Thursday, February 25, 2010

Megalodon - the horror

The Megalodon is a prehistoric uber shark. Like stupidly large Jaws-the-shark in size. It could swallow you whole. If, you know, it still existed. I think there's even a disaster movie out there, theWife calls those 'Dee-SASTERS!', where a Megalodon takes on a giant squid. Yep, there it is, though they had to call it Mega-shark in case the audience didn't get what a Megalodon was. Reminds me of when the excellent Brit Film 'The Madness of King George the Third' was renamed to drop "the third" off the end in case the Yanks though it was the second sequel.

Megalodon sounds a lot like Mega-Vom. Which is exactly what theNoo did on the weekend. He coughed twice then erupted a fountain of half digested tomato, milk, and stomach acid all over theWife's prized Aldi-sourced $200 throw rug and the surrounding carpet.

We cleaned up best we could but theWife couldn't help but re-visit the area, convinced she could still smell the odor of 'once was lunch'. Of course, given she was worming along the carpet with her nose pressed against it while her arms were down at her sides, this couldn't but help enhance her olfactory detectors in that regard - and clearly she wasn't applying a normative carpet using standard but some sort of enhanced 'what if one of our visitors was a dude like what Daniel Day Lewis played in My Left Foot?!' measure.

But still, the lounge-room now looks like a cocaine bust that went horribly wrong, with half a key of baking powder thickly coating the offending area of rug and carpet. The plan is this will absorb the last of the vomitous tinge, and the rug and carpet will be once again smelling good enough to lay an almost completely physically disabled man upon and know he will not be offended by an offensive remnant of a departed guest star from theNoo's stomach.

Aw soapy love messages-

We're big on liquid soap in this house. It's more hygienic. Solid bars have issues man, though I admit I still use one in the shower and new soap bar day is a happy day in this household because you're less likely to lose a grip on it like you would a sliver in your soaped up southern groin forest.

Anyway, the other day I used the sink liquid soap to write 'I (heart) U' on the vanity mirror. You can't see it when the mirror is dry, but when it fogs with shower steam, there it is.

When theWife saw it, she added a '2' to the end.

Aw... pity she had to tell me 'cos I didn't notice.

Area man romance fail.

ABC Classic FM - playing hard and loose by its own rules

As heard between pieces on today's classic FM

'I was going to tell you the time, but - after listening to that - I don't think I'll bother.'

Right on man!

No one puts baby in a corner

I am like a piquant cheese ... in that I am an acquired taste. I admit it, I often stream-of-conscious babble about stuff that is of interest to me and minimal interest to others. I will think of funny things to say, judge the consequences of saying them, then say them the fuck anyway.

So as a piquant now older balding gent I occasionally rub people up the wrong way. I try not to. I dislike confrontation, loathe arguments. I'm more happy to walk away from a disagreement or stifle my opinion than die in a ditch over details almost every time. Life is too short to make enemies or endure shouty tense arguments.

But ... any idiot can go through life making no enemies. I think once someone said you could judge a man by the quality of his opponents. That's neither here nor there.

Anyway, today at work, I learned someone didn't like me. They didn't like the "tone" of my correspondence. Perhaps they came from a public service that had typing pools and formal minutes correspondence? The modern PS, it don't work like that, y'all. It's driven by email and networking to get things done. That's just how we roll.

Luckily I've made kewl e-friends at work through email - people I've never met face to face, but I've met via email and whom I've had the occasional phone call. Brief references to real life in an email was often enough of a hook to keep a conversation going long past the work issue discussed, and the next thing you know you're howling tears at some kick arse funny thing they wrote - or tale of a situation they found themselves in. And, because the public service is as much about informal networks of like minded as it is about a formal orbat or hierarchy, then you tap into these networks to work around issues or resolve stuff without going formal. Because formal is a pain in the arse that makes people upset.

Again with the non confrontation.

My old librarian, the one with the Joe Stalin day three post mo shave and five day plan to grow it back, once claimed I was a manipulator because I asked to leave my unfashionable head shield in a protected part of the library to avoid it getting "dick-tation". I suppose that's true in the sense that sometimes I will suggest a way ahead, not so much covertly, but passively - reasoning that a polite measured indirect approach will earn me more value back than a shouty, my or the highway, demand.

