Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Story time featured...

... phone-flavoured cheese paddlepops.

He ate them ... then burped them up ... onto Stumpty.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Noodles news

We have this game with theBoy. When he's getting greased up—he suffers from eczema so he has to have creams put on post-bath—and about to get his night nappy on, I grab the plastic bag that holds the cheese, take it out, and start singing 'Nah nah nah nah nah nah butt cheese!' to the tune of the 1960s Batman TV show. I round the central pillar wall that divides the lounge from the dining room and, by the time I get to where he's being changed, his nappy is in place. I look crestfallen and walk away, thus thwarted from pressing the cold block of cheese against his butt.

No, I don't know how we came to do that. But—excuse the pun—it's become a nightly ritual now and he gets irked if Butt Cheese doesn't happen.

Today at the cafe he was singing 'Nah nah nah nah nah nah butt cheese!' loudly and proudly ... and then repeated his performance just after I'd just introduced him to my co-workers after an impromptu session of 'come see where daddy works.'

In interactive story time he's also learned to 'shoot' things. He used to say 'BEW!', which is sort of like 'PEW', which was his 'I blow it away' noise. Recently I taught him 'Chk Chk BLAM!' which is my impression of a shotgun being racked then fired.

So when characters turn up in story time he often resorts to the shottie if he doesn't like them.

The other day he found Monkey—a regular player from story time that frequently jibbers nonsensically before pooing somewhere inappropriate—sitting in a basket.

'What do you do?' I asked.

'Chk chk BLAM!' he shouted gleefully.

Then I found myself saying this.

'Honey ... not everything in life can be solved with a shotgun.'

Amen.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Rock on, my gay brothers (and same-sex orientated sisters)

New York has legalised gay marriage. Hooray!

The WashPo covered the action down at the site of the Stonewall when it was announced.

The Stonewall—allegedly owned by a pair of gay mafiosi—was a semi-clandestine gay club in New York in the '60s. In 1969 it was the site of a riot after gays, tired of being ragged on by the cops, decided to strike back.

It was also the only riot in history—according to Mark Steel—to have had a chorus kick-line.

Congrats guys on achieving a basic civil right. Here's to a greater claiming of rights you should always have had.

I find it weird when you come across people against gay marriage, especially the seriously vehement ones. I was most surprised when my dad turned out to be one of those. He claimed it was the wording. 'Marriage is our word' he hissed, face lightly purpling. Honestly I think logic kind of walked out the gate for him then. You can't own a word. Or its meaning.

It's the one world—they're here, they're queer, get used them getting married and saying 'I do'.


Kung Fu Panda 2—any good?

We went and saw it as a full family. TheBoy was a bit distracted—mind you I kept snapping his undies when he lent against the carpet-covered half-wall in front of our seats, so I didn't help.

Anyway. Kung Fu Panda 2 was good. It had a decent storyline, the lines were good, the gags were clever, and the animation was excellent. Totally worth seeing and a solid sequel to the original.

Call and response

I'd gone for my daily walk. Before then I'd been drinking a fair amount of diet coke. When I got back to the office it had shifted to my bladder—about a litre's worth.

I had to speed up with the pressure on my gizzards so when I made it past the second door and started the process at the shell I went 'ahh' with relief 'cos it was a close call.

It was just after that the dude in the occupied stall yelled out 'TIMBER!'

It sounded like TLR. But I wasn't sure. So I just slunk out. Later I emailed to ask.

It wasn't him. He claimed a hearty chuckle would've sufficed in that situation. Except ... if someone chose to walk in at that point they'd assume I was laughing at my own junk.

When will people learn that the toilets is like the elevator—no fucking talking!

An email round

The situation. A stress-down day is planned for the workplace by Ma. This partially in response to the recent move ... which stressed us all.

TLR decides to up the ante and offer to go to stress down dressed up.

TLR—I plan on wearing my Princess Leia costume. Yeah, the Jabba's Palace one.

TLR is ridiculously good looking, you should see the stares and fingers-in-the-hair-twizzles he gets when he walks past girls. But not even he can carry off a gold metallic bikini.

I felt I had to respond.

Me—I would pay no money to see that. Not even monopoly money. Unless it was defaced money. Even then ...

Ma, the organiser, was kept in the loop.

Ma—did you say defecated money?

Ma is a bit of a reprobate. She has a good sense of humour. So I figured I was on safe ground to dismiss her concerns of poo-taint.

Me—Well I was thinking of crudely scrawled representations of genitalia but if you want to deface your gaming money in that manner who am I to judge?

She later chuckled that I'd gone too far ... except she was the one who went the poo!

Thursday, June 23, 2011

TheBoy is a natural born gamer

We were doing story time on the big bed.

'Suddenly daddy-in-a-picture (1) startled tickling theBoy,' I said. I then grabbed theBoy and started tickling him.

'What do you do?' I then said, still tickling.

'Chk Chk BLAM!' yelled theBoy.

Yes, that's right, he'd gone the shottie. That's my boy!

(1) The name of a pesky Leprechaun. I asked theBoy what the Leprechaun's name was and theBoy looked around the room, then settled on 'Daddy-in-a-picture after seeing a photo of me. Classy naming. Totally reminds me of the 'you need a name' scene from Yellow Beard [see from 8.40].

TheWife cracks a bewdy

TheWife sent this in an email to home—Gorn ya pricks, get out of it!

It's a couplespeak reference to the time, bombed out of our skulls, we tried to walk into the yard of an old house we lived in and the current owners—whom we did not know lived there (the house looked empty)—yelled at us to fuck off, using the above referenced words. When we got back to the house of the middle-aged hippy who were visiting (and who we later lived with in Canberra) we very kindly repaid the new owners' use of their basic human right to tell fuckwads walking into their yard to fuck off by ordering them a pizza followed by a taxi to the airport.

Me back—How did that get past your firewall ... ? ... PRANK CALL, PRANK CALL!

TheWife—Um, I was talking about rose stems, and the perils they impart. Mind out of the gutter!

There was no comeback to that finely crafted response. All I could do was admit defeat with a single word of congratulations and an accompanying image.

Me—Nice.

Where Mikey proposes a conspiracy to Cass...

