Wednesday, April 30, 2008
UPDATE: More awesome headlines
Call for chair sniffer to quit
And from today's Crikey...
That Troy Buswell is an awful snedger. I can thank the Irish for help in finding a word to describe the eccentric sniffing habits of Western Australian Liberal Party Leader Troy Buswell. Apparently in County Cork the practice of sniffing bicycle seats after women riders alighted was prevalent enough for the word snedger to be coined, and included in the urban dictionary of slang. An office chair is not an exact fit for a bicycle seat but surely the two forms of seat sniffing are close enough for "snedger" to become Buswell's nick name.
Obviously in the email I meant 'Move' not 'More'. That will teach me to rely on the spool checker.
The thing is I laughed when I wrote it. Despite its obvious groanyiness.
How you today? I hope, that all at you is excellent!!!!!
I have found your address in internet. You have interested as serious the man....!!!! I really would like you to learn better and closely!!!!! I think, that we could become with you simply soul mates!!!!
About itself: I the simple Russian girl.... Basically than I am not distinguished from the others!!!! I attractive, sociable young lady!!!! Which is tired from loneliness.... In me there are many positive qualities!!! But unfortunately... Is not present beside of loved of the man, soul mate.... Which could appreciate all my qualities...!!! If I have really interested you as the woman....?! That I really would be very glad to receive your letter with the story about myself, your new photos....
On mine email: firstname.lastname@example.org
I with big not patience shall look forward to hearing from you!
Sincerely to you Natalya.
PS I Ask you to write to me on personal EMail. This Email my work and to it many people have
Note: This email came from Jerome Trent [email@example.com]. Nice one "Jerome". What do they mean by 'You have interested as serious the man....!!!!' It fully sounds like a Led Zeppelin lyric.
'Alliteration and puns abound with a subject like this,' said Arthur "Flash" Harry, overweight Barge-arse esq fleet street subbie. 'It is figuratively our oyster.'
‘Dungeon Dad’ is just one example of the awesome power subbies have in distilling a subject into minimal words, the linking of Dungeon with Dad both alliterate and an instant mental billboard for the matter that has riveted the world's press.
‘Secret Cellar Siren Sires Siblings, Who ze Daddy?, Keeping it in the hidden family, Just nipping into the cellar to see my nippers, Stork kept busy in licentious lair, Barefoot and Pregnant in the Dungeon, Baby Bonanza in Buried Basement, Family tree a Family Circle … You name it, we can pun it,’ said “Flash”.
“Flash” said that the combination of sex, pederasty, incest, inbreeding and Germaness meant it was the gift that keeps on giving and will likely do so for the months ahead.
‘I haven’t been this excited since I composed the all time best ever header when we’s lost our Princess of ‘earts,’ said “Flash”, referring to the classic banner ‘DI AND DODI DEAD; DRIVER DRUNK’.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Then jacket no more. Simply ask you host for an apron!
Problem solved. Now you can party to the wee hours knowing your lower bits are screened from view. Also as an added bonus you can assist in food preparation tasks. Only if you feel up to it of course.
Yes aprons. Making sure your red letter P is not a party pooper.
Note: works especially well at Bavarian themed fancy dress parties given the dramatic increase in Apronage.
In retrospect I probably shouldn't have added 'they seem to know a lot about my penis.'
Mikey Moments. They bring joy to all.
It was also covered in shaving cream. For some reason some fuckhead had discharged half a can of shaving foam into the freezer. It didn't freeze. It was still airy and foamy - though on the frozen items it had become a paste like substance.
I still have to ask what the point of that was.
Monday, April 28, 2008
When you're in the depths of the big black ending your life can seem like a ready option. Because you're not thinking rationally. Or rather you are and your rationalisation is that not being there is preferable to being there.
Trouble is it's a one way option. There's no getting better if you're dead. Life, as shit as it can be sometimes, is a one shot deal. And it's always better to still be playing than not where you are physically capable to do so.
I have a friend that grapples with the super sads. She's trying so, so, so hard to get well. I am fiercely proud of her. I made the mistake of saying I thought she was better recently and she savaged the fuck out of me in an email. Which was a fair point because she'd taken one of those backward steps that happen with depression and she was at the depths of a nasty patch of the black.
I really hope she gets better. But I think perhaps I am not helping her by talking about what she is going through. Or maybe I am? It's hard to tell sometimes. I've left her alone for a week to see if it helps but I'm not sure if that's a good thing to do.
The worst thing about the super sads is just how illogical you can be about your self worth. You really feel utterly useless - even if on the surface you seemingly have it made. My friend is intelligent, beautiful inside and out, quirky, compassionate, funny - so, so, funny. But she can't see any of that.
Esp when you have twats like Sandilands succeeding in life and seemingly happy with himself. I mean WTF?
At one point I suggested I'd be more likely to watch BB if John Howard was hosting. Then I started doing a Howard impression. 'Er ah um er now we'll cut to the house.'
Cough ... coughcough.
She laughed in that polite 'you're a dick' kind of way the kids do when an adult tries to crack a funny.
I guess it's true. When you become a dad your jokes become shithouse.
See the Time article here.
Stick that up your arsehole Howard et al who bleated ad nauseum, as indeed did your fucked in the head righty rights retarding cheer squad of Shanahan, Sheridan, Bolt, Henderson, Sheehan et al, about how fucking legally and morally awesome Gitmo was. Indeed I can recall Bolt declaring thuderously that Hicks got 'Due Process' on the fifth anniversary of his detention without charge.
I think it's safe to say Gitmo as a legal entity is regarded as fucked in the head when A) a former prosecutor says it's unfair and politically biased and B) none of the leading Presidential candidates support Gitmo continuing.
It's a cold and miserable day here in the ACT. The perfect weather to stay inside and be warm and watch TV and eat nice stuff, and scoff diet coke, and play with theboy. All without that pesky 'it's a nice day you should be outside' guilts.