Back to the 'no likee' and the 'tone'. My emails are deliberately set with a tone of personal language. I use colloquialisms like "ping" in place of send. I use, and I am ashamed to admit it, way too many exclamation marks in correspondence. I do it because it gets me results. It's deliberate use of unofficious language in a sometimes overly officious workplace because a friendlier approach generally gets people onside - especially when you're delivering constructive critiques.

Except, to quote Dr Seuss, sometimes it won't (get people onside). Which alas was the case here. I theorise my friendly tone, combined with multiple attempts to get my point across in a friendly, informal, yet informative way, when I disagreed with said person on an approach - or was unable to adhere to her request, gave her the shits. It irks me a bit because they did give me some valuable feedback on a new system, which was then improved as a result, and I recall I sent her boss an email thanking said person for this feedback.

So much for a conciliatory approach.

Anyway, at a recent meeting my role came up. The person who didn't like my "tone" mentioned this, and made assertions about an unprofessional approach to others there.

And that's when Patrick Swayze came in and gathered me out of that darkened conjunction of perpendicular walls.

Yes, one of my awesome e-buds was there and leaped to my defence. She stated, in detail, just how mind blowing awesome I am (though I have to admit she likely talked me up a bit). So much so that I got a personal email of congrats from a coordinator about how well I was doing with assisting staff, and I only found out about the snitty person when my e-bud told me it was because of that that she said all the glowing stuff.

So it goes to show. You can form lasting, awesome e-relationships and build information sharing task resolving networks, and those people whom you have these relationships with can, and do, have your back.

Anyway, I was extremely grateful to mah e-bud for locking horns and going in hard in Operation Defend Mikey.

Take that old bureaucracy. You can stick your officious tone required for e-corro in the same creaking cabinet that no one in the office knows what the fuck is in it along with all the other old school ways of doing things in the white collar world - along with other concepts like formal paper delivered tasking / smoking in the office / liquid lunch / face-to-face meetings / forms required for photocopying / having personal assistants / offices for EL1s + / typing pools / and all that other millstone dross that made office work that much more inefficient; networks and email rules the roost, baby.

Oh, a final PS on the colloquial. My new boss is within my age range - ie she was at least in high school when I graduated. She's been here a week, and is slowly coming to grips with the full array of topics she needs the nose news on to effectively manage us and our core roles. She has proven to be funny, smart, sharing, and readily approachable. Despite my rubbery attendance of late, with a fair amount of self-declared working from home due to pain management issues, she has been cool, caring, and understanding about it.

Today she emailed her out of office contact details for when we need them.

Her header for the POC info was "Here are my deets."

Yes, she used deets for details. She's my sort of person. Colloquial is indeed the shiznay.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Nude!

If theNoo is naked, or sees us near-naked or all, he'll often announce with a cheeky smile, and sometime point,... 'Nudey Rudey'.

Teehee.

The other day theWife ate his left overs. I said 'mummy honked your dinner.'

TheNoo?

'Mummy ... honker.'

Gold.

And, if I am reading a story where he doesn't like my fake accent (usually a loud obnoxious Jamaican rip off of Plugger the repair truck from Roary the Racing Car), he will gently put his hand on my cheek and say 'read ... poplee.'

Aw...

Hello near-shaved head, my new friend

Jimoein, the transplanted Irish comedian in Australia, once had a bit about going bald. He said, 'have you noticed when you start balding, people come up to you and say 'you're going bald' - like you hadn't noticed. Then you think ... two can play at this game ... and you cut your hair short.'

My grandfather, mother's side, was a short fat tummied man who was bald at 27. Guess whose genes I got ... including the one for acute recurring abdominal pain?

Out of my brothers, I am about nearly a foot shorter. In family photos I am a dip. I once got hand-me-ups.

So in addition to weight, gut pain, and height - I also suffer baldness. In 97 I had an arse-long pony-tail. Then the spot started. Now, 13 years on, there is a small segment of frontal thinning hair, but the small bald spot did a Germany V Poland and gave me effectively a reverse mohawk.

As a fat man whose trying to be less so, I walk a lot. And I sweat. And I wear a hat. Which means when I take my hat off, my sweat causes what little hair I have left up there to spike up like cacti in a Mexican desert. It's a bad look. On occasion I have to go into the bathroom post walk and mop up said headsweat.

That's a fun experience.

My remaining hair was getting ridonculously long, so the sweaty spiking was looking more and more stupid. Like licking a finger and sticking it in an empty light bulb socket comedic straight hair fizzed out stupid.

