#0075: Pogs/Tazos/Dizks

I don't claim to be an educator of any sort, but I don't think I'm out of line when I make the assumption that teachers worldwide hate collectible toys with a passion. Because it's so fucking important for kids to gather as many as possible, and if anyone fucks with your collection, there will be hell to pay.

I remember when I was in year 7, and a bunch of year 10s looked through my Pokemon cards. When I came home that day, I realised that several were missing. My mom had sent over some of the new Jungle series cards that hadn't yet reached Australia; Jigglypuff, Meowth and the like, and those motherfuckers stole them. What a bunch of heinous ball sacks! They had no interest in the cards, they probably just wanted to sell them for a couple of bucks. I hope they've since died of botulism. Seriously, fuck those assholes.

It's no wonder the various collectible series are soon banned from the schoolyard. We feel slighted as kids, because we weren't doing any harm, and true enough, we weren't; it was those soulless little shitballs that ruined it for everyone. Fortunately, I didn't go through that kind of distress back in my early collecting days. Because back then, I didn't go to school in the shitty western suburbs of Melbourne. I had a most delightful time gathering Pogs. Then Tazos. Then Dizks. Then spores, moulds and fungus.

Oh, Pogs, you crazy little pieces of cardboard. They were veritable schoolyard currency twenty-some years ago, and I remember that no Pog was to be left behind. At a school event with various games and activities, one of the stands gave out Pogs as a prize. So long were the lines, they eventually had to implement a three-game limit. We were being told we'd had enough Pogs, man.

Here's the family. As you can see, I had a whole bunch of Lion King Pogs. The lion's share, if you will. One of my less proud moments was when someone threw away their Power Rangers Pog, and I frantically chased it down. Who in the flying fuck is Aisha? Who cares, she was a Pog - she was a GOD. And I know you're all super jealous of my slammers and my limited edition 'secret weapon' Pog. Although I'm fairly sure they just put the limited edition line on there for shits and giggles, and it held no actual bearing on the rarity of the Pog.

In case you're wondering, no, I never played the actual game of Pogs. Especially not for keepsies - are you crazy? They were far too important for such frivolity!! From my Nickelodeon Gak Pog to my magic 8-ball hatching from an egg Pog, from my Ren & Stimpy Pog to my piece of styrofoam Pog depicting some kind of robotic foot.

Nowadays, Pogs are a relic of a time long gone. Most kids would have no idea what you were talking about, and anyone brave enough to explore pogs.com.au are led to the disappointment that is the Perth Obstetrics Gynaecology Specialists. That's no fun. I want to study Pogs, not vaginas.

Much bigger in Australia was the Pog equivalent, Tazos. As you can see, I entered the game far too late, and didn't really garner much of a collection. I like to think I got the most important ones, though, representing Space Jam and the significance of Duff beer.

Eventually however, they grew wise to the morning viewing habits of kids around the country. What happened next would boost the sales of chip packets by some astronomical percent. Possibly over 9,000...!

Meet the Dragon Ball Z Dizks. These sons of bitches were (figuratively) huge, and kids bought snacks in bulk not for their daily intake of potato, but for the chance to increase their collection of Dizks. As you can see, they were separated into three categories: the red good guys, the black villains, and the yellow 'super characters'. Unveiling a mighty Super Saiyan Goku or Super Namek Piccolo was cause for celebration, as you triumphantly thrust that silly little yellow circle into the air. You were cooler than cool! You were the hip happenin' thing, baby. Do a boogaloo shuffle!

In case you were wondering, yes, I collected all 40 of them. It has led to a better life for me and my children. But sadly, even the most complete collection is waiting to be dwarfed. While we thought the yellow Dizks were top of the pops, we later discovered glorious Dizks with bright orange backgrounds. We knew these were irregular, and hence, more important. As you can see, I only had three. And beyond that, there were even rarer gold ones that I only once ever saw in person - walking through a forest in the rocky mountains one day. I tried to snap a photo, but alas, it was gone.

