In which our intrepid hero addresses an odd convergence.

My life is plagued by strange serendipity.

I’m sure you know about the Viking Kittens by now, and can’t listen to a Led Zeppelin song without thinking about them. What you might not know is that you can now buy a Viking Kitten plush toy.

I took one—dubbed Magnus—with me when I toured Tasmania recently. Eventually, he’ll be up on the Photos section of my Facebook page, when I finally get around to uploading the ones from the trip.

On an unrelated note (or so I thought), I used to drink at a pub called Kelly’s on King, in Newtown. Before I stopped going—Mim K/W was banned for breaking up with a regular, and I refuse to enter the place now—one of the locals, known as Fingers for the missing digits on his right hand, used to sing the same song every Friday night at karaoke. He’s become something of a local legend over the past year or two.

(In case you were wondering, the guy who jumps into frame about 40 seconds in—that’s the guy who Mim broke up with. I reserve all comment.)

It took us months to get that song out of our heads. But today, when we thought we’d finally cleansed our minds of the strains of Gay Bar, I stumbled across this.

That’s just wrong—and this, coming from someone who’s just seen Borat for the first time.

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