Okay, so I checked the rules on readied actions. It says that "You can ready a standard action, a move action, or a free action." Which means if you ready an action to shoot something—an attack action—you can't then use a free action to burn on ordering your wolf to attack since the ready only lets you do one of those three action types (1). I did a reverse-Mikey (2) last night in not revealing thatlargely because I was sitting next to you and I didn't want one of your double-arched eyebrow raises accompanied by your partially amused but mostly annoyed lightly-stinging stare over the rims of your specks ... all alongside a healthy portion of 'Mikey?!'. I'm happy to keep quiet if you are ... said Mikey with a grin ... a grin that was almost ...wolfish?

(1) Names for the pair of wolves you rescued (of which one is now your Ranger animal companion)—how about "Snick and Snack?", "The Captain and Tennille?', "Potato and Mash?", "Posh and Becks?", "Becks and A-good-lie-down?". By the way I so wish you'd taken a different animal companion option. I am speaking of course ... of one of these.
(2) When playing nerd games I have the annoying habit of pointing out rules that will fuck the other players if they try something or are in the process of doing something. I do it as the GM ... I do it as the player... against other players.That usually earns shouts of 'Mikey, shut the fuck up?!'

It's almost a shame to finish the game

That's a spicy meatball

This morning I woke up just after dawn. I lay in a half-doze for an hour. Then theBoy came in. He saw I was semi-awake.

'Okay then, come on,' I said.

He climbed over me and snuggled in next to me.

'Humpty Stumpty stories,' he said firmly.

So we just snuggled up against the morning chill, telling stories to each other for half an hour.

We're so lucky to have him. He's a shoogie!

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

A Mikey Missive ... and also right at this moment I am heavily, heavily medicated

Some background.

—My office is undergoing a re-fit. There's lots of construction work noise to deal with. So to cope with it I stick my ear-buds in, then my wireless cybermens over those. The combo cuts the decibels in half. It also means it's difficult to get my attention via the 'ole slimy word hole (1).


—My boss was a huge 1927 fan in high-school. I think she's actually seen them live in the last decade.

—The coffee van comes twice a day. It plays a sting of Mexican music to advise the white collar world of its presence. This music later was revealed to actually be ... La Cucaracha.

Since I wouldn't hear people telling me the coffee van was here, I pinged my peeps an email.

I'm wired most of the day due to hypersensitivity to drilling noise. So if la cucaracha (sic.) turns up again and you're heading out. If I'm at my desk can you prod me with a stick or something to let me know?

A stick will be available for prodding on top of the [second computer]. Okay, it's a pen.

Human fingers also welcome*

*Which as irony would have it is the name of my spoken-word album of 1927 (2) covers.

Later TLR used the pen in accordance with my wishes. He's a good, ridiculously good-looking (3), egg.

(1) Best. Blues Name. Ever. Even if it doesn't match the ailment fruit theory of blues names—(1a) name (1b) such as Blind Melon, or Crippled Peach, or Rheumatoid Arthritis Tomato (1c).
(1a) I keep a single em-dash character in a word pad file just so I can drop them in da blog since I became aware of and suffer an actual joy to see of the use of the un-spaced em-dash to connect clauses in a sentence (1a1)
(1a1) I learned what a clause was this year! Go me Cptn-V'table.
(1b) I actually once created an excel random blues generator. I put a column of not-google sourced list of names of physical ailments (Altavista? Was that a search-engine? That's so 1983. Oh it is?! How about that?). And matched it against a list of fruits. Then a random generator combined with a concatenate of the terms looked up to form the list (1b1).
(1b1) The Apple IIe came with maybe three disks of shit to play on the computer. One of the disks had Scramble. You entered two lists. It joined the lists together randomly. So you would write 'David is a' and 'Dad likes to suck' or '
manky ferret' then other list would be thinks like 'wardrobe' or 'genghis khan' or 'your left nipple' and then the scrabble would shake up it's fruity magic and spit out gems like 'manky ferret ... your left nipple.' Which to three Brady Boy-esq tri-split bros (not before hos) of 13, 11, and nine (1b1a) was comic tummy-aching gold. However this is Mikey writing in his late thirties. I am clearly boostin' out some advanced word action there. Back then it'd been really have things has PC as 'You bottom' ... 'lights snot.' Yes, right down to the shitty spelling and poor word selection (1b1b)
(1b1a) Yes, that is correct. You spell out words under 11, such as ten, nine, eight etc. but go numbers if 11 or more, 12 ... 13... 14 even if in the same clause because that's how it's the fuck done. I know this now ever since I got taught basic kid level formatting standards by my boss—who is the most skilled and interesting yet interestingly-barbed boss (1b1a1) I have ever worked for.
(1b1a1) I defy anyone to correctly track the footnoting to this point. Duck I'm pointing at you. Don't make me come up there. I also suggest your first thought on seeing this was 'Whaaaaaaaaat?' and you then just look behind you. Now. Do it. Do it. Next time you have sex you will see me there behind you. Curse-smack-down. UPDATE: Duck claimed he legit followed the footnote to here. I suspect he's just saying that. But then he is a wicked smart edu-ma-cated man so perhaps he did?
(1b1b) In uni I worked with a pair of Indian students. This is the early nineties. We worked in the I.D. card office. It was a sweet gig and one day I will write up a big fucking utterly pointless blog challenge. If I was going through uni now for writing I would so submit these things for the exercises. And as a mature uni-student wouldn't piss-fart it away like I did when I did my Grad. Dip..

My Grad. Dip. experience is worth a lengthy aside.