So on the weekend, off it went. TheWife, bless her soul, got me down to a number 1.

Except ... on the way to work I realised something.

I am now the splitting image of Marlon Brando in the third act of Apocalypse Now...

Take that, Bitterman!

I ran the lads through an up-scaled version of the Dungeon Magazine adventure, 'Fallen Angel', which was written by the Eberron Campaign World creator, Keith Baker.

For those of you who enjoy the odd bout of D&D, and yes it will still be AD&D to me, the Eberron setting which D got us into is, in a word, awesome. It takes the idea of pervasive magic and applies it at an industrial scale level. So it's kind of like Victorian era levels of technology, only where magic is the driving force not mechanical might. Think sky ships, maglev trains, floating islands, living robots etc.

Great stuff. In addition to pumping out a quality well thought out world where things like the impact of readily accessible magic forms the spine for the setting, Keith writes excellent adventures. This was no exception—'Fallen Angel' was a blast.

At any rate, the lads had cornered the villain, a mentally messed up bard whose person was enhanced and cursed by the spirits of hundreds of lost voices bubbling in his brain, and despite some momentary enjoyment of suggestion captured player characters taking on each other, eventually one of the power hitters got a power hit on.

The NPC had just 22 hit points left when he was struck for a critical by an oversized great axe, and with damage adds ons from various sources, he copped a total of 101 hp. In D&D, that's a lot. Indeed, one of the rules is anyone taking 50+ has to make a saving throw just to not automatically die.

Much crowing at this mega-smackdown was crowed. And fair enough too. I ruled the dude was cut in half ... vertically.

Which meant his magic armour was toast. Ha!

Anyway, take that, Bitterman indeed. An epic critical to take out the big boss. I guess you have to be there for moments like that ... but I tell you playing (A)D&D (or any pen and paper game) with a bunch of friends is some of the best fun you can have without chemical enhancement.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Tea Parties unmasked

In the states they recently had the CPAC - the Conservative something something gab fest where angry righties front up and blame Democrafts and soft-cock Republicans for the nation's woes. I went on the media matters website and caught some of Glen Beck, noted Fox front man / resident uber crazy, in full tinfoil hat flight. In Oz he'd either be relegated to talk radio only. or be institutionalized.

Peter Hartcher writing in the SMH commented about the similarities between conservatives in lock-step attack mode / no compromise in both US and Australian politics. He also raised the idea of the Tea Party movement getting a start here. Then a friend told him it had already been and gone.

Yes, the Tea Parties are essentially One Nation. In Oz this rage against the dying of insular whitey, whose epicentre was a flag draped small business woman named Pauline Hanson, had its day in the sun back in the late 90s. However a combination of the Australian conservative party, the oddly named Liberal Party stepping hard right and taking on board much of their complaints about reffos (the 2% of immigrants being asylum seekers - all the while massively upscaling "skilled migration"), and Ozzers recognising that One Nation was the death throes kick of a fading mindset saw it ash and puff away like a proper vampire - not the moronic Twilight super sparkly kind - caught by a shaft of noonday sun.

By the way, big ups to Tony Abbott who, at the time, did his best behind the scenes to hobble One Nation by providing guidance and fiscal support to anti One Nation forces - who went at them with the rule book on what defined a legal political party - and whose end result was that Pauline Hanson temporarily went to the big house for fraud - until released when her case was quashed on appeal. Of course Tony Abbot didn't have beatific motives at heart - since his party did a bit of a Time Warp dance move and as part of their reclaim the heartland of aggrieved lower middle class whitey - and took that big step to the right in an effort to shore up the base.

And now he's the leader of his party where this One Nation mindset expresses itself to this day in the form of Climate Change and Economic Stimulus denial. Because how could scraping native useless bushland and having pasture instead cause so, so much damage?

Anyway, the Tea Parties don't have a single unifying figure that has galvanized the electorate - and believe me back in the late 90s in Oz when One Nation was on the rise - they scored big time in their first out of the gate election cycle, winning something like 10 seats in the Queensland state parliament - with one of their newly elected members a part-time Santa Claus. Although Tea Parties do have standard bearers like Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachmann, and Glenn Beck. Perhaps they will get organised like the Ross Perot supporters in the early 90s during the 92 election cycle, and attempt this reactionary third party assault on the political process?

