Observations From The Idiot Dimension

  In one of the more baffling chapters of post-Starfleet celebrity life, former USS Enterprise Captain Christopher Pike attempted to pivot from space exploration to pop sensation — a transition that, sadly, was not to be. After the tragic accident that left Pike confined to a life-support chair and able to communicate only through a binary system of beeps (one for “yes,” two for “no”), most assumed the heroic officer would quietly retire to a dignified life of reflection. Instead, Pike signed a recording contract with EMI and released his debut single: a haunting, minimalist reinterpretation of The Beatles’ “Help.” The single, credited to “Chris Pike (feat. The Beatles),” featured the Fab Four on instruments  while Pike contributed, quite literally a lonely electronic  beep . Some critics called it “avant-garde,” and “deeply moving". Others were clearly baffled, unable to connect with this oddity.  The music video, filmed entirely in black and white, showed Pike on ...

  There are films that terrify with blood, guts, and gore. There are films that haunt with ghosts, killers, or monsters. And then there is Night Bus to Cohuna (1972), an oddball entry in the Ozploitation canon whose horror doesn’t come from what lurks in the shadows, but from the relentless weight of boredom itself. Originally released in the novelty “Big Cohuna Vision” process — a half-baked hybrid of 3D projection and quadrophonic sound — this film’s sensory gimmicks were less about dazzling spectacle and more about amplifying tedium. In a perverse twist of marketing genius, the rattling of the bus engine was pumped into all four corners of the cinema. The audience felt every lurch of the suspension, every cough of the driver, every monotonous fly buzz reverberating in their skulls. The result was an endurance test. No air conditioning in the cinema mirrored the no air conditioning on-screen. The padded vinyl seats of the theatre grew sticky and unbearable, as though you too were...

Every so often, tucked away in online forums or whispered about in second-hand bookstores, a strange story emerges: someone wakes up to find an antique wooden writing desk in their home—an object they swear wasn’t there the day before, and one they certainly never purchased. At first, most dismiss it as a lapse in memory or the work of a mischievous family member. But the oddity deepens when the desk is opened. In nearly every account, inside a drawer lies a single sheet of aged paper. The note is written in the discoverer’s own handwriting, signed with their name, yet the person has no memory of ever writing it. The stories vary in detail—sometimes the desk is a simple Edwardian bureau, other times an elaborate roll-top with brass fittings. But a set of peculiar consistencies stands out: The sudden appearance: Owners insist the desk was not in their home before. Some claim it appears overnight, others describe returning home from work to find it placed neatly in a study, bedroom, or e...

In the grand pantheon of human fears—arachnophobia, claustrophobia, coulrophobia—there lies a lesser-known but equally unsettling condition that has haunted the fringes of polite society for centuries: Busbyphobia, the irrational and often debilitating fear of the tall, furry military hats known as busbys. Once thought to be a mere eccentricity, Busbyphobia is slowly gaining recognition in psychiatric circles as a legitimate condition, marked by intense discomfort, panic attacks, and, in extreme cases, hallucinations triggered by the sight—or even thought—of the iconic headgear. What Is a Busby? And Why Does It Haunt Us? A busby is a large, cylindrical military hat traditionally made from bear fur, famously worn by British military regiments during ceremonies like the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. To the average tourist, it's a quaint relic of imperial pageantry. But to a Busbyphobe, it's a looming, sinister totem of nightmare fuel. The roots of this fear often tr...

Deep in the American heartland where shadows stretch unnaturally long beneath the moonlight, a legend has grown—both in stature and in mystery. A legend of a creature of unnatural origin. Locals are reluctant to talk about it for fear of ridicule or even that the mere mention of its name might be enough to summon this creature. It's name is Podman: a giant, humanoid creature bearing an eerie resemblance to a corn cob, with glistening yellow-gold skin patterned in rows, large saucer-shaped eyes that gleam in the dark, long limbs ending in claw-like hands, and a mouth packed with jagged, dagger-like teeth. Mostly spotted at night, the Podman is a cryptid said to have haunted agricultural communities since at least the 1970s. Sightings, whispers, and warnings have passed from one generation to the next, blending folklore, fear, and fascination into one of the more bizarre and unsettling figures in the world of cryptozoology. A Kernel of Truth: Historical Encounters The earliest known ...

Dorkfest began in 1992 as an unassuming, almost accidental gathering on a university campus. Its humble origins featured just two devoted Doctor Who fans, a ghetto blaster, and a single worn-out cassette of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. What started as an impromptu celebration of geekdom (and possibly a failed attempt at a proper party) soon evolved into a small but resilient tradition. Despite its minuscule attendance and questionable production values, Dorkfest embraced an atmosphere of unapologetic fandom. Over time, word spread—perhaps ironically, perhaps in genuine admiration—and the festival grew to include more niche fandoms, awkward dancing, and an ever-expanding selection of music played from increasingly outdated technology. Some recurring highlights of Dorkfest over the years have allegedly included: Dramatic re-enactments of classic Doctor Who scenes (often hindered by poor costume planning). Trivia battles that became so intense they led to at least one known frie...

So after a few months full of drama, I'd like to share an amusing experience I just had while shopping at one of Australia's two major supermarkets that is not Coles. I was walking down the chip isle minding my own business when I stopped to pick up a couple of packets of my favourite go to snacks. Just in front of me was a man (In hindsight I use that term very loosely) who clearly loved his food and was taking up most of the real estate of the isle. As I was left with no choice I politely waited for him to make probably the most important decision of the day. Once he had selected his chip of choice he walked backwards into me and then proceeded to give a performance worthy of a Razzie award. He started going on about how I had pushed my trolley into him and how offended he was. As he ranted, I just looked at him. First with astonishment at the level of manufactured drama one individual could generate. Then with pity about how little he must have happening in his life that he ...