I just phoned study in and spent a surreal year living with a middle-aged hippy, theWife (then just the liveWith), in a freezing-cold group house in the north of Canberra. Where each face-to-face day I would spend half-hour walking to and from. Utterly spat the year away. Waste of time and effort. Though I did get to meet Casso and for years after I went to my organisation would see—her having joined the same org as me, and I would see her in the big cafe, knowing I knew her from somewhere but couldn't figure it. But still admiring her cuteness with the kewl smile, glasses, brown hair and leather jacket—but alas I'd forgotten her because of how fucked up I was in said year from depression and being on super meds. Oh and getting pneumonia and finking out my word project because I'd missed cut-off to withdraw despite the fact I was sick for a month over winter and spent my time in and out of fucked up munged sleep in a three room corridor apartment up the top of the three story structure which baked you in summer (cold showers every 15 minutes) and was nipple harden cold in winter, especially if you sat out on the sloping balcony on a winter's night, rugged up in a doona on an old push-back frame plus two cushion chair that was likely sold to us by Gregg, our then-friend, who likely found it at the dump and brought it home. That was the genesis of the couch we'd brought with us from our undergrad uni-town, having paid a mover $800 to move out my shit down to Canberra. Years later the fucking Department of fucking Social Security remembered all of a sudden I'd borrowed that money from the government under some sort of advance-on-your-dole scheme to relocate to areas of better employment and thus, because I was between semesters of uni and those on said dole. They made me pay it back, the fucks. I had my sad little 12k starting waged garnished for like six months by the c___. I was fucked off about that. But then I did utterly lie my arse off about liveWith, the before theWife who is theWife was theWife who I said was actually theFlat(ie) and had uncomfortable conversations
with the case officer along the lines of 'So ... when you get invited to the movies by friends. Is it as a couple or as friends?' to which I'd say things like 'Well we live together and have the same friends. So when friends call to invite us to stuff then it's like the one call to the one place. Because we live together they're hardly going to hang up after talking to me—'did you want to go see Independence Day (1b1ba)—then call again to talk to the thenFlat(ie) to ask the exact, same question. They accepted that ... and approved me to go on the dole for just three weeks between Austudy and gainful, fully-admitted that they knew about, employment. Since—if de-factos—that would have severely crimped our combined welfare money. Mmmm ... the dole. How much un-fun was that? Especially if the Dole office made you submit your form on Wednesday because that was the day they shut the counters at 1.30, no idea why they though that was client-service. It meant you had to be up by 12. Fuck.

Aside over.

So we worked together in the I.D. card office. One them later died in a climbing accident. My friend Steve told me during the previews to a movie we were seeing—I can't remember what it was now but at the time he told me the preview to the remake of On Our Selection was playing. I suddenly burst into tears. I wept and wept and wept. And I barely knew him. I think I was just keyed up. I get that way. Because I am ManWeak—the man who is weak. ManWeak. In theaters, July.

(1b1ba) After we saw that movie at its first release we stood up during the credits and saluted right up until the house lights went full-on. Which is the cinema's way of saying 'please fuck off so the 12 year-old usher can sweep up spilled popcorn and choc-top remnants. I only hope they never had to deal with a beat-off miss-catch. My awesome, lovely, super lovely manly yet caring as all fuck just intelligent goofy awesome dad awesome friend (1b1bb) was an usher. When he detected smokers on his foot patrol he'd just stop, torch beam angled into the screen-lit dark, and wait. The smokers, with their fag held inside their wrists would eventually experience their cig burning down far enough to be awkward. Very, very awkward. Then ... a loudly hissed 'Fuck!' and the 'cast-out cig and foot-stomp' Sprung! He's the most Jesus-like person I have ever met in my life. If you could point at a Christian that actually acts like a real Christian—values, good-works, spiritual enrichment, you couldn't pick a better person. I am proud to be his friend and I am fiercely admirable of his certainty and comfort of his faith.
(1b1bb) who talks theology with me and gently corrects my poor grasp of biblical morality. 'But why do charismatic Christians get inflicted with prosperity ministry—it is right and good to accumulate wealth because you can do so much good when you're the one purely directing said wealthy to noble causes—like a new rec-room or outdoor jacuzzi, than giving it to the government for socialised support of welfare queens. Not the adam's apple kind—"Welfare Queens" was the sobriquet gifted by the bizarrely hagiographered (prob not a word—as in hagiography, saint knowledge, or, in 3.5 speak, Knowledge Religion (super pumped by clerics so they can know what powers weird undead do when you clock into one in the dungeon(1b1bb1)) Ronald Reagan)
—when Jesus said 'It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle for a rich man to get into heaven!'. To which he said. 'We'll ... it's more correctly about wealth ... and there's different kinds of wealth.'
(1b1bb1) Tonight we played a game when someone had an awesome idea. We're sneaking along the corridor and hear noises from behind a door. The place is slicked with swamp mud so sneaking is hard ("Schlook, Schlook, Schlook"). We want to know what's behind it. Ideas are cast around. Then Rachel goes 'Why ... why don't we knock?' In twenty years of D&D, fuck, no, twenty-five awesome fucking years of playing D&D, I have never, ever thought to simply knocked. We did. It opened. We shot two swamp hill-billies in the throat. Dunga-dung-dung-dung-dung-dung.
(1c) Yes, it's a fruit. Yes, I aim one of the people that points this out. For years I also told people strawberries were technically a herb, not a fruit. I was wrong. They're a rose. Freaky-bo-deaky-do-di-with-da-freak-freak-do (1c1)
(1c1) This reminds me of the time my flatmate's cat died. One day ('Mostly, mostly') blog it. It's a very sad, very troubling story about my inability to perform limited cat-looking-after duties and I let both my flatmate's cats die ... through sheer neglect on both our parts. He was essentially living at his girlfriend's house and yet his mother asked him to take on two kittens while she was away on sabbatical. Only he wasn't there to look after them. I assume he had it in hand. He did not. They both died within a month. Not murdered. Just severely unloved and thus fell victim to fatalities that could have been avoided.
(2) I just had this whole bit in—"I think band names get italicized. Which means if surrounding text is italicized then you have to de-italicize so emphasis is retained. I know it should be emphasis but I hate the red underline. Red underline makes me sad. Then I looked at the wiki and found bands don't get italicized. So I took it out.
(3) I know it's not the actual quote but it's the first hit I got scanning YouTube and I'd never seen it before. We saw Zoolander on our honeymoon. How fucking awesome that our surreal honeymoon had that as one of the seminal moments of the perfect movie being seen while on it? The honeymoon, not on Zoolander. An endlessly quotable movie that you can use as part of your couplespeak. Like when you see a stunning-looking person and you lean over and whisper hoarsely to the other and in a crappy stage-whisper whisper 'That's Hansel. He's so hot right now.' Will Ferrell. You complete me. (3a).
(3a) Sigh. There's like a hundred doors of memories past blog posts here. Utterly, utterly pointless blog posts that no one in a pink fit would read. But then I am banking on those horrible long-legged dreamtime-like aliens from A.I. coming across this blog and it is the only surviving fragment of humanity. Someone has to chronicle man. Why not me? Wow. Imagine that? Being the voice of mankind? Far out man (3a1).
(3a1) I completely forget what this footnote was for.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Jon Stewart on Fox

You have to admire Jon Stewart's ability to talk with intelligence and from the heart right to the face of the people of the beast.