The mid-term elections in 2010 offer Obama a big kick in the pants. I'm just hoping the Dems call on those that rose to battle for sanity in the 2008 elections to rise once more and take on the right in the states - both the free market country club banker mofos that make money off the backs of the working men and women - and the bat-shit insane gun loving 'don't tread on me' tinfoil hat wearing climate change denying let's go back to the silver standard crazies that have crawled out from under a rock since Obama got in.

If the dems find it hard to pass meaningful legislation where they have both federal houses of the legislature, imagine how hard it will be when Johhny Reb with his coonskin cap, takes the oath of office.

A final note - the tea parties in the states aren't actually a political party - it's a political movement with many members paid up GOP - Palin after-all was the VP nominee for '08, and Bachmann is a serving member in congress for that once fine party.

Bed blogging

So here I am, in bed. I have the laptop balanced on my thighs while I lie reclined and my legs in the pyramid position. I'm waiting for the pain to ebb so I can try and sleep some more.

The IBS has been bad of late. I haven't had a decent proper visit to the porcelain fairy in nearly two weeks and while I suspect all my gunk is trapped midway, and beyond the reach of anally induced medications, I am nonetheless contemplating cracking the tip off a microlax and seeing if that helps.

Bleergh.

The dumb thing about IBS pain is that it is couched in terms of hope. In that you hope it will go away. Too often the pain feels like one good push or super fart will clear the pain away - that you will be surrounded by a fetid unholy stench but with a happy post coital look on your face and saying 'ahhhhhh' with relief for the pain having been Mandrake magicianed away.

Except it doesn't work like that. There is no magic final push, going over the top style passing of matter or anal air. The pain may be reduced, but it will fly back, insidiously worming its way through your guts once more.

Surely, people think, surely you bring this on yourself. Well, a bit I guess in that I could simply eat or drink sustenance that is least likely to cause bloating offence. Except ... that's no real life eating bland fibre dominant foods - and it doesn't work anyway. Oh, it helps. But it's not the 100% solution. It's a permanent condition with no fucking end in sight and it's really giving me the massive non-shits.

I lay there moments ago on my side trying my hardest to push , reasoning that the solo embarrassment of pushing a log out from a fetal position was worth it if the pain would just dial back from 11 a bit. Of course, nothing happened apart from the droplet of wee that's always at the tip shooting out a bit and fronting my PJ bottoms. Yay.

I've got the pain sweats up too. It's like I'm lightly lubed for some sort of contortion type action - or some alternate mirror universe photo shoot where my body shape of hairy apple is that universe's hard bodied fire-man. I feel slightly slippery and now and then have to sponge off my head in case the sweat drips into my eyes with a slight sting.

Still this is helping. I haven't blogged in ages. Part of it is nothing to say. Part of it is realising that blogging has had its heyday and most have departed for the fertile fields of facebook. Most of it is just feeling bleergh.

Which is a danger. When I had gall stones I went to a psych for pain management training - though it turns out much of my gall stone pain was actually masked IBS badness - he said the important thing was to still take pleasure in stuff . Make sure you had something in your life that you still enjoyed doing even if you were wracked with pain. I love doing this, and while it's nice to have others reading it, I have to remember this isn't an exercise in narcissism, it's more akin to a journal with purpose. It's like a diary in many ways but with the knowledge that it's potentially read by others.

So since this makes me feel better about myself, even if it is the equivalent of a normal man performing crude repairs in his man-cave, I will keep doing it.

Plus the warmth of the laptop through my doona is making me feel funny - like when we climbed the rope in gym class.

So ... bed blogging. How's it going? Well it took a while to get into the groove. I had to turn the light on to look at the keys at first - laptop keyboard are a different creature to the deskstop and I tend to miskey a lot when I am using them. I think the keys are slightly wider. Also my gut has a tendency to wobble over the top of the track pad and suddenly my cursor has caused text to sprout in a new locale which is annoying. And when I mash the keypad and have typos it's usually faster to delete text to type over than peer down, try and finger the pad, then move the cursor back into position.

Anyway, that's enough for now. I am going to augment my meds and try something else to help me sleep. Then, when refreshed, back to the computer to do work from home. Fortunately my work has been cool with this combination of sick leave and home based work.

But let's face it, they're better off. Because if I am able to pass some of the hell wind for that momentary relief, they do not want to be within 20 feet of me - and I don't have a can of Glen 20 to perform the courtesy spray.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

They're b-a-a-a-c-k - the return of the unhinged right

Ever since a biracial man with a funny name moved into the big house, elements on the US fringe have gone nuts - much like ants do when, as a kid, you stomp across a giant network of ants nests*.

