Sunday, November 29, 2009

Seriously, I'm at a loss

Tonight's spam is as follows ...

From: cindyblaedn@mi.terra.cl [mailto:cindyblaedn@mi.terra.cl]
Sent: Sunday, 29 November 2009 9:40 PM
To: x
Subject: Whoo haas noot herad abuot swnie fluu yeet? Thiis wrods sacre ALOMST evreyone to detah.

We havee faublous seex aany timee we waant! Thiis is whaat lifee sohuld be!
Bacteira havee dveeloped resistacne to the tarditional atnibiotic efefcts . Try new solutoins!
http://kariess.123bemyhost.com

"I knoow tehre is suuch a statioenr," retruns Mr. Jobilng. "He waas noot oours, and I am noot acquaitned with hiim."

TheWife heckles Bob the Builder

We took theNoo to see Bob the Builder, who was a support act for Santa at Brand Depot.

As Bob threaded his way through the crowd, and we to him, theWife yelled out.


'Oi Bob, when are you going to finish our bathroom?!'

Bob the Builder = pwned.

Friday, November 27, 2009

A discussion around the snack table

Not sure how we got onto this topic but...

G---'Yeah it's funny what people think about the medicinal properties of alcohol. Like if you have a skinful of grog you can have sex with a bargirl and not get HIV'.

Me---'Ha. Or that having sex standing up means you can't get pregnant. Or if you douche yourself afterwards then you'll prevent a pregnancy.'

G---'Um ... yeah ...' (trails off)

Fair enough. Any mention of vaginal douching around food is probably a Neddy no, unless, of course, it's the mid morning snack at the 43rd annual Vaginal Douching convention featuring the Vaginal Douching All Stars of Dr Henein Knickenbocker, whose two parts vinegar one part lemon juice DIY Douche has been a much followed recipe; Klaus Noosen, whose popular '50s art features Coke Bottle and the Douche, and Sister Mary Snoodgen, rogue ex-nun who dramatically broke with church teachings to teach the women of the slums about washing out their lady parts with soapy water.

Ah good old VagDoucheCon; where you can get cutaway diagram models of vaginas at low, low prices.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

TALES ... of the toilets

Tale one

The other day I'd walked into the toilet corral at work and had decided I wasn't going to risk having to do a shy squirt at the urinals if someone came in whilst using them, and that I would go straight to a stall. I undid my zipper as I walked into the room then stalked along looking for a stall. I must have stood there for a good few seconds as I idly considered which one to use.

Which is pretty rock and roll behaviour. If you replace the word stalls with groupies like that infamous pic of that hair metal rocker from the 80's whose contemplating which of the chicks currently bent over before him he was going to grace with his groinal presence.

Tale two

There are five stalls - with one stall having a door that opens out and Jesus rails to hang onto. I walked in and saw that a pair of inconsiderate types had decided to use stalls 2 and 4. Which meant of course there was no stall buffer. You need at least one stall's buffer when its twos time.

So I gave up and walked down a flight and to another set of lavs.

I'm curious though, for you ladies who are all stall bound for ones and twos, what do you do? Do you need the buffer?

Tale three

I walked into the stalls today and saw with delight no one else was in the area. I skipped merrily to the good stall - the one with the Jesus rail - and motioned away. As I came out I had an after party fart build up and decided to pause midway on my way to the door and let her rip. A hearty bellow from the bottom trumpet outside stall number 3 (the middle stall).

At that point I discovered that during my motions process someone had in fact entered the toilets and was using stall 3 - the very stall I loudly bottom bellowed in front of.

Shame-faced and hoping they couldn't identify me through the door sliver I slunk out ... and immediately told S what happened.

He said not to worry and stated he was a proud bottom trumpeter. Indeed he said he preferred there to be an audience.

Ah the callow youth. So free and easy with their wiffy breezies.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Legohead V Moneybags

Today Turnbull was forced into a leadership spill over the whole ETS debacle. See the SMH story here.