The longest I have gone without stepping out of the house I think is four days.
Inside rawks! If there's post apocalypse unpleasantness involving decades of underground living I think I could handle it.
Attention world conspiracy Armageddon creating scientists. Looking to create the world anew by destroying humanity except for a key selection of the brightest and best? Looking for someone that would be happy to sit in a tunnel for 20 years? Then look no further, HM is for you.
Of course my genetics are not great (fat, balding, flat feet, IBS, depression, low grade OCD, weird white patch in my beard), but I am a dab hand at data entry and could be useful in rounding up others to toil in your underground factories.
Unfortunately the tag line on one of their commercials is 'literally turn back the clock.'
I emailed them to let them know. I know I am a pedant but Canberra is a pedantic town. This can only help.
Mind you I could turn up at reception with my broken clock and ask for assistance...
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Check out the SMH article here.
Here's a snippet
"I was asked a question, and I gave a jovial answer to the effect that one of the groups suffering mortgage stress thanks to the Rudd government were former Howard government ministers," Mr Abbott said, laughing.
"It was a light-hearted answer."
Politics was not about earning a big salary, he said.
"No one should go into politics for the money," he told the Ten Network.
"And one of the reasons why politics is a genuine vocation, not always recognised by the public in those terms, but why it is in fact a genuine vocation - a noble calling - is because no one would do it for the money."
Really? Isn't that interesting. Cast your minds if you will back to before the election. When Tony had a massive snit about how little he got paid as a minister.
If you don't like how much you get paid Abbott just fuck off. No one will miss you. I for one would rather had reasonably paid pollies in it for the right reasons than money grubbing fucktards any day of the week. Go on, fuck off. You've got more than enough super to have a reasonable level of economic security. You were a shitty minister more preoccupied with staying in office than actually using your office to the benefit of others. Now you're no longer in office are you really serving the needs of the people? I don't think so.
I'm sure corporate Australia could put your "people skills" to good use.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Why? Because they could.
What fucking awesome friends. They rawk.
Of course now I have to do something nice for someone. Not farting into another friend's laptop would have been a nice thing I suppose.
So what's yours? What do you have in your toilet for sittin' time readin' fare?
HM wants to know.
UPDATE Not actually in the toilet like say an alco keeps a hip flask in the cistern. Just the room that surrounds it. Does it have a name?
It was then I realised that I had in fact been half sitting on their laptop.
I advised them against turning it on for an hour in case the methane was still lingering near the battery.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Or is that just me?
That fully makes me sound like a nut bar. However it is very cathartic. Crylaughing, not nut bars. Though a nice nutty chocolate is always a happy distraction from life's ills.
Damn insidious gays. Sometimes they get into my crawlspace and I have to beat the walls with a broom until they leave. And when they do it smells all lavendery and shit.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
"You there," he cries. "In the field. Should you not be in fact shearing that animal?"
"No," says the man having relations with the sheep in question. "I will not share this animal with any one else."
I ... do confess I do not understand this comedic story. Surely instead of suggesting the man remove the sheep's outer covering should not the traveller have leapt the fence and ended the life of this miscreant?
Thank you ladies and gentlemen. I will be here all week. Try the K'plaack
Today, whilst attending the lav, I heard someone straining out some ploppers. As punters know toilets reflect sound and thus accentuate the poo-hits-water aural experience. And not in the good Las Vegas way. So clearly this person was embarrased about what they were unleashing on fellow lav goers.
So ... how did I help?
I gave him a cover flush.
Because that's the sort of guy I am. I hear someone in faecal distress. I step in and offer a solution.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
US correspondent Guy Rundle writes:
Can you remember where you were when you realised that the future had arrived? For me it was 2002, and I was in the third floor of a building in Nicholson St, Carlton, when one of the new white, Star Wars stormtrooper transport trams clanked its way through, its first day on the tracks. As it pulled up to the stop, you half-expected people to shoot out propelled by jet-packs, munching food pills. What's really weird is that just as I was thinking this, the person beside me said, Stephen Hawkingishly, "wow - isn't it great to be in the future!"
Why was it such a general moment? The short version is that visions of the future, accumulating for so long up to the mid-90s, had nevertheless been stalled since the early 1970s, by what was in effect a 20-year stagnant economy in the western world. Seven years before the new robot trams came in, the old 1930s W-class rattlers (which I prefer) were still running, not for heritage, but simply out of prolonged under-investment in infrastucture. Though there were hi-tech developments - the PC, Mac etc most obviously - the bases of these had been developed in the early to mid 60s. If the economy hadn't crashed in '71, '72 we would have got them a decade earlier.
When things took off in the latter 90s, the shape of everyday life changed faster in three years than in the previous 20. The difference between VisiCalc on a Mac classic and a pocket calculator is big, but it's dwarfed by the difference between the web/email/Google etc, and letters and libraries.
All of which is a long lead in to saying that on Good Morning America today, Hillary Clinton promised to obliterate Iran. I'm still kinda reeling from it - like a scene from a dystopian satire from the 70s about the cheesy media surface hiding a barbarity, maybe 2020 seeded some process of thinking about time and how it passes, but as habituated as one is to a post-911 world, the spectacle of someone talking about the genocidal extinguishing of a people amidst the coffee mugs and weather warnings, is still - I am somewhat relieved to realise - actually horrifying.
The question was of course framed in the entirely spurious fantasy-world of American foreign policy in which Israel - with a 100 or so submarine-mounted nukes - needs protection from Iran, which appears to be buying centrifuges off eBay. It also appears to have been seeded as part of Hills's last-gasp Pennsylvania strategy of going big on fear, with a new ad more or less saying it's Hillary or McCain as far as dependable leaders in a crisis go, all kinda connecting her old pappy dun taught me to shoot stories with the idea that she might irradiate a section of west Asia.