This Washington Post piece likens to what is happening now in the US political landscape to what happened under Clinton - only worse.

You kids, and your music, are probably too young to remember what Clinton went through but, from the beginning, the unhinged right refused to accept him as a commander in chief. Hell, the Republicans under Gingrich shut down the federal government for a week when they suspended funds. They promoted myths about real estate scams and, when one of the Clinton's friends committed suicide, claimed the Clintons had him whacked. It was surreal - even without the internet to monitor this craziness in the early part of the Clinton's term, over in Oz we were shaking our heads at the sheer nut battery that was going on.

The radical right had some joy with Clinton in that he submitted to a base urge to accept a very generous offer for a penile inspection from an attractive young woman, but the happily married normal Obama offers fewer targets. Except, of course, for the fact his dad was a Muzzy and there's a belief he was born in Kenya - existence of birth records and newspaper announcements from the fine state of Hawaii apparently part of an insidious 45 year plan to make this baby President.

But with people like Glenn Beck now mainstream press - and yes Fox you are mainstream when, as you claim, you have the highest cable ratings - the level of Clinton Crazy has gone up a notch. Before the radical right were tethered to talk radio. Now, now they have the internet and several talking heads on the biggest cable network on their side.

This is a recipe for some fucked up wacky. I just hope the sensible centre in the US doesn't subscribe to this insanity and ignores them. Fortunately, there is hope. Despite Palin's popularity with tea party types willing to pony up $600 to hear her read dot points off her palm in her folksy voice - apparently more Americans see her for what she is - an insane right wing opportunist who abandoned her office to which she'd been elected so as to make a bunch of money.

You betcha.

PS I'm scoping out the Southern Poverty Law Centre site. This is a non-for-profit that for years has been holding back the waves of hate that emerge spluttering and incoherent in the states now and then. They have some excellent reports available.



* When I was a child, I went to an all boys private school for a few years because the state system suggested I was problematic. My bus stop across from the school was in a park - where there was an ants nest complex. When it rained, you could see beads of water in the ant holes trapping the ants in their burrows. I used to get a twig and hold it down like a man stretching a branch to a companion stuck in quicksand, and they'd grip it and I'd lift them out. Be free my anty bothers! Don't get excited about my pro-ant position. I also used to have a game where, armed with a water pistol, I used to mark out a 30cm grid around an ant hole and shoot any ant that came out. I could play that for hours. I also played 'viking funeral' with Christmas Beetles - dead ones - where I made them a matchbox coffin with cotton wool, then mounted them on a margarine lid suspended in the air on sticks, doused it with metho then set it alight.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Tally me bananas

I'm a singer. No, not a singer in a pleasing to an audience kind. The nonsense kind. I sing shit, make up silly ditties, or set new words to old music. Often this is prompted by something I've heard or read.

Whilst I was tooling down the Monaro highway, news came in that Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar, number two with a bullet in the Tally me bananas ranks, had been picked up.

There's this song where the nonsense words that arm up between the choruses go "da dee dahbi da" (no, not Blue).

A few seconds later my singin' brain kicked in with Mullah Bar-a-dar ... Mullah Bar-a-dar ... Mullah Bar-a-dar ... etc.

Which reminds me. Who assigns the Mullah status? With the pope it's a bunch of under 70's Cardinals armed with six doves, and some white smoke. With certain fundamentalist pentacostals it was by saying you were a minister, then going door to door recruiting possible parishioners from the neighbourhood and meeting in a high school cafeteria for five years as you built up the money to purchase your first purpose built church - with a 10 year plan to upgrade this to a mega effort with a giant carpark*.

Wiki, do you know?

Of course you do. So, there you go. Mullah status is assigned a variety of ways, depending on where you live, ranging from the pre-req of being learned scholarly trained cleric, through to someone who can read and write, has a hint of Islamic knowledge, and thus the less literate get them to do the theological stuff like funerals and weddings.

Have you wiki'ed today?

*For those people that subscribe to the theory of an interventionist God, Nick Cave style, where a divine being manifests power or directs natural occurrences to punish heretics, unbelievers, or the wicked, then the 2003 Canberra Bushfire must have been a shock to the system for some. Like many municipalities, Canberra dedicates space for faiths to build their facilities. In one of the fire ravaged suburbs, apocalyptic flames shot through a block of land that had three religious buildings on it - I believe a Pentecostal church, an Orthodox Christian church of some-kind, and a Synagogue.