His challenger? Kevin Bloody Andrews.

For those of you not in the know, Andrews aka Legohead, is a hardcore religious fundamentalist who got the Howard government to override the NT's euthanasia laws on the grounds he, Andrews, didn't like people taking control over when and where they would kark it. Not satisfied with reducing those in chronic pain to eking out their lives in a haze of medication, he eventually made minister, introduced workchoices (good effort mate), then ended as Immigration minister ... where he then railroaded one Dr Haneef (a relative of a terrorist), not found guilty of any crime, by taking away his visa. I believe the Oz govt had to pay a handsome sum to the good doc - and he deserved it.

Andrews, now in Opposition Exile Island, is one of the conservative Liberals - which sounds to me a tad tautological - and has decided that Turnbull is a nasty pasty.

And he lost the spill - apparently having expected to and only standing to send a message that people like him should not be discounted.

Which is a shame, because they should be.

The world needs less Kevin Andrews types - people who foist their personal ideology on others, and use their guardianship position to advance themselves politically then pathetically whine they weren't when it goes pear shaped despite the fact that said bastardy was as blatant as the nose on their face.

He's a disgrace as an Australian and as a human being.

Congrats Turnbull. Perhaps, if you work hard, you can Advance Australia Fair your party even closer to the new millennium we've all been in for the last nine years. By my analysis they're stuck in circa 1988.

Monday, November 23, 2009

My eyes are old and bent

Back in August I did something bad to my coccyx. No, I didn't step naked out of the shower and forget about "insert semi-insertable device here". I went down a slide and landed with a bump in the gap between segments. Ever since then the region around my coccyx has hurt.

Today it flared up big time. Both cheeks are aching with pain radiating like iron filings on a piece of white paper inserted over a magnet in a shit-house year nine science experiment*.

I had to rub voltaran on my arse cheeks and I spent the day sitting on a pillow.

I feel like Nobby Piles from Viz...

Why can't I catch a friggin' break when it comes to my bod?! If I don't have sore feet then I have bad guts (like I also have at the moment), am throwing up, or have a sore ahnus. It - my general poor health, not my ahnus - bites the big one big time.

Stupid health issues. It's not like I'm not trying either. I am eating better, downing lots of fibre, and still walking every day. Maybe it's just because my bad health is like a super tanker and even though I've switched the screw to reverse, momentum is such that I'm still heading for the rocks?

*During sex-ed in science our science teacher started off with a joke - what's got six legs and goes around in circles? A ram doing a ewie. Our science teacher also expected us to maintain good book hygiene in that our exercise books needed title pages for new segments of science, and that our many handed out bits of paper should be glued in. You actually got marked on this. One of his favourite tricks was to shake someone's book and watch all the paper that had not been glued in fall out. During sex-ed my title page was what I thought was the male and female symbols entwined. I had it wrong. I had two male symbols - with one reversed. I wonder what that means? The panel beater kids - the dudes who left in year 10 to become apprentices only to be sacked when the govt money ran out - decided to have a p0rn collage for their title pages. When their books got marked they found the title pages had been excised with the words "see me" scrawled in the tattered remnant.

Freddo charges dropped: boy gets costs

Boy to accept costs in the form of Freddo Frogs...

One of the many books available at Oz Post

I really detest the 'minimum expenditure' effort some businesses apply to using a credit card in Australia. One of these businesses, and I use that term loosely, is Oz Post.

On occasion I've been forced to buy shit I don't need solely to get myself up to their $10 minimum.


One of the items you can buy from well positioned stands on the counter as you discover this $10 minimum is a series of Australiana Fauna themed kids books.


Although this one kind of creeped me out.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Russell Brand talks with Craig Ferguson

Russell Brand is my hero. And Craig F is fcking hilarious.

Out and about

When I was a poor struggling garret bound would be writer I naturally enough attended a post grad course on how to be a writer.