Noticeable also is that the question wasn't about a direct threat to the US - it was a question in which Hillary could establish that she was willing to pretty much kill millions on someone else's dime. Pennsylvania is no big Jewish state, voter-wise, so it wasn't the Israel angle per se. It was the sheer willingness to commit mayhem without even thinking twice that Hillary was hammering home. She's trying to take the debate into directions that Obama just can't follow. Though he's tried to establish a sort of inner-city boutique wantonness - going into Pakistan to get Bin Laden, as a sort of alt-imperialism to the chain-store Iraq version - he's positioned himself as a "last-resort, after much sorrow" sort of guy.
Hillary is angling to make Golda Meir look like a Geelong regional office special needs coordination program conflict resolution officer and part-time reiki masseuse, with an incredible ad which appears to suggest that Bin Laden started the War in the Pacific using Hurricane Katrina against Pearl Harbour, and the only person who can stop him/them/it is a pants-suited terminatrix from the future. There goes, presumably, John Birmingham's fourth volume and his 2009 renos.
The pure desperation of it is beside the point. With Michael Moore coming out for Obama, and Jimmy Carter rumoured to be about to, even 1 or 2% would help Hills to cling to the side of the ship she's helping to sink. Moore's endorsement would be easy to underestimate. Seen outside the US, he's purely an emblem of latte liberalism etc. In the US, he has a big grassroots presence, especially among trade unionists.
Sicko was a big part of the health debate coming to the fore in the last year or so - the basic suggestion that things could be different was enough - and Moore has crafted a canny populism, a left patriotism, by running an anti-Iraq campaign almost solely on the basis of the suffering inflicted on US troops by the conflict. He even looks and dresses like a steel worker - or better like an unemployed steelworker. He is in other words, a bridge between the worlds, certainly worth more than a dozen sleeker Hollywood figures.
With Hillary set to feature in the WWE (the old wrestling WWF) Raw! Primetime hour tonight, will she be on the ropes tomorrow? The campaign appears to be running on fumes financially, and drawing down more of the Clinton fortune is an absolute last-resort - simply because it makes her look like another Romneyesque vanity candidate, compared to Obama, who's still getting ten bucks in envelopes, from old ladies in Dubuque, by the snowdrift, and now has a $40 million plus war chest.
"Had she known how it would turn out Hillary would have aimed to quit in January," the joke goes, "January 09". However, after tomorrow, she simply may not have a campaign underneath her. Core staff might be the ones to pull the plug, especially if she wins by less than a certain figure - 7% being the one bandied about. Between 7 and 10% it will be an agonised and fractious choice. Over 10%, would be the real torture - enough to be going on with in a scenario of almost certain defeat.
"We are all interested in the future" the great Criswell remarked at the start of Plan Nine From Outer Space, "because that is where we are going to spend the rest of our lives."
However much time we, or 80 million Iranians, have got.
Just be thankful she's not running for re-election or by now, something would be toast.
‘We saw the Prime Minister, and he will always be the PM to us unlike that bespectacled gimp nerdy pants wetter Krudd, touring the world receiving his justified accolades for his decade plus of loyal stern head-masterly rulership. That salad bowl and the cash for instance,’ said Becky. ‘So we too wanted to give him an award from us to him in recognition of how truly great he is.’
The children spent many hours with the craft teacher, who came to help the children cope with their soon to be passing, constructing the elaborate award from clay, the teacher even taking it off site to have it fired professionally.
‘Yeah that was nice of her,’ said Jeremiah. ‘Especially considering she’s an aboriginal and therefore is welfare dependant and spends all her money on alcohol.’
‘No,’ admonished Becky sarcastically. ‘She’s an indigenous Australian. And also you have to say sorry now because Krudd told you to.’
The award, returned to the children by the long term employed and fully qualified teacher with more than twenty years experience in the visual arts field and with a diploma in palliative care, was then painted, dried, and a plaque created by the children lovingly applied to it.
The children then snuck out to an Australia Post, the children securing their IV units beneath dressing gowns, to have the package wrapped and sent to the Howard’s now returned to Wollstonecraft address after their 11 years in Kirribilli.
‘They should have given Kirribilli to the Howards,’ said Beckie hotly as they queued. ‘Australia owes them nothing less than a palatial harbourside manor that cost the tax payers an additional 18 million dollars to fund over the Lodge in Canberra. I mean who’d live in Canberra? It’s an anus hole.’
‘Krudd lives there,’ said Jeremiah, smirking. ‘He’s a poo. And that comes from an anus hole.’
The children were served by Indian-Australian clerk Pinjat Gutran, a 10 year veteran of Australia Post, who informed the children that their precious package was slightly over the weight bar for the next level up of postage causing the children angst.
‘Look Muslim, just do it, don’t make me go from Alert to Alarmed. It’s for the Prime Minister!’ said Beckie of Pinjat, who as it happened was actually Muslim by birth but non practicing.
Pinjat, seeing the children were very sickly, excused their manners and applied the lower weight.
No word yet of what the Howard’s thought of their sculpture, which featured a stick figure with its scalp rubbed free of hair kicking a tiny glasses wearing foetal figure in the stomach accompanied by the crudely lettered commemorative inscription.
'HM, I'm sorry to say but all that (horrid work) that was coming your way cannot be done at your level. It has to be done at the boss+ level.'
HM to supervisor.
'Damn, that was a developmental opportunity...'
All hail the work avoided moment. It's a good one. It's up there with ticking the complete box on your Outlook managed task and seeing it vanish from the list.
I clearly need to get out more.
'Oh you know how dodgy those romances are. They're all like "Greedily he sought her embrace, eagerly pursuing her insert-orifice-here with his mouth".'
Yeah ... not a good time to go the insert option on that one.
That way your grammatically and literacy challenged missive can be enjoyed at both on an informative and being laughed at level for years to come.
Please also continue to have hilarious statements and/or threats in your signage, perhaps reminding us that you are not our mother or provide an always well received warning to a would be fridge thief that next time it won't be milk in the 'cartoon'.