Go, Jon, go.

Reverse purgatory

Recently our unit moved offices. We left the glorious office park for an older building in a different suburb. An older building still undergoing its refit. We moved incredibly suddenly—like within a month of the decision being made—for financial reasons. Which is why we're having to experience construction going on as we're in the office. This includes things like not being able to use the good internal stairwell—the other one is so dangerous I reported it as a hazard—and the joys of hearing drilling from 10 metres away. The drilling got so bad I ended up putting my bud earphones in to drown out the noise with music ... and over the top of that my wireless headphones. I looked like cyberman in a fat suit.

Other delights include being booted from the building at five—because only a limited number of people know how to use the alarm system—and chairs whose arm rests have been gnawed at by mice. There's mice hotel traps all over the place.

The building is a seedy '70s era effort. The only saving grace is that ... wait, I can't think of one. Ahthat's it—the parking. Still free. Like the last place.

So basically we left a really schmicky light and airy place in a good location with cafes and shops in walking distance, and a dentist staffed with young attractive people that laugh at my jokes ... to a place that doesn't have those things. Oh and in a month we have to move again—internally, for when the refit is finished—upstairs. At least we don't have to pack boxes for it. We can just use flatbed trolleys and the like.

To top it off I had a technician booked to come in—between nine and one thirty—and he didn't show. I wasn't the point of contact. Some other person was. She wasn't in. So the tech presumably tried her, couldn't get her, shrugged, then never turned up. Oh and never told anyone. It took the office contacting them to find out what happened. When can they come again. In a week. A fucking week. What a bunch of jokes.

Oh—and there's no decent cafes in walking distance. There's a sandy dominated place—as in they sell sandwiches, that's about it, and coffee. And some dude that apparently turns up in a coffee van, alerting all those in ear shot they've arrived by the playing of Mexican music.

The whole thing has been a right shemozzle and the building is nowhere near as good as the last one. And it's a living construction site with noisy banging and drilling and all sorts of auditory poison.

But on the flip-side we're saving the taxpayer big bucks which is pretty cool. Tax dollars at work and all that. I'm sure in a couple of months we'll all be used to it.

However I do miss the office park. I really loved that place. The previous part of the org I worked in sucked hugely. Everyone that got out of there seemingly ended up in the office park. It was like we'd made it to the fantasy tropical island held as a promise to contestants of The Running Man. We'd laugh and share congratulations on having escaped. Except in my case ... the island then sank and I ended up in a faded (for now) shithole.

Oh well ... them's the breaks.

To top it off I had another Mikey moment recently. There's a small sub-section of two in our group that do research stuff. For some reason I decided to call them 'Mr Wint and Mr Kidd'. Then I realised that to label these two, attractive girls in their twenties, after two somewhat unattractive Bond villain hit-men who incidentally happen to be gay, was probably a bad call.

I compounded that bad call by then sending them the wiki.

Go Mikey.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

TheBoy drops a pun

TheWife to theBoy—'We're going to watch The Princess Bride!'

TheBoy—'Princess ... Fried!'

Gold.

Public singing shame fail

My iRiver Mp3 player finally died. It kept skipping tracks halfway through leading to howls of frustration from me ... which if people were nearby was a little startling—since a rugged up cross between a garden gnome and leftist agitator just snarled a bitter 'oh for fuck's sake' seemingly at nothing.

So I went and got a new one ... and it's awesome.

On the way back to the car—and I blame the ethereal music that was being pumped into the shopping centre where I purchased the new player from—without thinking I started singing.

I only realised I was purring out Mikey muzak, my voice echoing through the partially filled under-store car-park, when I saw an Indian man staring at me.

What song I was singing?

It was 'Total eclipse of the heart'.

Fail.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Miss my mong out

When you suffer mild-to-chronic semi-constant pain you look for things you can do where you can blank out the world. I don't mean uber-blank, like going class A narcotics (though pain killers do form a part of your coping-with armoury). I mean stuff you can do where you can just kind of enter a zone and dial the pain back to background noise - like that static crackle from The Big Bang.

For me mine was Warlords II. A game released in the early-mid nineties. When we bought our stupid hybrid Mac / PC back in 1997, taking a five thousand dollar personal loan to afford it (I know, holy shit), I purchased a CD-ROM copy of the game for the computer. It cost I think $70. I must have played that game a thousand times - the scenarios and the random map sequences.

When we finally made the move to one hundred percent PC people I found a copy of Warlords II the Deluxe Version that had a scenario editor and ordered it ... a DOS game on diskettes. It also cost $70. I could make my own armies and scenarios! Bliss! This I did and more. My most proud scenario creations ... homages to Dragonlance and Greyhawk.

When my pain crap needle started it's seeming inexorable upward trend I found that playing Warlords II was my mong out. I could click-click-click for hours in a semi-trance and ignore the pain messages flooding around my body.

Then my arm got sore ... and stayed sore. Finally after months of discomfort and following a suggestion from theWife I went to the doctor. That's when I found out I had tendinitis. I had to give up using my right hand for mouse work. Keyboards though were still okay, because the nature of the strain is far less when a two-finger typer than mouse-work or indeed touch typing.

Warlords II is a mouse-click game. I was clicking almost once a second during my move. I was averaging thousands of clicks an hour. That and lots of small to large mouse movements.

I've tried playing it with my left hand but it's such a struggle and so slow that I have to concentrate on what I am doing. Which means ... no mong out.

I've lost my mong out. And I do miss it so.

Mikey's Move(ment)

Recently we moved offices. All these manly tradies in their twenties with their fluoro clothing were strutting around to flex those muscle groups I don't know about. I asked the girls around if they were 'enjoying the show' but they claimed they were not (yeah, right) (1). During their break they probably did lines of protein powder.

We stuck the stickers that listed who owned the box in the wrong spots on the crates as where we stuck them meant they'd fall off when the crate was moved. So we teamed up with the movers to Reverse Cowboy X (2) and run around and peel them off the wrong spot and stick them on properly in the right spot.

I was keyed up from a lack of sleep meets a Diet Coke in the car on the drive to work.

I yelled out 'We're team movement! Wait ... that sounds like a bowel medication.'

Those in ear shot claimed that not only was I the only person who would think of it ... I was the only person who would then voice it.

I'm not sure whether to be proud of that ... or disturbed.

I suspect both.