Turns out I suck. And you're better off reading Stephen King's On Writing and saving yourself several thousand dollars.

Anyway, one of the tricks we were taught is to pay attention to your surroundings because you would get good material that way.

So ... the three stand outs from my trip to town are...

The tiny middle aged man dressed in new blue jeans, a shirt which still had the package creases on it, with his ensemble topped with a shiny blue Harlem Globetrotters hat ... walking along next to (I presume) his ten year old son ... who was taller than him.

The man on the street whose hands were filled with bags who elected to store a red petal fake flower between his teeth like he was about to, once he put his bags down, climb some sort of ivy clad lattice work and present the flower to a would be beloved.

And finally the young dad and his eight year old son in the toilets - the boy too short to reach the liquid soap dispenser - holding his cupped hands up to receive the soap squirted by his dad. His dad shouting out comically 'Are you ready for the cleanliness explosion?!'

Gold. All stored in the old memory bank when my self esteem recovers enough like a computer game health bar to actually try and put finger to key and finish off one of my many projects.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Domestic Minutia with Harrangueman

TheWife and I came of age in the late 80s. Yes, puffy hair; denim; all-brown outfits of velvet, corduroy and desert boots were ours to have, music like the Fine Young Cannibals was ours to listen to and, for me at least, the seminal most oft-quoted movie of my high school years was Lethal Weapon II.

As for seminal teev, The Young Ones was our bread and butter. We may not have got alot of it, but man we quoted it.

Now, as adults, with a young squirmy boy, occasionally we pepper our parenting with lore from our past.

One such thing is Snot Patrol.

Snot Patrol is when theNoo has, as my older brother describes it "Housing Commission Nose", where thick goobs of snot are heading on a slow passage south, like pioneering snails striking out to settle the south west of the garden. When he is seen with snot a'hangin' we sing out to him 'Snot patrol, snot patrol' and he (hopefully) comes a runnin' - and, as he does, he counter sings back 'doo doo'.

Where is it from?

The theme to Nozin' Aroun' from The Young Ones.

The US national anthem -by Glee



Say what you like about the US of A, but its anthem is one of the most kick ass, hairs on the back of your neck upstanding musical patriotism pieces on the planet.

PS Glee rawks.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Coolgardie head

I sweat a bit - and I am balding. It's not an action-reaction otherwise sporty people would all be bald fuckers.

But, when I sweat, the few remaining hairs on my crown get drenched and spike up. They marinate under my hat.

My bodgy old car's AC is fucked - and it's worth more than the car's value to fix it. Which means when I drive home on hot days I have the windows down.

I had to take my hat off lest it blew away in the car.

So ... my sweaty head had window air rush over it ... and my scalp froze.

I'd inadvertently Coolgardie'd my noggin.

Chalk one up for thermodynamics.

Peter Cundall arrested in mill protest

See the story here.

I can just imagine how that went down.

'Come on lads, let's sing! We shall not, we shall not be fooking moved. We shall not, we shall not be fooking moved.'

'Keep your fooking hands off me you plod fooker. Do not mess with me mate, I know how to break a body down in the ground with a simple solution of quick lime, ash, charcoal and the cuttings from a Gardinia boosh. That's it! You laid your hands on me fooking over-alls. You're doon me fookin sune. I will fook you up with a kick to your fooking fork and it's going to be fooking marvellous.'

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Action figures - a gripe

I played with action figures as a kid. Action figures were the shizzle. They were hard plastic, and about 10cm tall.

Starwars Figs - The first fig I had was Luke Skywalker from the swamp planet. He had a kewl safari like khaki suit and a holster. I played with him so much that by the time I put childish things away and became a man (but not really, sorry Corinthians) his neck was extended like a Burmese ring woman by about half a cm from the constant re-gluing of his head back on (it snapped off like a dozen times, usually because I'd stuck an action man head over his), and the top half of his left foot had been gnawed off by Patch 1#. The joins on his limbs were loose from constant play and he could no longer stand unassisted. He needed some sort of Zimmer frame accessory.