It is people like you that take the time to create the signs, choose carefully the right words and images to be used, then place them for all to enjoy that keep the engine of any organisation humming along. Without you there would literally be anarchy with bearded angry types lobbing those spherical bombs with the burning fuses at people.
God bless each and every one of you.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
ALEXANDER DOWNER: This is just a sort of Keating style gab fest of um, Keating loving elites with a sprinkling of conservatives to make it look a bit more respectable. It's completely dominated by Keating loving elites and all Mr Rudd is doing is reheating the Keating agenda, doing it in a different way, he is reheating the Keating agenda. That part of is it which isn't the Keating agenda he's stolen from the British Government. He doesn't like the links with Britain but he's quite happy to steal from the British Government policy ideas.
Alexander Downer. Accusing other people of being elite. Hilarious. I'd love to know what other countries who dealt with him thought of him...
I was talking to a colleague on the phone. I had half a chocolate in my mouth. It was a Bertie Beetle chocolate (or somesuch - one of those not for individual sale job lots my social club individually sells).
So I said sorry for having a mouthful of chocolate when I talked to her.
Half way through the call I instinctively put the rest in. At which point I said something to the effect off 'Bertie Beetle just committed suicide by leaping in my mouth like a bunch of Japanese civilians.''
The person I was talking to was an HR officer.
They're the people responsible for making sure people like me know about inappropriate workplace behaviour.
In my defence there was a logic train. My mouth is cave like. During WW2 Japanese civilians hid out in caves on islands. Then a lot of them committed mass suicide rather than be captured (thanks to war ministry propaganda that the yanks were going to do foul things on their persons). Hence what I said.
Of course I wasn't going to tell her that. All I could do was say sorry.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Paul Sheehan. Stick to alcohol mate. You'd make more sense if you wrote this when you were pissed.
Holy cats what a fuckstick. Keating hasn't been in government for 11 years yet there he is - OOOOOOOOOOOO Keating! He's back!'
Alexander Downer. It's things like this that underscore my happiness that you and your berefit of intelligence government was kicked to the curb.
Apparently the 2020 summit excluded mainstream Australia because nobody defended the Queen.
UPDATE: Check out David Flint's tanty here.
Remember when I nearly fed the uber boss some length?
Well today I am headed down the corridor and I see him coming. I have a client with me. For some reason my brain shrieked at me to say something. He looks like he's about to head for the lifts so I think I am on safe ground. I say 'sorry about squashing you in the toilets'.
Which sounded bad.
He looked confused and said 'I don't er remember that'.
And well he might. Because he was not going to the lifts. He was actually going into the conference room. The room which was one foot from his person where I had stopped to apologise for my doorway shenanigans.
A room filled to the brim with bosses of the ++ variety.
Yep. I apologised for a toilet squashing in earshot of a room crowded with senior people. So many senior people they didn't have room for all of them and some of them were standing.
And I shudder to think what they thought I meant by 'toilet squashing'.
I really hope he still doesn't remember my name...
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
'What?!' had cried Lithgow, projecting his voice three blocks when met by representatives of the Screen Actors Guild when presented with the freezing orders, the reps accompanied by large white garbed men armed with a restraining gurney. 'Never! I want to sup - from LIFE!'
The gangly actor had then leapt for the exit but was caught by a stacks on of medical personnel who eventually injected the Abraham Lincoln-esq star of Third Rock with sedating chemicals.
'There's only one man and one man alone that can pull off a lectern thumping with such grace and passion,' said SAG president Marty Fufkin. 'We need him on that lectern, we want him on that lectern. When we ask a man to stand and serve we don't judge the manner in which he pounds and spouts bible passages. He'd rather us say thanks and let him on his way quoting Leviticus or Judges or whatever. Then he will see the error of his ways, through having spawned book burning by bow tied pseudo fascists scared of erotica or dance and understood the evil of blocking free will, or realizing that sex between consenting adults is not nasty but natural and by the end of (insert feature) will have accepted the protagonist for their sexiness or what have you. No one else can do it. So he will, for ever more.'
Lithgow was said to have screamed manfully as the pod was filled with the stasis engendering agents, the beanpole orator's hand slamming the glass view pane as if he was delivering a thunderous denunciation of whatever it is uptight fundamentalists don't like about the youth of today.
Our boss++++ is a lovely guy. As you lads know I recently met him and performed an awkward greeting.
Anyway I saw boss++++ go to the toilet and thus I ambled my gait. I timed it so when I went in he'd be out. Cause of the whole shy-wee in regards to the ranking man thing.
Alas I timed poorly. As I opened the door he was coming out.
Both of us are portly gents. And bearded too. He's slightly older, so I look like a squatter wider version (plus ocular impaired).
We got stuck.
He turned to face to the left and I turned to also face the left. We were both jammed in the doorway with myself being the alpha to his omega. We flailed for a few seconds and eventually he popped free.
Not good. Fortunately he doesn't remember my name since he called me 'mate'.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
My name is Alexandra!
I addressed in agency acquaintances. When I have specified, how I
search for type of the man. Me have told to approach in 1 week. When I
have again come to agency of acquaintances, to me have told yours
email adress. Now I have an opportunity to write to you I am an
interesting, beautiful, kind and single young lady. I want to find my
love, my half and want to marry him. I am looking for a man who will
fall in love with me and I will fall in love with him. I have never
been married but I dream about it. I am fond of children and I dream
about a happy family with the beloved man. I am interested in music,
cooking, reading, traveling and others. I know English very good and
can easily speak!!
If you are interested in me please write me on my e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
Please write me and I will send you my photos.
I wait for your letter very much.
Why? Because THEY KEEP GIVING THE FUCKING PLOT AWAY!
How fucking mentally challenged to you have to be to craft a commercial about a plot driven mystery show where you give away chunks of the fucking exposition in it? It'd be like saying 'Tonight, on Seven, the Agatha Christie classic Death on the Nile, where the millionaire isn't all that he seems. Also the first time he got shot in the leg was faked (wink, wink)'.