UPDATE: Speaking of movements ... as I was packing my boxes for the move I came across a pair of undies in a plastic bag. They were tucked down the back of my under-desk wheel-out drawers. No, not a sexy souvenir from a night of illicit passion. Mikey don't roll that way (largely because due to his build he would actually physically roll if tipped over and thus not in a attractive-to-fuck posish to be in a posish to source sexy souvenirs). It was in case I sharted at work. Yes, sharted. I have IBS. You have to be prepared for such things.

It turns out I was a lot more prepared than I gave myself credit for. In the utterly useless jacket storage section of my workstation pull out, in addition to the emergency ties I keep for those odd occasions where I have to attend tie-worthy events, I found another two pairs of emergency undies. Go me ... the pack rat of sharting preparedness...

(1) Later they told me they weren't considered tradies as tradies were men who knew how to use tools and did things with them. These guys, they argued, just picked stuff up. Fair point I suppose.
(2) When I was writing this up at work for later publishing I audibly muttered 'Reverse Cowboy'. I'm not sure what that would entail exactly but it certainly sounded suss and workplace inappropriate.

The Colbert Report team are also my gods

The Daily Show and its dark twin The Colbert Report are the perfect blends of social and political commentary - coupled with comedy so sharp you could shiv someone in the yard with it. They are the sharpened toothbrush handles of today's comedic landscape.

I know only two and a half people come here now - and it's to be expected given the compacted time-frame of tech meets social trending. Blogging - unless you're a pretend Syrian lesbian - is pretty much dated behaviour. It's the equiv of tooling around town in a Tin Lizzie (1). But for what it's worth here are some kewl links.

The first is an NPR interview with Stephen Colbert ... out of persona. His character is so on 24 7 it seems that it's quite unusual to hear him being just him. It's awesome stuff ... and yet another example of just how excellent NPR is. If it wasn't weird for an Ozzer to donate - cos, well, I am lazy and can't be fucked working out how to donate - I would donate.

The second link is to the Colbert report segment - referenced in the interview - to Colbert essentially myth-busting Palin over her idiot un-savant stream-of-near-unconsciousnessness about Paul Revere (2). It's comedy so good I want to savour it like fine wine (3).

As Colbert revealed in his interview he succeeds because of the team he has with him - his writers and his staff. Including production assistants that can get their hands on almost any object - from a live goat to a child's ride - near midnight for eight hundred dollars or less.

So here's to them!


(1) As opposed to Thin Lizzy. If I had the Photoshop skills - and mad they must be - I would so Photoshop a 'let's go for a drive in the country family' family - who are in a car - into the body of the band members.
(2) I know, not a word. But if she can make shit up - "refudiate" for example - so can I.
(3) If that is I drank wine, which I don't. In fact I haven't gotten drunk since June 2008 and I can't remember the last time I had alcohol. It's not that it makes me stupid - it does, but luckily I'm a fun drunk ... so the memory-strobe fragmented flickers tell me when recalling what I did - it's just that my IBS is so bad now it will give me the mega-cramps (4).
(4) Fun fact, Saint Mary MacKillop, a fully bonzer penguin and one hundred percent southern cross flag tatt aussie, suffered hideous menstrual cramping. So much so she basically drank herself blotto for pain relief. Which is awesome. Because that is just so oz to combine sainthood with tying one on.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Bachmann turns on overdrive, part 2

With her announcing her running at the second GOP debate the media has upped their Bachmann intake—10ccs stat!

So those of your who want some background on the B-Afraidas I think her DJ name would be if she was in any danger of actually winninghere’s some choice links.

The Daily Beast looks at her rise—on the back of activism against gay marriage and abortion—and includes a the story about the time that constituents asked her some questions in the bathroom after a public discussion ... whereupon Bachmann freaked out, starting screaming she was being assaulted, and ran for the bosomy confines of her four wheel drive and called the police.

It also discusses her evangelical experiences and why when she says stuff that—in the words of actor Troy McClure (who you may remember from such films as Alice’s Adventures through the Windshield Glass) would be ‘downright nutty’—to charismatic Christians all she’s doing is expressing truisms.

The NPR biography is a little more balanced—less of the whacky stuffbut still a good snapshot of Bachmann’s rise and rise.

It's scary stuff. Her activism and ideology is so pure and so unchallenged by reality ... yet she represents a distillation of a large segment of the American population who in the past have come out to vote conservative and thus she is politically viable ... when in any other industrial western country she wouldn't get elected to a village council. I suspect the GOP might do 2008 McCain style move and nom her for the VP slot. After-all, Palin energised their base enough that they turned out to make McCain’s loss a reasonable one instead of a whippin’. In the current climate, with job growth in the US minimal after the recession where companies have worked out that they can do without re-intake of workers when they have lovely developing world conditions they can exploit instead, then Obama is facing a tough 2012 election.

Though if the GOP do have Bachmann on the ticket, even those who actively supported Obama in 2008 but got disappointed when his agenda was driven off the road by the recession and thus he could not be the liberal panacea they were hoping for, may re-spawn ... if only to ensure the keys to the Whitehouse never, ever jangle in her pocket.

Wikfin
—I was looking up some stuff as it came up in the Beast article and ended up with the wiki for the Prayer Tower at Oral Roberts University—where Bachmann went to college. This bit caught my eyeThe Abundant Life Prayer Group, on duty 24-hours-a-day, prays with people via telephone in a room on the observation deck. Since the group's founding in 1958, they have received more than 23 million phone calls for prayer, along with tens of thousands of healing testimonies, including reports of miracles in answer to prayer. Yes, that's right, they have a phone bank in the prayer tower. I wonder if it's considered a fun thing today?

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Mellow unharshed

I am way down on super meds. Almost out. I get a little panicky when I'm low which adds to stress which adds to pain. The human mind is a wonderful thing! So, yeah, was down to the last couple of units and feeling squirrely (1).

Then ... theWife...

'Hey, there's some units here! On the bathroom shelf.'

Yes, there were a few. Must have fallen out of the receptacle.

So I had them.

Ten minutes later...

Ahh, that's the stuff. The pharma equiv of leaping into bed slightly damp from a shower and letting the bed clothes absorb your watery worries away.

Thanks medicine! (smile [ting!])

(1) Which, when you think about it, in this context is odd. Squirrely, meaning nervous, panicky, acting mental. Yet squirrels' feeding habits is such that they carefully store nuts for the winter and likely ration their intake. If I was being like a squirrel then by rights I wouldn't be in this situation. Damn you logic! (pounds beach) Damn you all to Hellzenut!