Eventually I collected about 60 Starwars figures and then, for some unknown reason I sold them to one of my brother's friends for $50. I kept my saggy Luke however, a Darth, and an Imperial no name.

The gripes.

One - the limbs were straight. They could only move in a motion that is best described as 20% of the ping pong paddle man at the airport's welcome routine. It kind of limited the "action".

Two - the vinyl capes some of the characters had shredded after 10 seconds. My fake granny had to make me new ones out of offcuts and they kind of looked like beyond-broadway attempts at Vanilla Jason and his plain one coloured Dreamunitard.

Three - the light sabers for relevant figs were stuck in a groove in their fucking arm with the tube protruding into their hand. Which meant when you lost the piece of plastic that represented said sabre it looked like the figure was now tooling around with a hollowed out fleshlight.

Four - When you tried to have the figures have sex - and disturbingly it was always Luke and one of the Leias - their legs would not part for Mr Man and his Man Part and you had to threaten the structural integrity of the Leila toy in the pelvic area as you forced Luke into her nethers.

GI Joe Figs - these belonged to my younger brother, but I appropriated them ... in year nine ... when I still played with action figures. Yep, I was having erotic dreams by night and making machine gun noises by day as I played with my figs, Dark Helmet style.

The GI Joes had articulated limbs (no kung fu grip on the 10cm figs however). They also came with kewl guns. I used to use Beachhead as my Luke in disguise when enjoying a bout of rigorous play given Luke's fragile condish.

The gripes

One - they had moulded guns on their hips - ie handles of pistols that were part of the fig. Which could not be removed. Which means they could never be disarmed. Which means when you're indulging in hard core fantasy play involving them being taken prisoner, then the suspension of disbelief was hampered by the fact they were STILL PACKING HEAT

Two - while their limbs were very advanced - with knee joints, hip joints, elbows and shit (no sex probs there) it meant that the then piece of plastic that served as their "groin" between their legs typically snapped off ... leaving them with the fig equiv of ... a woo hoo.

I think I kept the snapped off pelvis betweens and used them as currency in my fig play.

A Team Figs - These were about 15cm tall, and wide.

The gripe

They were shithouse. The limbs were like Starwars figs and only went straight out in a "me smash" double downward fist caveman manner. They were much bigger than the other figs in my "collection". Their weapons - machine guns - could only be held straight outward in one hand. It's almost like the designer didn't give a flying monkeys and the toy company was more concerned with the merchandising profits from flogging useless Krusty the Clown esq crappy merchandise than making a decent toy.

Masters of the Universe figs - These too were about 15 cm tall. The male figs were built like steroid raging greco-roman wrestlers. I didn't have any, but friends had them.

The gripe.

They could not stand up without angling their torso at about a 10 degree angle forward. It looked like they were pushing out a fart. It ruined the atmos. They too could only move their arms up and down - but at least they had a waist that could turn.

Now this is just figs - hard solid plastic. The "dolls", about the height of a barbie, were a different matter. I won't go into it here. But geez the Six Million Dollar man with its girder in his back shat me.

I eventually stopped playing with action figs at the end of year ten. No, it wasn't a Corinthians style road to Damascus realisation of impending manliness. It was because in my house up until the end of year 10 we had a kewl loft above the garage that was our "play room". I was the only one who played up there, and had my world all set up (typically it was a rebellion scenario against insert evil overlord here). With the action figs were standard Vietnam era toy soldiers (you know, each pack had four mine sweepers and three flame thrower guys), playmobil figs, assorted rubber plastic el-cheapie sword and sorcery type dolls and various others. It was my world and I loved it. I even named some of the soldier toys - my favourite was Sergeant McCoy, a British Paratrooper ... that was later KIA courtesy of my older brother and his air rifle - me finding McCoy's headless body outside by the big tree in the backyard that served as our backdrop to leaden air powered fun. I can remember dropping to my knees like Elias in Platoon and silently mourning his loss, my head upturned to the sky.