Channel Seven your ad crafting shits me blind.
Let alone your in fucking show promotions of the fucking McCafe on fucking McSunshine where you had a ten second fucking lingering 'what's going on at the fucking McCafe' shot before you go to an ad break. Your ad whoring is appalling. No wonder people are illegally downloading stuff.
It went down like this.
There was a bit of smoke in the air today - it's Autumn in Canberra after-all - and the lovely ladies from around the corner were clustered around the social club fridge.
Naturally I asked if they were escaping from the smoke.
Anyway, the social club sells fun sized chocolates - you know the ones marked 'not for individual sale' in the same in-vain manner that books have 'cannot be resold without permission of the publisher' on them. As in 'As if'.
So for some reason I then said 'Well in World War One, in the trenches, it was common for soldiers to wipe a chocolate under their nose to ward off the gas. The only thing is they looked like they had a Dirty Sanchez.'
Even as Sanchez left my mouth I knew that was not a particularly work friendly thing to say.
As I turned off for the toilet one of them jokingly said 'why would you think I would know what a Dirty Sanchez was?'
Fair point. My response.
'I don't know, I assumed you're all ladies of the ...'
Now at this point I didn't know where I was headed. I wanted to say something along the lines of 'because you're up on your pop culture', or even 'in the know'. But I'd already said 'of the' so it had to be something 'of the'.
So I said 'Night' and walked through the door.
I got two steps before I realised what I had said but by then I was already in the toilet section and if I'd gone out to say 'sorry' it would have made it worse.
Fortunately they have a robust sense of humour. But really, that could have gotten unpleasant. Mind you if someone can laugh at a Dirty Sanchez reference you're on pretty safe ground in regards to accidental accusations of moonlighting prostitution.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
I don't mind Brendan Nelson.
Yes, I know, it's a shocking thing to say. But if you read his stuff, read about his "listening tours", and so forth gone is the repellent free market is king, nig nogs should shut up, brown people are evil, generally blinkered unpleasant hard right crap that the Liberal party had been infected with under Howard et al.
Nelson, for all his faults, is actually interested in helping others. The focus on his leadership thus far is social justice type stuff. Sure - his nattering to the banks about 'won't someone please think of the reposessors' was mentally challenged (he had to know that would get out), but I'd rather a Liberal leader faff on about families doing it tough and all that guff than retarded 'let's get TEH MUZZIES' and 'gays cannot get married', or even 'children love razor wire' shit the previous government had.
I'd say the reason Nelson's approval is so low is because he's not presenting a credible alternative in terms of ideology. He and Rudd are essentially on the same page for a bunch of stuff. So why go Rudd-lite?
How ironic that the two leader contenders in the Libs, Turnbull and Nelson, were wets in disguise and the morons left were forced to choose between them? All these years of tamping down their feelings on not fucking people over as a political tool must have eaten at them.
There's a reason Nelson flirted with the ALP (and was a member of them for many years). Because the values he shares are similar. A fair go, a helping hand, a leg up.
So how nice is it to hear a member of one of the most unpleasant governments we've experienced in modern Australian politics actually come out and say stuff like 'let's look after carers' (though admittedly the later was because of an Oz lead charge political effort to try and make Labor look heartless).
Remember people it could be worse. It could be Julie "Vampira" Bishop or Tony "People Skills" Abbott leading the charge.
PS Nelson however could do with more assistance on the publicity front.
WonderCum is the leading semen enhancement product on the market. This fantastic product helps to increase your power, potency and volume of ejaculate, and thereby intensity of climax.
Get WonderCum without prescription.
Safe and natural eh? So does that mean WonderCum exists in nature without any pharmaceutical preparation needed?
Do you think this is the first time the words 'leading semen enhancement product on the market' have appeared in print together?
With so many products claiming to be the 'leading semen enhancement product on the market', how will I know which one is the best? Maybe they could do a taste test like they did with margarine?
I don't know why but 'phone tag' as a jocular work communication message shits me up the fucking wall. Fucking phone tag. It's so ... inane.
Record is six by the way.
It was luxury pizza, so thick base, thick thick topping. So far post surgery I've only had thin crust. I thought I was careful, taking 10 minutes to eat half a slice.
Apparently not. It got bogged.
I had to hang around in a toilet stall doing the pre-vom spittle noddy bird for 10 minutes afterwards. The worst is not being able to burp. So painful.
Still, managed not to vomit which was a good thing. I claimed another piece, Tropicana, and took it back to my desk. Gradually ate it Homer-cracker style over 40 minutes.
My colleague had five pieces. Fucker.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
He owns a pair of Rottweilers. A few times since we've been here one or more has gotten out. They are big fuck off angry dogs.
Today one of them got out. TheWife was putting out some trash when one of them appeared near our carport. She froze. The dog growled then lunged at her. TheWife, understandably freaked out and ran inside. She called me up, terrified.
So I caught a taxi home and went around to see the neighbour. I have to admit I wasn't looking forward to it. I'm not scared of dogs for the most part, but these seem to be dogs designed by nature and breeding to be scary. Luckily it had been recaptured. I offered a fair deal - they call me if the dog gets loose and they can't get it inside (since old mate next door has a crook back and could be out of it), and I call then if I see it roaming.
But, as luck would have it, they're moving out. So the problem resolves itself. We had called animal control but it would have meant theWife having to give an official report and something unpleasant may have happened to the dogs. Which we wouldn't have wanted. But still if it did then it's really their fault for letting their somewhat aggressive and highly scary animals wander out (four times by my count in five months).
I feel bad for the guy. He clearly loves the dogs and his landlord sounds like a dick. They effectively got evicted - and likely so the landlord can jack the rent up since the ACT rental market is uber hideous. His wife's sick, potentially got cancer, and the guy is on maxed out pain killers for a crippled back. So it's a bunch of crap to deal with and they don't need the council giving them a warning on their dogs.