Schadenfreude, big time

Pauline Hanson, in an effort to once more suckle at the teat of the taxpayer, recently stood for election in the NSW Upper House. I think this was like her tenth tilt at the elective windmill. At any rate, she lost.

But wait ... did she?

Thus emerged an insider. Well the boyf of an insider who claimed to have Australian Electoral Commission corro that indicated Pauline had been done over for votes and one of said upper house seats because naughty biased lefties in "the commish" had hidden a wedge of ballots that belonged to her.

Only ... turns out ... it was a great steaming bucket of Mamma Fancy's old timey horse business.

The guy made it up! He even pretended to be a reporter for The Daily Telie at one point in the charade.

I am a small man. A small, petty man. When people I don't like fall over in a heap, well, I admit to getting some bliss off it.

Enter da bliss.

Suck shit you horrid, horrid woman (1). Now ... fuck off.

(1) If, indeed, you are a woman.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Wikfin - is it me or do these titles sound vaguely porny?

From the wiki for List of Allied propaganda films of World War II.


Bachmann turns on overdrive, part 1

In fact, for quite a while, the place was called Camel Kick Creek, but eventually Bullens Creek prevailed—which is a shame because Camel Kick Creek is a much better name. The reason the name got changed is because there was a rather boring habit amongst the early white settlers of Australia. They liked to name places after very boring Victorians. During the same period, people in the USA were giving places terrifically exciting names like Tombstone, Deadwood, Hangman’s Tree, but the old Aussies preferred things less colourfulStark, by Ben Elton

'Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!'—Mama Klump, The Nutty Professor

That pretty much for me represents why I love American politics. Don’t get me wrong, I do passionately follow Australian politics—I’m not just a voter, I’m a member—but US politics is so fuck-off exciting. It is so globally influential that one cannot help but admire the US political landscape with a distant lidless e-eye.


It also has a sack full of crazy-cats you’d think would be excised from the body politic by sheer dint of nuttiness. Yet, like dodgy A.I in Doom3, they keep spawning out of the woodwork.

Both Seth Meyers and Jon Stewart, and dare I say it most of the world’s comedians that do bits on politics, said that Donald Trump was a godsend to them with his propensity for foot-in-mouth-it is, his gaudy stagemanship (such as his shades-of-'Mission Accomplished' by flying in a name-emblazoned helicopter nape-of-earth to a press conference), and his embrace of the loony right in the US over the whole birther issue.

Then he fucked off. Which made me sad. Perhaps as a sad indicator of the capabilities of the GOP spawn pool for the 2012 contest at one stage Trump was leading in the polls amongst Republicans. This is a man who shouldn’t be in business, let alone anywhere near the button, let alone any form of control button that influences any form of human happiness.

But all is not lost. Enter Michelle Bachmann.

What can we say about Bachmann? She’s Palin without the Alaska. A home-schoolin’, rootin’, tootin’, gun shootin' hard-right Tea Partier whose grasp on both history and reality is desperately suspect. Indeed, Palin at least had been voted to run something, though she had the occasional hiccup like monstering public officials allegedly shielding her ex-brother-in-law from her wrath and fucked-off mid first term. Unlike Bachmann who is simply a junior member of the house. Though to be fair, before Obama was president he was the junior first-term senator for Illinois (though winning a senatorial race is harder given the number difference between the senate and the chamber and Obama had a stellar pre-run record—law professor, best-selling author, state senate member, community organiser, white-collar financial planner etc.)

At any rate, like Palin she is a lady. But in today’s modern western landscape being a woman in politics is no longer a biggie. Witness the sheer number of women that have entered the political system in democratic countries in the last thirty years. We sure as fuck are all better for it, since gender and gender-influenced life-circumstances can and do affect our life-path and having a mere smattering of skirts amongst suits made for a weaker body politic. However like Palin, Bachmann is a far-right nutty-nut whose ideology seems cast-iron resistant against reality. Purity of thought, it seems, is sacrosanct.

There’s this famous quote attributed to the economist Keynes. He is alleged to have responded to someone asking if future data would change his theories with this—“When the facts change, I change my mind. What do you do, sir?”

This is of course the antithesis of Bachmann. Case example her first appearance at a GOP primary debate as reported by The Washington Post:

“I fought behind closed doors against my own party” on the $700 billion Wall Street bailout in 2008, Bachmann added, describing the George W. Bush administration’s initiative as “a wrong vote then. It’s continued to be a wrong vote since then. Sometimes, that’s what you have to do. You have to take principle over your party.”

So yes, being a US politics junkie, the entry of Bachmann to the race gladdens my heart. Much the way I read almost anything I could get my pudgies on about Palin when she became the McCain VP pick, a slot she’d apparently been angling for, I will likely do the same with Bachmann.

Reading about her is the equivalent of rubber-necking at a car accident …where you can’t but help look and mutter with awe ‘… fuck …’ at the sheer-scale of awfulness.

UPDATE 1: Dana Milbank, perhaps my favourite US political journalist, and E J Dionne (both of The Washington Post) each kick off with their views of Bachmann's performance at the debate ... and mention some of the gooey goodness she just dropped the world's way. Priceless.

On our (Avatar) selection

There's this theory that when people choose avatars for game-play that they're in direct inverse proportion of hotness, as far as you can take that concept with current technology, to their actual real selves—unless, of course, they're attractive.

Big and bloated in real life? Svelte and slim in cyber life.

Now I've not gone down the games route where avatar select is the norm. The closest I've come is choosing from character portraits in the Baldur's Gate series which, let's face it, only offer a couple of normal-esq pics to choose from—and they've gone with folksy cute on that. For example, the gnome with the big bushy beard and pipe, or the weird little elfkin with no chin and a beret. I chose the manic purple dude with the kiss make-up for my first character ... and typically each time I replayed it.

But I like to think if I went the avatar that I'd choose something actually reflective of me in real life, understanding of course I look like a slightly younger Michael Moore, and that I would not suffer from the neurotic desire to cloak myself as something I am not.

Anyway last night I had a dream. I know, dream stories are one level up of inflicted boredom from game-play stories (people telling tales about their role-playing game character or the time they rolled two sixes to take Irkutsk). But bear with me—this dream was different.