The loft was the most awesome playroom and I blame its location, location, location for my extended dalliance with toys.

In year 11 we moved out of town. I got the box room next to my parents. No play room in the house. I tried recreating the magic in my tiny room but it just wasn't the same. I finally became a man! Not because of that though. Because after two years of erections I finally learned how to make it go off.

Yee-ha. You see Corinthians doesn't mention the whole "put away childish things" is largely due to the fact that now you have some ready access to operable man meat of your own to play with, you don't need no stinkin' toys.

Unless of course ... you're a lady.

QED.

Dub Tee Eff (question mark)

Today I was passing the lovely ladies on "the other side". So called because they work on the other bend of the horseshoe of the open plan work stations in my area (with the centre of the shoe being offices of people paid way more than more to go to way more meetings—the poor bastards).

Earlier that day they had accosted me on my not shaving off for Movember. I replied "Someone has to stay bushy. Therefore call me Mister Bush."

As I was passing a second time they called me over.

"We want you to come and sit down on the floor between us so we can pat your tummy like the fat Buddha."

Um ... yeah. I know we have a rapport and all—and the other day one of them accidentally named my junk Esteban—but that's a big call to assume A) I am Dharmic in my outlook and B) I enjoy others making references to my weight.

So naturally I photo-shopped up a statue of said semi-divine figure with a backwards baseball cap and a pimp bling clock and sent it to them with the subject PHAT BUDDHA.

You know what? I ask for this.

Oh, later I worked out that with the power of my pseudonyms combined, I was now Esteban Bush.

I think there's something in that for all of us.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Australia post - adapting itself to the modern world

Today I had to go to Oz Post. Recognising I wasn't going to make it it to a 5pm close, I hunted down a 6pm closing Post Office. I used the Oz Post website.

I turned up at 5.20. Where a sign greeted me saying it was closed. It was one of those sub post offices within a larger shop. So I said 'Um, the website said you close at 6.'

The woman responded. 'Er no ... it's now 5.'

As I left I snarled out 'well ... that was a huge pain in the arse.'

She responded with a cheery and likely sarcastic 'see ya!'

Yeah ... because as a white collar worker whose core hours are 830 - 5pm I am surely going to use their fucked service in the future.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Nursey's open mouth should be shut

It's movember season in my office. For those not in the know movember is a recent charity innovation where men attempt to grow a mo for the month of November, sponsored by their colleagues, with money raised going to the fight against Prostate Cancer.

Hey, it was either that or trademark the colour brown and get it hashed across every product in the land like the Pink of Breast Cancer.

I am not participating as I could not be arsed (ho ho - prostate cancer - geddit).

Someone mentioned my full beard and mo and noted that it was not too late for me to join in with a quick shave.

Me?

'Yeah, that's true. If I shaved it all off now, I could probably still win. And, even if I was running behind, I could simply transplant the hair from my arse.'

I yelled that out across the work station corrals of my work-place. A second later, as bemused heads turned in my direction given the tumbleweed clanger just dropped, I added 'man, that was inappropriate'.

All agreed.

Later that day, at afternoon drinks, us younger types were playing celebrity guess with fantale wrappers. For some reason the topic of Hugh Jackman as a possible woman came up. We were making lady boy jokes, scrotal pouch references, then, later, discussed genital origami.

I think it's time for a refresher for Mikey as to his workplace EEO policies...

Testasquishaphobia

The fear you have as a man that when you sit down on the toilet that you're accidentally going to park yourself on one of your balls.

I know for one that I re-arrange or even manually shield as I lower myself just in case.

Hey, when you have old balls*, this danger is a genuine threat.

*When your balls have descended well past your nob. As ably demonstrated by the extended descent of the balls of Cecil the Ram

Sunday, November 08, 2009

Just batsht insane dribble

I think Miranda Devine needs to be tested for Lysteria and other bat-borne diseases. It may go someway to explain her latest stringing together of words in a semi-coherent manner.