But still if it gets out again, and goes for theWife, then we're going to have to call animal control. TheWife could have had theboy in her arms and dropped him. I shudder to think what could have happened.
Still, like I said, problem resolves itself. I hope old mate and his missus resettle okay and they sort their dog wrangling out.
Poor theWife. She was shaking so badly I could barely understand her.
When I told the taxi driver he grunted and said 'meat + ratsack'. Ah cabbies. Such a font of earthy wisdom.
One side benefit of their going - no loud barking at 3 am. And those mysterious explosion noises may settle down a bit too...
Monday, April 14, 2008
1) Par microwave the potatoes for around five to six minutes. Slice them up, put them in frying pan with some butter. Space them out. Fry them for about 20 mins (flipping them when brown).
2) Pull apart left over chicken so there are no bones. Chuck chicken in the frying pan
3) Nuke a cup of peas for three minutes
4) Mix the chicken and potatoes up, frying and heating evenly
5) Drain peas, put on plate
6) Add chicken and potatoes to plate
7) Add a sprinkle of grated cheese. Also to plate.
Who gives a flying fuck ACA? You have a fucking day-glow Ms Surgery 2008 hosting the show, complete with enforced plunging neckline, and with the rest of your microwaif reporters hardly an example for normative body shape with their micro-minis and chemically enhanced features, how can you fucking dare make fun of someone for how they look?
Fuck off and die.
PS I admit I heartedly enjoyed the mocking of Janette Howard as a Mrs Bucket from Keeping up Appearances. But A) that was because of what she did not B) because of what she wore. Oh, and C) who she was married to. Given her proclivities in spending wads of the taxpayer dosh on things like living in Sydney Vs Canberra (total cost around 18 million dollars) and attempted refits of dining rooms for 500k a pop then its criticism well deserved. Therese Rein has been Mrs PM for four months and crappy little bitches like ACA are mocking her clothes. Does it remind anyone else of the fucked in the head cool crowd from school who laughed at the dowdy fashion non compliant kids whose hair wasn't pumped full of chemicals and who lacked shoulder pads and leg warmers?*
Hello my new friend. It is my first letter on English. Sorry, if I made some mistake in words. But I write you from my hand and don't use pre-written letters. My name Elena. I live in Russia, in city Saint-Petersburg. I am 26 years old. If you think, that I am not serious don't make mistake, and know me much more. I gave promise, that I will never married on Russia boy. All of them lie and don't hold his word. Some man drink alcohol very much. May be I will tell you more about my past relation later. But i don't like think about it, it was no good. My family are not large. We live with my mother and sister. My mother have good work as bookkeeper. We can pay for all life expenses. And I will not ask you help me with money. I know many stories about it. If you will write to me more, you will understand, that I am not such girl! I am simple Russia girl, who want to live abroad. I want have husband and right family. I will try for this very much. I have very serious intention. My girlfriend find her husband on internet in last year. She move to Australia and they have happy family. She write to me letter every week. Don't want write about me and my hobby in first letter. If I really interested you will ask me about all. I want ask you some question: Do you have children? What are you doing at work? Did you have past relation, wife? I hope, you can know some new things about me from this letter. I will wait your letter and hope to receive news from you shortly. Please, write to me on my e-mail email@example.com firstname.lastname@example.org Bye! Elena, from Russia.
Is it just me or does this portrait shot fully look like it was taken by Deb from Napoleon Dynamite?
Oh - attention spammers. If you're going to broadcast these bad boys out into the intertubes then you might want the email address it's sent from to match the one you want responses sent to. Otherwise people might get suspicious...
Anyway, sometimes you make up songs - and if you're lucky you can remember them later. Here's one.
'Your name is Puddles McGee'
'Behind your knee there lives a bee'
'That bee's name is Mr Flea'
'Which i-i-i-i-s con-fus-ing!'
There's some other verses and stuff but I can't remember them at the moment. The trick is to end the line with 'eeee' so however you get there is okay.
UPDATE: I just googled Puddles McGee. Wow, totally did not know that. Yeah ... I think maybe that song has left the building now...
Yep, I hate that. I only remembered when I dreamed about the bottle of said medicine that was rolling around the the green bag I took to the hospital.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Funny, funny film. So, so, so many wrong moments. But, all in all, as far as romcoms go, it was great.
The medical intervention was a bit Something About Mary but in its own way still quite amusing.
What an age we live in where B lister celebs are not afraid to go on camera and pitch products that make my stools firm yet yielding.
I bet they'd be interested in my colonoscopy photos from a few years back. Maybe I will send them in.
Anyway, our loo has one of those half carpet things with a tapered U to snuggle around the base of the toilet. It catches much of these drips - which I attest are rare. So it has to be washed now and then because - well - otherwise its gross.
It became gross. TheWife was convinced some sort of mega-wee had occurred. I suggested the cats were to blame because I'd seen them slink in and out of the toilet now and then. Either that or my accidental drip pattern was such that I was striking the same cup-width target area and gradually they seeped together to form the mega-wee stain.
So as a tester theWife has cunningly placed some strips of toilet paper across the half carpet to check for strike patterns. It's been there for two days.
Today, sure enough, I missed the bowl (despite my slight tip forward and shake technique). A big fattie drop right on the paper.
So maybe it is me who made the wee? Could it be? Possibly.
Stay tuned for more loo drip tales from the toilet of Harrangueman.
* Do not see About Schmidt. Possibly one of the most depressing movies I have ever seen. You know when you go to a video store with people where you all saw a film that made you sad through either its uber depression casting or crapness and you see it and jokingly say 'how about this one (ha ha)?' Yep, it's one of those.
If there was a press stud planet I would thermo-nuke it into a dessicated cinder.
I fucking hate press studs. I don't have a great grip and on a wriggly greasy baby they become that much fucking harder to click into place.