Later on, they introduced newer characters in fascinating new shapes, as well as branching on to other shitty animes like Beyblades, but the magic was gone. We had already invested enough time, energy and cholesterol into the fine art of Dizk collecting. In my youth, they told me that I had had enough Pogs. All those years later, I was able to tell the distant Pog relative... 'nah, bro - I've had enough of you.'

#0023: Bart Simpson's Guide to Life

Returned home two days ago after a month-long vacation to the United States, culminating in 20+ hours of flight in one miserable day. Some people find it difficult to readjust to the monotony of regular life, particularly after partying on Bourbon Street, shopping in Times Square and lounging in Waikiki. In my case, I’m ready for action, and more than ready to get back to work.

And by that, I mean I want to get rid of an old object. Not actually go back to work. Does anybody want to take my shift tomorrow? B sure 2 txt me, plz. Either with an affirmative to the shift swap, or if you would like to further discuss Bart Simpson’s Guide to Life.


I reckon that every house should have a bible. Even if you’re not religious, I just think it’s a nice thing to have on hand. Be it as a way of satiating the cravings of your Christian visitors or a way of proving your apparent faith should God ever actually arrive to smite the nonbelievers, the advantages are limitless. Or in actuality, they probably are limited, but I can’t be bothered exhausting all of the possible perks. So we’ll just have to assume that it’s more than two.

In my case, I did not conform to the typical tomes. While most kids learnt morality through scriptures and passages, I decided to veer off onto the respected teachings of Bartholomew J. Simpson. Indeed, I never even realised that I ever owned an actual bible until I found one in the drawer a few months ago. It is titled ‘Good News: New Testament and Psalms’ (labeled ‘today’s English version’: tomorrow, who knows?). I don’t know how it’s actually good news, because all I’ve found so far are a whole bunch of punished Egyptians. I tried to digest it, I truly did, but I got distracted by a Sesame Street book, and all was lost.


Anyhow, the Guide to Life. Effectively, it’s Bart’s way of telling us all about the important things in life, littered with familiar Simpsons in-jokes, frequent references to things that don’t exist that will surely fluster people actually trying to guide their lives, and occasional threats to kill anyone who stole this book. Some may see this as a playful joke, but in actuality it’s Matt Groening’s thinly veiled way of saying ‘I hate you, why didn’t you make me rich(er)!’

Like a late 80s Saturday morning cartoon, the Guide attempts to educate kids on all the things that would be important in their day to day adventures, only devoid of all of the actual lessons of said cartoons; such as ‘share with friends’ or ‘stay in school’ or ‘don’t do drugs or else Kermit the Frog will show you the damage it does to your brain’.

Chapters include ‘art and culture’, ‘psychology’ and ‘sex’. In my case, I flipped directly to the section on sex, because I was a pervert who wasn’t getting any at the time. In that sense, I suppose I was able to channel my frustration through a Simpsons guide book, which in some minds could perhaps justify its existence, but in most other minds (mine included) it just looks fucking creepy in worded form. I might tinker with that paragraph someday. But not today. I’m busy reading about sex.


The tricky thing about this book is that, sometimes, the contents are factual. It’s not uncommon for books of this nature to blur the line between fiction and reality, but how best to utilize and show off your newfound knowledge, when you’re not sure whether or not it’s bull? Do you regale friends (and possibly attentive enemies) with international meanings to hand gestures? Or how to pass cooties?

The choice is yours and yours alone. I choose to say that phrase while sounding like the Mayan god from Legends of the Hidden Temple. Because I am cool like that.

The Guide tallies in at a healthy 186 pages, and they’re all jam-packed with content. In fact, the book is so full it has actually broken its spine over the years. It is, effectively, a read of spine breaking proportions, and I cannot think of a better claim to fame that a book could possibly make.

My favourite tidbits are a catalog of actual phobias like pognophobia (fear of beards) and linonophobia (fear of string), a collection of foreign food-related proverbs, and a list of 25 of the most miserable jobs you can work when you grow up. I used to find that list amusing. However…


Later I managed to get employed as #14.