Devine starts off by telling the tale of Boris, the ruffle haired blonde slob Etonian mayor of Old London Town coming to the bike-borne rescue of a greenie besieged by armed girls. From there MD claims that anyone who doesn't see in black and white (like her and Boris) would have been paralyzed by indecision and not assisted said Greenie, and from there ... Rudd is like Howard in that he has refugee issues he's dealing with but, because TEH LEFT hated Howard they protested about it, and because Rudd is nominally of TEH LEFT, they don't.

???

It's just nutty.

Here's my fave bit

I would suggest that, when push comes to shove, it is muscular conservatives with the courage of their convictions, of either sex, who are of more use in dark alleys than wishy-washy leftists, or simply people who don't like to get their hands dirty, make a judgment call or risk unpopularity.

If you are worried that someone might think you are a violent, chauvinistic bully if you chase the girl gang, you're no use. If you want to examine the motives of the assailants to establish beyond a shadow of a doubt that they mean Franny Armstrong harm, and aren't just asking her to admire their big iron bar, you're no use. If you are a peacenik who avoids all confrontation, you're no use. If you are a post-modernist who believes there are multiple truths, you will be too confused to be of any use.

In this age of cowardly consensus, feigned reasonableness and radical tolerance, the middle ground has been sanctified, no matter how stark the choice between right and wrong. Few are willing to do the right thing because no one will agree what the right thing might be, because that would imply there is a wrong thing, which is supposedly the view only of right-wing extremists.

A) Muscular conservatives are needed in dark alleys. We need them in those alleys. Because TEH LEFT are no good in alleys.

B) TEH LEFT see armed girl gangs assaulting passers-by as just exhibiting their right to be female and packing heat apparently and TEH LEFT could not possibly step in.

C) Devine, who like the vast bulk of right wing themed writers in Oz, doesn't believe in Climate Change as being dangerously influenced by human activity. She has the fucking gall to whine about 'doing the right thing' when she, like the rest of her lamprey kin, advocate exactly the opposite when it comes to saving the planet.

Seriously Fairfax, why do you keep her on? Okay, the ratings, I get that. Fair-enough. Why is it then the righty types like her are allowed to present badly written illogical copy for print, while everyone else has to present balanced fact laden material? Just the ratings?

Sigh.

PS Miranda Devine is in her study googling herself. She sees the impact her latest screed has. She claps with glee and spins around on her chair. 'People are talking about me! I am validated'. Nice validation Devine. Nice.

Saturday, November 07, 2009

Michele Bachmann Overdrive

Michele Bachmann is the latest semi-fertile poster girl from guns'n'ammo on the righty right in the US of late. Recently lauded by George F Will, famed chicken-armed conservative baseball fan and neo-con, Bachmann famously questioned whether Obama and his crew were 'anti-american' during the 2008 election, and when an interviewer asked if is she'd support inquiries into their 'views', she thought it a great idea.

Lately she's become one of the many rusted on rigid right repubs that are shouting down anything the Dems put up on the grounds that if it's a Dem induced idea, ergo it's bad n'kay.

See her Dickipedia entry here.

When the Tea Party protests started up - and boy they didn't think that name through - naturally MB was front and centre. I'm surprised in fact she didn't turn up at the protests in a Davy Crockett coonskin cap with a tea bag tied to the tail, while sporting a flintlock. Despite receiving millions of dollars of free advertising on FOX, the tea party protests didn't amount to much more than a slight blip in bus ticket sales and a massive spike in packets of tea bags (the protesters encouraged to mail them to their congress person by means of indicating their disapproval at ... actually I'm not sure - let's say taxes).

With health-care reform being ludicrously protested against by the same hard nub of righties in the US, many of whom are still convinced Obama was grown in a Marxist test-tube in deepest darkest Africa, MB has too taken on this issue - calling on her com-padres to come to the Capitol and show those elected officials that we don't need no stinkin' government funded health-care.