Attention fastener people. Make a better press stud so whiny daddies like me don't get the shits. Also, now theNoo's in verbal skills range, I have to curb my tendency to snarl 'FUCK I HATE FUCKING PRESS STUDS' when I am trying to fasten them shut.
What the gossip mags say
By Jacqueline Maley
June 15, 2005
History immortalises its great lovers - Tristan and Isolde, Paris and Helen, and those two whippersnappers from Shakespeare's play.
But, as this week's goss mags reveal, times have changed. Once all a man had to do to prove his love was write a few letters, commit suicide or risk the invasion of Asia Minor. These days it takes more - specifically, Oprah Winfrey's couch, a large TV audience and a whole lotta air-punching.
Stock up on the anti-nausea pills, because Tom Cruise is in love, and he is being quite vocal about it.
Who magazine rolls up its sleeves and plunges into the slobbery pool of sentiment that is the Cruiseman's latest romantic foray. The mag publishes a pictorial timeline of his appearance on Oprah, during which he jumped on the couch repeatedly, like a monkey jesting for peanuts, and made several ill-advised air-pumping gestures.
With a maniacal glint in his eye, he gushed about his new love, and then forced Katie Holmes, who was waiting backstage like a good girl, to appear in front of the audience and endure his groping.
Where does all this leave Nicole Kidman? Woman's Day worries that Our Nic was terribly hurt when she crossed paths with Tom at the MTV Movie Awards, where her ex continued to publicly suck face with Katie and rave about his love. Three words, Nicole: bullet, well dodged.
The Day also frets over Hollywood's latest emaciated starlet, the pop singer Jessica Simpson. Despite cage-like decolletage and protruding shoulder blades, Jessica grins through her starvation - and although she may not have the strength to lift a spoon to her lips, she still manages to grace red carpets everywhere and maintain her St Tropez tan.
Meanwhile, New Idea steams up the river into the heart of darkness by giving us yet another cover story on celebrity diets. Somebody, make it stop.
Much more pleasing are NI's revelations that David Beckham has been sprung consorting with a woman other than his wife, again. The Beckhams have wearily denied the rumours, using the "she was just a zealous fan" defence upon which many a sporting love rat has relied. Photographs confirm that with each new infidelity allegation against her husband, Victoria shrinks to an even more skeletal state. Just a few more encounters between David and his "fans", and Posh will disappear altogether. Which will solve the problem nicely.
It will come as a shock to many that the parents of Paris Hilton's fiance don't approve of her "tacky publicity stunts". God knows what they're on about.
In an otherwise bleak goss mags landscape, NW can always be relied upon to cheer up its public, usually by publishing extremely unflattering photos of our favourite stars. This week is no different. A wraparound special provides close-up views of the acne of the rich and famous, whose faces are rich in crenellations if not in character.
On 8 April my hit count doubled.
This isn't a blowing horn exercise since doubling of fuck all is still mostly fuck all. This became more a 'why would that be?' exercise.
So I cruised to 8 April posts and had a look.
Ahh... that would be why...
Friday, April 11, 2008
The A Team was especially bad at it. I would close my eyes and yell 'lah lah lah' until it was over so it wouldn't be ruined for me (remembering back in the 80's by and large you watched TV live instead of taping and watching later).
The 'what's on next week's episode' is essentially the same thing.
Here's the kicker. For shows where plot twists are common, like dramedies such as Desperate Housewifes, the 'what's on next week' ruins those twists. Because I know they are coming.
SPOILER FOR DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES NEXT EPISODE
This week's ep had Gabbie clock Victor in the head with a oar and drop her hubbie overboard (it happened twice - long story). On the second time he could not be found. Gabbie (with Carlos her ex) searched high and low for him (intending on rescuing him), then gave up and returned to the dock. Realising that going to the cops was problematic from a proof/motive perspective, and that Gabbie's presence on the boat had been unknown due to Victor's clandestine romantic arrangements, Gabbie and Carlos set the throttle on the boat and send it out to sea, figuring his boat will be found empty, Victor declared missing, then accident or suicide will be the logical finding. As it happened theWife, who is the plot twist spotting Queen, kept saying 'it's Cape Fear, he will turn up.' There was certainly no lingering shot of Victor sinking when he went overboard so it's a fair cop.
Anyway, Prime then shows their 'what's on next week'. I fast forwarded it so as not to ruin in it. But I still saw the speeded up footage in my eye-line. Anyway, during their montage of DH upcoming goodness there's a shot of Victor firing a gun. Victor who is apparently dead from drowning.
So nice one Channel Seven ad cutter fuckwits. Way to fucking ruin the show for me with your 'what's on next week'. Why not simply list all the story arcs in the credits so I know which key eps to watch you moronic knuckle dragging program shifting no explanation stupid fucked in the head crappy fuckwitted TV station.
PS Lost? What the fuck? Where the fuck is it? If I wanted to see Jennifer Love Hewitt I'd google image search her. Why the fuck have you replaced one of the best shows on TV in the past 100 years of TV with a fucked in the head Ghost Whisperer marathon?!?
Luckily I had a book. And I thought to keep my glasses when the wheeled me off because that was another half hour. So word to the wise people.
What astounded me was how much like a series of Russian Doll VIP rooms in a nightclub it was. I started in the ward. Then went into a holding area. Then a small ante chamber. Then finally the theatre. I had left the book behind (so that was a mistake) and had to console myself with crappy goss mags and tales of the peanut gesticuler, Tom Cruise, and some of his wacky sax hijinks. Funny stuff. Go Tom Cruise. Also apparently L Ron Hubbard has had his works scribed into stainless steel and stuck in a giant desert vault. Can you imagine that? Civilization collapses then rebuilds based on the words of Battlefield Earth.
The staff were great. And I cannot remember actually passing out. I think I was in mid sentence. TheWife wanted to know if when I woke up I simply continued the conversation because I am a rambler. Fair cop.
