? Obviously being half black and half white, and generally looking like I just escaped off a coffee plantation - cut’s down your options. White neighbourhoods were out. I can’t stand their little Chester kids staring at my groin - even at that age they seem to be wracked with penis envy. Black neighbourhoods were definitely out. I couldn’t go down there if you paid me too, it’s Sudanese country and those bastards are hardcore. I didn’t fancy getting into a staring contest with some guy who’d once watched his entire family burn alive. They tend to be able to go for over an hour without blinking. I decided to head for the Chinese area, Sunnybank. They generally don’t know what to think of me. Perhaps the North Korean badge would confuse them, but at least they knew I wasn’t there to kidnap their Falun Gong family members and have them shipped back to China labelled Beef Jerky.

Arriving at a school in Sunnybank, I was surprised to see the place was adorned with political messages written in Chinese. I couldn’t read any of that shit, but I felt at home immediately. I walked in through the customary legions of party lackey’s that hand you leaflets and blurt out political statements in tongues as you pass. I was happy to see the legions were all Chinese, some dressed in Red for Labour and others in Blue for Liberal… I wondered what caused them to choose sides… There wasn’t any Chinese One Nation supporters around but there was a serious looking independent who looked like he hated everyone, so I guess he counts. I took a leaflet from the first person who greeted me, it was a Chinese guy, young and smart looking, dressed in Liberal blue. He directed me towards the voting registration with a smile and I walked on. Next were a group of Chinese all dressed in red (very ironically), they weren’t happy that I’d taken a leaflet from the first guy and so tried not to catch my eye. I put my hand out as I passed but they wouldn’t give it to me. I thought about stopping and demanding to be given a leaflet, but they were obviously supreme Labour supporters and I didn’t want trouble. The funny thing was, if they got so cut about people taking the Liberal guy’s leaflets, maybe they should have stood up where he was or even in front of him.

I went to register for an absentee vote, which was inside a classroom. It smelt just like my classroom back in Zimbabwe and immediately I was taken aback. Except for no AK47 rounds being shot in the distance and no tank treads across the sports oval, it was very reminiscent of ex-home. After the Chinese entourage outside, I was shocked to find the inside was staffed entirely by whites, luckily there were no Chester kids there though. A series of old men sat on the other side of the room and leafed through electoral rolls as though it was an original bible or something. Thankfully I didn’t have to line up there; I was on the other side. The other side was staffed by a metro sexual in a tie and three nice looking girls. I couldn’t believe it, what the hell were they doing there (the girls, not that goddamn metro). I stood in line and prayed that I wouldn’t get the metro; otherwise I imagined I’d just throw up all over him.

Something was smiling in my direction that day, as I didn’t get the metro, one of the girls called me over. She was dressed smartly and was sporting a fair display of cleavage. I couldn’t believe my luck, but couldn’t help wondering what makes a girl give up her Saturday and do something as depressing as a poll day, and amongst it all somewhere decide to show some cleavage… We smiled at each other and went through the motions - she handed me a ballot and sent me over to a booth. I went over to it. I’m sure she was a liberal national, I could just tell by looking at her. Was one breast liberal and the other national? How did it work? Anyway, I was so busy thinking about all that, that I had no idea who or what I was voting for and people were lined up waiting for me. Suddenly, a little black spider came running out from between the layers of recycled cardboard that made up the booth, bit me on the finger and kept running down it’s edge, disappearing. I shrugged, and wrote on my ballot paper “I just got bitten by a spider” then folded it over. I went back to the cleavage girl and she popped it into an envelope and said to me, “Well done”. I’m not sure what that meant, but in the context of what I had written on the ballot paper it made me smile. I said, “Thanks” and walked out.

Outside, fuckers were talking about political crap in a kind of post-voting blow out party. I got the hell out of there before some arsehole cornered me into a conversation. I vaguely wondered on the way home if I could possibly write to the federal government and revoke my own right to vote, request that they remove it from me. There were only two options though, either I had to go to jail or become a retard. Neither is that appealing, so I guess I’ll just have to keep doing this crap forever. I promised myself to always vote “I just got bitten by a spider”, it seemed a wholly pleasing compromise.

A hello kitty vader… when I found this, my day seemed so much better, so I post it here to share with all.

Sauce.