Check out Dana Milbank's report on the protest for the Wash Post here.

Milbank dryly notes examples of home-made signage, which accuses the Obama white house of pretty much anything and everything (A few steps farther was the guy holding a sign announcing "Obama takes his orders from the Rothchilds" [sic], accusing Obama of being part of a Jewish plot to introduce the antichrist), and hilariously points out that the protest was not in fact a protest - at least officially.

Technically, Thursday's GOP-sponsored rally at the Capitol was a "press conference" (a Capitol Police spokeswoman explained that the lawmakers didn't have a permit for a demonstration). The speakers took no questions at this news conference, instead calling, at least a dozen times, for the Pelosi bill's death.

Milbank ends his report as follows;

By the time it was over, medics had administered government-run health care to at least five people in the crowd who were stricken as they denounced government-run health care. But Bachmann overlooked this irony as she said farewell to her recruits.

"You," she said, "are the most beautiful sight any of us freedom fighters have seen for a long time."

Oh dear sweet baby Jesus. Also, the fact that the right in the US have adopted the idea they are 'freedom fighters' when the vast bulk of FF's have been socialist in nature for the last 150 odd years is simply wonderful.

Amazing. Protesters protesting for the right to have over-priced unrepresentative health-care.

Friday, November 06, 2009

The Weekly World News Beans Diet

Well ... turns out I have gummed up bowels. The rectal area - you know, the poop chute - is clear. But the upper tract is cemented in with lots and lots and lots of the brown stuff.

It's been building for weeks apparently. Since I had surgery back in 2007 I've eaten less vegies and grains - because they're harder to digest for me. Except, the knock on was less fibre. I took supplements for that - but I was taking them in a dumb way and making matters worse. So I stopped.

The result. Severe constipation. So severe in fact, I have what's known as "spurious diarrhea". That's where the only bits that can get past the blockage is liquidy stuff.

I'm not in serious medical danger from this. Except that it causes acute pain, nausea, and delirium - all of which has been experienced by me during our celebratory week (our birthdays and anniversary all fall within a seven day range).

So, the doc prescribed ... baked beans. Basically I have to chow down on fibrous foods only, and drink lots of fluid (laced with benefiber). If I do so then gradually the blockage will start to shift. Well, that's the theory.

Unfortunately what's coming out is still the spurious kind. I can't risk farting in case of follow through so I am stuck in the house and I have the door to the toilet open to cut down on time to get seated.

It's incredibly painful. Incredibly embarrassing and a reminder that eating properly is a very important part of your health.

All-bran should fuck off their comedic efforts with advertising. All they need to do is show a toilet door accompanied by the muted soft sounds of pain wracked weeping.

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

Not fun

The other day I was suffering particularly bad gut pain. Towards the end of the night I started feeling feverish. As I tried to sleep I was wracked with delirium. Finally, after 6ish I woke theWife and suggested I might have to go to casualty. I was worried I had a bowel obstruction - aka the Gibb Killer.

TheWife suggested I use a microlax first, in case it was just a result of being bunged up. But post use and wait there was no movement at the station, and no word had passed around, off to casualty we went.

I was shaking from pain spasms I was being tested and, within 15 minutes, I was in a bed. The doc came around and took some blood and I got morphine for the pain. Which was kind of nice.

However, at that point the microlax I had prepared earlier (a microlax is a liquid that you shoot up your date), had its impact. My expected dry fart turned out to be a sopping great liquid filled one and I crapped myself. Highly embarrassing. So off I trotted to the toilet, keeping my arse squeezed together and thus taking chain-gang baby steps. I cleaned myself up best I could and went back to bed.

All I can say is thank god for the morphine. Because A) it took away about three steps of pain - from 'I wish I was unconscious' to 'hmmm, that's not pleasant, and B) it helped ameliorate what happened next.