Only the Synagogue survived, and with barely a scratch mark on it...

As heard on the BBC World Service

'So, if you've read a bad business book, or know about the sale of human bodies, we'd like to know...'


Saturday, February 13, 2010

Stop looking up my damn Cloaca: Second Duck

Wall in 70’s Décor house: The second flying duck has said that it is tired of the rear most duck looking up its cloaca - the posterior opening that serves as the only such opening for the intestinal, reproductive and urinary tracts of certain animal species, such as ducks.

‘My damn cloaca is my own damn business,’ said second duck. ‘Yet I can feel its beady eyes boring in on my one stop shop hole.’

Second duck said while he did not fear being molested, since the cork-screw nature of the duck’s cloaca is such that, unless the cloaca is relaxed, then unwanted intrusion is impossible, he nonetheless felt like he was being objectified as nothing more than a flying glory hole.

‘My eyes are up here,’ said second duck. ‘Not down there. Yes, sure, he can’t look at my eyes given our position on the wall, but you know he could look further up like at a wing or tail feathers or something. And yes, I do see the irony in a 70’s kitsch art object complaining about being objectified, but I have feelings too.’

Second duck said that third duck, and indeed all wall or table mounted ceramic ornaments, should undergo mandatory equity training so they understand that unwanted cloaca leering makes the recipient feel both undervalued and menaced.

‘If fortune 500 companies can mandate their employees attend such training, then surely wall and table mounted ornaments could likewise receive some form of presentation. Just put in a DVD of it for fuck’s sake. It’s not like there’s not a doily covered tv opposite us.’

Third duck said that if second duck didn’t want him to stare at his cloaca, then he shouldn’t be sashaying up the wall in a prominent cloaca like position.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know that in a perfect world a duck should be able to fly down an alley at midnight, bombed out of its skull, its sexy little cloaca glinting furtively in the moonlight from a nest of perfumed feathers and not be objectified. But you try hanging on a wall since the Carter administration staring 24/7 at a delish date and try and look away. It just can’t be done.’

The litter of pottery kittens on the hall table however agreed with second duck, and suggested such training even be extended to the human owners. This due in part to their tiring of every visit by the 14 year old grandson ending in their being re-arranged in a in a daisy chain of butt fucking.

"I refuse to be typecast"—volcanic ash husk of a Pompeii victim

Pompeii, Italy: Tired of being typecast as a victim of nature’s fury, noted volcanic husk of a Pompeii victim said he will be leaving the display at the on-site museum and pursuing a long held dream of ventriloquism.

"I know I have a talent at representing the morbid remains of a cataclysmic event that can barely be conceived by a living mind—the horror of being suffocated as the result of dense choking ash, which even as it killed you then settled over your body, perfectly recording your body’s shape even as fleshy remnants rotted away. But, like an actor doomed facing another five year contract to play the part of a beloved character after 20 years on a provincial soap, I have reached the end of my tether."

The volcanic ash husk of a Pompeii victim said that it had been developing an act for some years now and, following a third placing at a local talent show, decided that it was a sign to jump.

‘"Unlife and life share one simple quality—the need to grasp an opportunity when it comes along. And, as a fusion of geology and biology such moments are rare. I’d be a plaster-cast resembling fool in Madam Tussuad's medieval exhibit if I didn’t take this chance" said the volcanic ash husk of a Pompeii victim.

"As a volcanic ash husk of a Pompeii victim I can readily throw my voice since I have no jaw or need to breathe," added the volcanic ash husk of a Pompeii victim. "This makes me a superior voice-caster, as we Ventriloquists prefer to be called."

Judges at the talent show said they thought the act was a guerrilla style out of left-field anti-comedy piece that was akin to a movement in world Comedy in the 1970s which best represented by actors such as Andy Kaufmann.

"We assumed the dummy simply had a speaker in it and a person offstage was speaking lines into a microphone," confessed a judge. 

"As the basis of a long standing act where there is an interplay between the dummy and the voice-caster, I can’t see it having a future considering volcanic ash husk of a Pompeii victim can’t physically move."

The volcanic ash husk of a Pompeii victim said he would show them all, and would be able to be seen at an off-off-off Edinburgh fringe show at the next festival.