Anyhoo ears hurt a little. Esp if I yawn or cough. But otherwise I am okay. I get to wear a shower cap for the next three weeks (while in the shower, not just a sartorial head accoutrement) , and put in drops but otherwise all is well.
Still - I hate the whole operation thing. It bites the big one.
Thanks for kind words! Weee - I am now off work until Tuesday. Hooray for me Captain Vegetable.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
I just realised calling her 'mother' makes me sound creepy. Not in an oompa loompa kind of way. In one of those Bates motel kind of ways. What? I'm coming mother. Mother needs me etc.
Anyway, this is a shout out to my peep MB. Who is a feisty buxom redhead, or so my mental map tells me. Yes, it's a cliche to call a reddie feisty. But she is. I wish I knew her in real life because she's so kewl.
She's funny, self deprecating, hates right wing fuckwits (always a good thing), is well read, loves kewl movies, is a pop culture referencing queen, a public servant who has to (like many of us) work with a bunch of buckwheat types, lives in a group house, and recently moved.
Actually that just sounded like a stalker's laundry list of things to know about my obsession before I either A) kill them or B) souvenir their underpants. MB, if you're reading this, it was not me who stole your underpants given you live north of the border.
So, back to the shout out. MB, you fucking rawk. Not just rawk. But with some capital letters. Fuck it, I'm going all caps. RAWK. Capital R, A, W, K. Your blog is one of the first ports'o'call e-wise because it consistently cracks me ... up. It's raw. It's honest. It's brutal. It's soulful.
Keep it up dude. And remember, if you have an attack of the sads, it will pass. It happens to the best of us.
I fully recommend womb showers as a means to obtain a short pick up sticks.
This rambling barely coherent post was bought to you by Sads(tm). Yes Sads(tm), kicking us in the genitals since man came out of the cave, looked out at the retreating forests and said 'fuck it, I'm calling in sick.'
Still by midday tomorrow I should be home. And I got Monday off in case I still have the ouchies so that's something.
But I am tempted to stay up all night... except I have to fast shortly.
Anyway, wish me luck. I met one of the docs today. Lovely bloke. Looked just like Michael Costa. Only far nicer (I expect). Had a free ranging chat where it ended with tales of people waking up on the operating table.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Anyway my current boss asked if I wanted to see pics of her baby. I assumed it be some sort of back in time thing since I was aware the boss had adult children.
So I go around and have a look. There on the screen is a aerobics hottie in the full flush of athletic female sexuality.
'That's not a baby. That's a babe!' I said, thinking she'd put the wrong picture up.
No, that was her daughter. The pic(s) were promotional shots for a gym the daughter opened with her Adonis-esq husband.
Fortunately my boss laughed. But that could have been a tumbleweed moment that's for sure.
Shocked befrocked house servants, resplendent in wigs, knicker bockers and those fake beauty moles, gasped in horror at the non given head bob as they knew what was coming.
'One bows when one is in one's presence,' snarled Queenie. 'You ghastly little oik.'
The Queen then stepped up to the Kruddster, cocked her head back, then snorked him one in the face, fracturing the PM's jaw and spreading his nose across his cheeks.
'That's a gift from Balmoral!' said the Queen, kicking the now prostrated PM, demonstrating her mastery of the ancient Scottish art of 'Fuckyew*'.
The Queen repeatedly continued to kick Rudd, calling him a 'silly little Orphan' and 'frog bastard', the latter likely a reference to Rudd's passing resemblance to the Belgian cartoon character Tintin, until her glamorous servants pulled her off, leading her away with a cape draped over her exhausted octogenarian frame.
Unfortunately, just as Rudd struggled to his knees, the Queen received a second wind, breaking free from her escort and casting aside the cape, and, wailing in a James Brown-esq manner, restarted the admonishing via the pointy end of her shoe.
Senator George Brandis declared the kicking was completely justified since the Queen was after-all the Australian head of state, and that just because she had never been elected and owed her position solely to who her fucking parents were as opposed to any meritorious rise through a democratic process, didn't matter to the average Australian.
'She's the Queen and long may she rule us!' said Brandis, a view almost certainly echoed by fellow prissy super gushing monarchist David Flint.
See Sarah's blog here.
* With thanks to So I Married an Axe Murderer.
Just got the late bus home. I was facing backward - which I hate - so at first I put the new scenery down to never having seen it in reverse. Then when we were driving in the countryside I knew something was up.
I was terrified I'd caught the wrong bus and checked my ticket. No, normal bus number printed. I scanned the passengers for usual faces and recognised a couple. So definitely the right bus. No one else seemed worried either.
So ... was it a kidnap plot? I thought seriously about crotching my phone in case it was and I could call for help later - except in this day and age a kidnapper would have to assume phone possession and would make us nud up. It wasn't until we were back on the highway that I dismissed the kidnap! plot from my mind.
Turns out it was an accident that the bus was bypassing.
Anyway, freaked me out a little.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
"I spent twenty minutes arranging myself so my taught buttocks would be nicely lined symmetry wise with the stripes on my groin concealing apron," said local butcher, Mr November, "then fucking May goes out and just has a fucking pull."
The calendar, which revealed the men performing activities synonymous with their day-to-day jobs but where buttocks and the tops of groins were showing, was regarded as a sensible move by the bush brigade, following in the steps of various other smaller communities who nudded up to save/support insert community activity here. Unfortunately, it seems, May let the side down.
May, who runs the local Kids Experience—a business that caters to nearby big city parents wanting their children to enjoy a thematic birthday experience with genre applicable stories, singing, and other childhood activities—said that in his defence his trade completely justified his chosen pose.
"I make balloon animals for the Circus theme. So it was a natural extension of my talents and skills, in accordance with the parameters set down that we be au nauturel in the context of our normal occupation.
"In this case it was a hungry sausage dog."
As irony would have it while many are displeased with the engorged canine replicated in penile form, the calendar has sold briskly and another print run has been commissioned.
"Next year I'm going as a cowboy in crotchless chaps," added Mr May.