In the doc's defence she did warn me upon her initial examination that this was going to happen. So I had some preparation. But perhaps it's one of those knowing its going to happen makes it worse things.

She had to stick her finger up inside me to make sure I didn't have trapped fecal matter up there.

I don't have a visually pleasing bum. It's hairy - and it had the added benefit of a thin patina of poo from my recent self-crapping. So needless to say I was apologizing muchly for presenting her a less than attractive target for her fingering.

Up went the finger.

Now, I've had a prostate exam before. Which was not pleasant. This took that prostate exam out and slapped it around like an unwanted stepchild. She had to reach a fair distance up to make sure no giant brown bears were a-lurking upstairs, and this involved a fair amount of internal poking around. I could swear I could feel her fingernail and I screamed out 'FINGERNAIL, FINGERNAIL, FINGERNAIL' - except it wasn't. I think it was the pressure she was applying. Indeed, upon withdrawal she noted that she kept her nails trimmed for just this sort of occasion.

Still, I did manage to crack out a crack while she was up my crack - I blithely stated 'so ... that's where my remote went' - which got a mild laugh from the male nurse who was distracting me from my head direction.

I finally got home about midday, suffered another bout of delirium from pain and no-sleep the night before, and effectively lapsed in and out of wakefulness over the next few hours. Plus I had another couple of pants incidences. I didn't really come back into full compos mentis until about 10 pm.

Feel okay now. I had to take more laxative (oral, thank god), and they landed again this morning with another misfired non dry fart.

Crapping yourself is like buses. Ages and ages pass, then you crap yourself four times in 48 hours.

Stupid arse.

PS Big ups to theWife who kept me hydrated and watched over me to make sure I wasn't going to wander off in a delirious state or anything, and for wrangling theNoo at the hospital - which are very exciting places for the hobbit sized - especially all the interesting activity that appears to be happening on the other side of the privacy curtain...

Monday, November 02, 2009

(Cue Musical Whistle)

The Life of Brian is one of my all time favourite films. It helps to be Christianity-literate to get some of it, and it should be noted that true Christians - you know the ones that practice being Christian - actually get a kick out of it (and it doesn't slag off Jesus in my opinion).

Anyway, the ending song, featuring a merry mass singing of 'Always Look on the Bright Side of Life' whilst the singers are in fact crucified, is particularly awesome. And, like the basic message of being Christian - do good, be just - it's pithy and sensible.

I haven't been travelling well of late. Pain wracked much of the time - think having a period 24/7 - means during some period I've been pretty low. Low in spirit, low in energy. It's a real effort sometimes to be happy and act happy. It's a shit to live with ... and it must be a shit to live with someone who's feeling that way.

Recently I had another birthday. Seems like it happens every year. Last year was fcked, for various reasons, this one less so. But I still didn't feel like celebrating this year because it seemed just another year gone. All that's really happened is the earth is passing the same-ish spot it did in space a year before this day.

And ... that's a stupid way to think. Life is not static. It's not the same. Things change - sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better - and how you adapt to this change influences the quality of your life. Of course it helps having a child. We have the most awesome little cheeky boy. I couldn't imagine life without him. And in the past year, he's gone from crawling baby to running toddler - complete with personality, quirks, habits, naughtiness, and a whole host of other kewl stuff.

Sure, things could have gone better in a bunch of other ways - they didn't, but so what? No skin off my nose. That's the past. It's not my future. It's time to gird the loins, saddle up, and (insert metaphor for preparedness here) and face life with a better attitude.

And, I'm making a Birthday Pledge, I am going to get off my ahnus (there, that's the metaphor I wanted), and actually finish the several projects I have going.



PS Fun fact from Life of Brian. The singers on crosses were seated on bicycle seats that jutted out of the cross's stem (you can't see them in shot). Apparently, between takes, there was a mad call for ladders so actors could get down and go to the toilet.

PPS TheWife got me the new Elton and Pratchett books. Aw, go theWife!