"The show’s called Ver-Ver-suvius," said volcanic ash husk of a Pompeii victim, "and trust me, there will be a lot of Volcano-related humour."

At that point he demonstrated his act by asking his dummy what did one piece of pumice say to the other piece of pumice, before concluding the bit with "Fancy floating you here."

Grandmother going to no longer be asked to repair toys; grand-daughter

McClusky household; Erin McClusky, nine, said she will no longer ask soft-spoken mother of her father, Edna McClusky, to repair her toys following the latest neo-realistic depiction performed by the elderly long fingered matriarch.

‘I asked NanNan to fix my bear, Andy, as he had a sore tummy [stuffing protruding from his stomach]. When NanNan returned him, she’d put a strip of ribbon over the wound and said it was a tissue.’

When asked about the maintenance, Edna had said that the ribbon was satin and represented a settled scar.

‘When you have a scar for a long time, and your body changes shape, then the scar tissue can expand forming a long, thick ribbon like streak on the flesh. This streak of aging scar has similar feel and texture to the rubber of saggy near-dead balloon when you run your finger along the ancient wound,’ said Edna in her soft-spoken voice, saying Satin best represented this in textile form.

Erin said she’d experienced what her mother calls a ‘shame on me’ moment, considering that NanNan has form on realistic depictions of deformity when it comes to toys.

‘I once asked NanNan what my barbie would be like as a mermaid, and she said this was a rare congenital deformity known as Sirenomelia which affected one in a hundred thousand births. Then to show me she took my barbie and, using her lighter, fused its legs together.’

Friday, February 12, 2010

Opposing Obama

A BBC reporter heads on down south to talk to Americans about why they oppose Obama. An interesting listen. A very scary, very sad, but very interesting listen.

See the link to the BBC Reports here.

Apparently the Tea Party is polling ahead of the Republicans. Jesus wept.

Lucked out again!

There's changes afoot in my workplace. I am getting a new boss shortly. The old boss didn't leave, they just slotted a new boss between us and him. Which is fair enough - they needed a specialist for the sort of work we do to properly oversight it. That being said my current boss is a very smart, passionate, dedicated person and I admit to taking the long way around to avoid passing his doorway in case he called me in to assign work or give me needed positive constructive feedback.

Yes, I know, pathetic.

Anyway, today we met our new boss, ahead of her eventual posting in to the slot.

I have to admit there was some trepidation. I was about 1/5th into my daily walk when I realised she was coming in and hot to hotfoot it back to work. I spent two minute padding the sweat off my balding plate because I didn't want to inflict her with a florid sweaty balding hair sticking up licked a light socket visage.

I was also worried I'd be older than her. I know it's a bit pathetic to be worried about being older than your boss, but hey I have tickets on myself and regard my abilities as superior to most other people. A younger boss in my field proves that those tickets are held in error.

Fortunately, she's about my age. So that's good. Mind you the one time I had a younger boss than me, for about three months, she was awesome and I fully missed her when she left. She even acted as a bad cop for me once in a meeting when a recalcitrant colleague wasn't pulling her weight on a capability delivery. Luckily, we kept in touch when she left and we're regular lunching / dinner pals now!

So ... the new boss. My age.

Why have I lucked out?

She has a sense of humour. She laughed at my crap jokes and made jokes of her own. She's a recent mum, her baby is near theNoo's age, and she is dealing with all the drudge aspects of baby wrangling. She said she and her partner describe breeched nappies as 'Poonamis'. Awesome. She also described a type-written circa mid 80's report that is still used as a core background for what we do, as "adorable" - which caused S and myself to piss ourselves laughing. Report = pwned.

I have a good feeling about her. She's experienced in my field - more so than me - and has done time at the coalface - and knows both the down in the weeds stuff and the higher level strategic mechanics as well.

I think this is the start of a very productive working relationship...

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Attention, fat men

When you're just wearing PJ bottoms, and you have them Harry High, do you ... do you feel like Obelix?

















Yeah ... you know you do.

Saturday, February 06, 2010

Take that ear hair

Yes ... you feel so good ... snuggly bound within the rubbery feeling skin of my outer ear. But I will have you... I will.

Finally, I have pulled it out. I twizzle it between forefinger and thumb, then ... poof ... waft it into the air with a short breath.

Yes ... an entire week ... that's all I have to say.

Best of luck to those attempting self-improvement. Rock on mah tasty bruthas!