I wasn't me in it. Well I was me. But the outer me was different. It seemed my subconscious had gone the avatar.

When I woke up I remembered my outer skin.

It was Don Draper.

Fuck.

Monday, June 13, 2011

More horses in the stable of story fun

Story time has new characters in it.

There's Arbor, theBoy's attempted pronunciation of 'Arthur', from the awesome Luc Besson series of movies.

There's Lucus from Ant Bully.

There's Silly Simon, an alphanumerically challenged Dragon who keeps missing numbers when he counts and sings the alphabet song up to G then repeats A to G again instead of following through with the actual alphabet transition ("No, Silly Simon, you're doing it wrong!").

There's Soupy. TheBoy invented this character all by himself. I asked some questions and we determined she is short, has brown hair, and is in a live-in relationship with Cumpty - the adopted cousin of Humpty and Stumpty (1). Lately he's been eating Cumpty and Soupy and then following that up with cupcakes so, while trapped in his tummy, Cumpty and Soupy are showered with partially masticated cupcake shards and they try and seek cover. Which, if I mime that with clothing or a clothes basket, theBoy gleefully steals away from me in a fit of maddened giggling.

Then there's Terence the Mad Squirrel. His voice is partially patterned after the stabbing robot from Futurama ("HaHa!" [stab, stab]). Terrance's voice is loud. His furniture is all on the ceiling. TheBoy likes to stick Terrence in a mirror then send the mirror through Australia Post. Or shove him in the washing machine ("Grab ... put ... close ... plug ... BEEP!"). Which Terrance, or whatever sad sorry excuse for a character is active, reacts too by screaming "Wah, wah, wah, wah" as if their elongated scream was interrupted by cyclic motion and breaking it into manageable chunks of aqua-terror.

It's not just bedtime he wants Humpty and Stumpty stories. If I am using the desktop computer, he will often climb on to then sit on the padded purple box by the bookshelf to take part in an impromptu round of H&S (2). If we're in the car. If we're in The Bunnings playground and it's too full of kids for him to feel safe and we retreat to display garden furniture outside the wire instead.

It's pretty cool. I'm not lame yet. But I will be. Oh, yes, I will be lame to him at some point. Ninety-nine point X people can't be wrong. The statistics are just against me.

(1) For whom interactive story time is named ("Humpty and Stumpty stories!")
(2) Though I confess I am only half-on then because I'm usually trying to do something 'What's that? Oh yeah, Lucas gets eaten by an ant. Bad ant.'

Common sense - turn at an angle

TheBoy is a groin-seeker. In that when he charges at you chances are he will smack his large melon into your fruits. Or, if a lady, your fruit-hole (1).

So you pretty much soon learn to angle yourself so when he comes RAAAAAAAARRRGGGGHHH'ing along to angle your body so he safely bounces his head off your thigh like when he falls on to soft-fall at an inside-kids-screamatorium.

I discovered, however, he need not be running to groin seek.

He was getting undressed. He gets undressed in front of his clothes hamper, a wicker-affair with a hinged lid. It flaps its "mouth" up and down when he's getting undressed and, in a voice not dis-similar to cookie monster, demands the clothes to be shoved in his gob 'Oh yeah, oh yeah, pants! Yummy. What's this? UNDIES!' etc.

Tonight he elected to remain standing while pulling off a sock. So he reached out for the nearest thing to steady himself against.

That would be me. Only ... he missed my leg ... and steadied himself via an attempted hand-rest against my schram.

'No, noodles,' I said, voice laden with resignation. 'That's my penis.'

So ... note to self. If standing next to an undressing boy. Angle for that as well.

(1) As in absence of fruits, hence a cavity!

Lying Abbott lying through his lying teeth

That Tony Abbott is an embellisher is well-known. This is a man, after-all, who said don't trust what he says unless it's in writing.

His recent warble is a case-in-point. Abbott is still spruiking Nauru as a place to send refugees.

"Compared to Malaysia, sending boat people to Nauru is more humane, it's more cost-effective and it's proven," he told ABC radio.

Really. It's humane, is it?

In the SMH article (first link) Abbott also claimed that the figure that ninety per cent of people that were incarcerated there ended up in Oz was false: 'Thirty per cent went back to their home countries, 30 per cent went to third countries and in the end 40 per cent came to Australia.'

Oh, I see what he's done. He's made the myth not about being a genuine refugee but rather where they ended up. So by even Tonester's figs 70 per cent of those on Nauru were refugees, assuming their re-settling in other countries means they were refugees. Which means that of the people incarcerated on a former dump site in the middle of the pacific where they were left to rot without any access to mental health services (see second link), even by Abbott's figures they were genuine refugees.

The man is appalling. A right-wing, heartless joke of a human being who is proud of his ability to put "pragmatic politics" ahead of policy.

Why? Because he's in it to win. Not make the lives of people better.

God I wish he'd fuck off.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

I bet these words have never been said before

Story-time.

'They watched as the hand slithered out of his tummy and down back through his bottom while holding their rudimentary tummy cork'.

True story.

Why bother?

At my work I am an OH&S reporting dude. I got made the peep to hold the file when I arrived but I was more, dare I use a wank-word, proactive than most and actually tried to get things fixed when they broke, or report hazards when I came across them.

I'd reported a broken fluoro-tube about six months ago. Well, that's what it seems. Probably only two. Any-hoo the electrician finally came along to fix them. Since he was there with a box holding 12 tubes I took him on a walk around our horseshoe of workstations (the iron) and offices (the air-gap) and showed him ALL the other dead ones and had them replaced while he was there. Nine in all.

Job well done off he went.

The next day, as I went past the other side of the horseshoe the lads over there started chanting like year six kids taunting a disabled person that I'd fucked up. It had occurred because I'd seen two dead tubes in an office on the walk about and gotten them replaced. The dead tubes were, it turned out, deliberate as the occupant suffers from fluoro-induced migraines. Hence, a fuck up. I had no idea that was the case, and she was actually cool about it and said that yes I wouldn't have had any idea not to fix them. So the chanting of 'you fucked up' from the horseshoe lads really fucking got to me - especially since those guys don't give a tinkers about OH&S and leave it up to OCD inflicted stupid fuckholes like me to give a fucking shit enough to report stuff then follow through that it gets actually done.

Crap on a fucking stick! I'd have to try and de-fix it. She'd already logged a job to have the tubes taken out but since I was Mr OH&S I decided to see if I could escalate it. After-all she couldn't use her office until it was restored to dim light.

I talked to a step-up on the normal call-centre receiver. I was told it would be at least three days. Three fucking days (1). Three days to have someone come over and take out a couple of tubes. If we were not covered to to it ourselves then we would have done it ourselves. Except thanks to Howard fucking up workplace compo by making the rules far more onerous - such as removing cover for to and from work travel (2) - then we dared not risk it.

As it turns out they turned up the next day instead of the promised for three days. Which was awesome. Migraine girl - who is this amazingly cool statue-esq woman of around my age but with an extra foot on my height - signed for the job completion and happily returned to her office.

How many people did they send?

Three.

Un-fucking-believable. I do have to ask myself why I fucking bother? But then I remember... OCD!

(1) However she did thank me for doing a Cowboy X mainee around the wing to find all the dead ones since it meant the one call out fee. Hooray! That almost made up for the absurdity of locking a manager out of their office for three days because that was the earliest they could come. I also found out just how tremendously pathetic things are when someone reported one of the lifts had a chemical or burning smell to it - turns out it was likely dust shifting - and I asked the guards to lock it off until it could be checked. You know, in case people kept using it. 'We can't mate, we have to call someone in to do that.' Seriously, they couldn't shut the fucking lifts down. Un-fucking-believable part fucking deux.
(2) As delicious irony would have it one of Peter Costello's staffers then got knocked down by a car going to parliament house. I wonder if he was covered or not? I suspect he probably was.

I suppose I should be impressed they were on bikes

I was on my daily (1) walk when on the path through the parkland I was passed by a couple on bikes. Biking tracks in Canberra are awesome. It's a very bike friendly place. For the most part you rarely encounter having to go on a road.

Only this couple were different to the usual slim, fit, perfect catalogue couples I typically see double cycling with their slim helmets (2) and expensive biking shades.

This couple were bogans.

She was dressed to the threes in a hoodie and had trackie-daks riding down her arse to expose the decaying elastic of her panties waistband. He on the other hand was well groomed. Well, well groomed as a bogan. Tight, expensive Ed Hardy T Shirt; immaculate, expensive trackie-daks; brilliant sneakers; his hat brim carefully rotated to 45 degrees to the left of the forehead and thus serve as completely useless protection from soon to be incoming sunlight when they left the trees.

He was also texting on his smartphone as he rode, his bike wavering side-to-side as he concentrated on pumping out whatever missive bogan bike-users pump out.

Anyway, I was impressed. If I hadn't been full-body aching in pain rippling across every limb and skin space then maybe I'd even have applauded or smiled or something.

(1) I go for a dedicated walk everyday. The one thing I really do to help. Recently I had my three-year walkiversary! (having only missed one day of dedicated walking). Hooray for me for doing the bare minimum. What's next? Obeying the food pyramid? (throws back head and laughs at the gods) AHAHAHAHAHAHA etc.
(2) In high school I had a yellow-red bulbous stack-hat. One day I foolishly left it out of protection when in class. Naturally it had a huge cock drawn on it by a complete cock-bag of a fucking arsehole that took a dislike to me and so made it his mission to be a fucking prick. Ironically by defacing my helmet with a picture of a penis. Oh school, you completed me.

Thursday, June 09, 2011

Surveys in the workplace

In the public service you fill out a lot of surveys. A lot. So much so you can and do get survey fatigue.

Especially if it's a long one ... that you have to fill out in one sitting ... that uses Internet Explorer ... that you can't save half way through.

I recently had one of those. On the first attempt I closed it down by mistake 40 per cent through it. Sigh. So I left it for another day.

Attempt two ... I nearly got all the way to the end when ... the browser vanished. I'm not sure if I shut it down and didn't remember or if it simply closed itself down. Suffice to say I was pretty dark about it.

Also, thanks to tendinitis, I've had to use my other hand. And each question required accessing a drop down menu response.

'Arghhh,' I yelled when it happened. 'I can't face doing it again. It just takes too long with my left hand!'

It took maybe a second or two to realise how the last sentence sounded.

I collapsed into a fit of heaving giggles and L had to soothingly pat my back.

Workplace fail.

Tuesday, June 07, 2011

Alternate realities

When you're listening to an Mp3 player through head phones your reality changes to those around you by dint of the extra-stimulus you're getting that they're not.

I was coming back from a walk and I was in that altered reality. I was listening to NPR bang on about mosquitoes.

Someone on the podcast said 'proof'.

Without thinking I blurted the couplespeak (1) thing I and theWife do when we hear the word "proof".

I semi-shouted, in a dodgy accent too, 'PROOF OF LIFE!'

The genesis for saying 'PROOF OF LIFE' when hearing the word proof was from when we watched the movie of the same name, staring Our Rusty (2). Whenever someone in the movie said 'proof of life' we parroted it back in a series of dodgy voices. Why? I don't know. We just did.

So ... now ... even ten years on if we hear the word 'proof' we may go Pavlovian and go the yell. Such as today.

Only in today's case I was going around a corner and blurted it right in the face of a colleague coming the other way. We were so close together we had to do the corridor dance of 'which way are you going?', like a fucking bee showing another fucking bee (3) where the good oil is in regards to pollen goodness.

Sigh.

And there's no real chance I can explain why I said it ... or the reason why I chose as my accent Hollywood Asian villain...

(1) You know ... the short-hand or replacement words language you develop as a couple after you've been together a long time. Such as Rowdies for newspapers.
(2) a.k.a 'Go, Crowe, go!' A friend who lives in the stylish grunge-meets-coolness area around Newtown told me that about 10 years ago and swore blind she heard from a friend of a friend who heard it deployed in the appropriate circumstances. And I believed her! Later I heard the other more accepted version of 'Go, Rusty, go' making the rounds. As far as I know Crowe has neither confirmed nor denied the existence of his personal exhortation for ensuring 'succ-sex' so this is filed under 'alleged'' and, indeed, almost certainly untrue.
(3) I will apologise in advance for those people who, by dint of a google search, come across this blog hoping to find some words or even pics of bees going at it hard and fast. I still get hits for this little number so I suspect this post will repeat a few times in the keywords used to come here stat results. I'm very, very sorry Bee sex enthusiasts for the misdirect. Though you should be aware that as insects with the whole drone meets queen thing, and no not the kind of queen you're thinking of, by and large the concept of boy bee meets a girl bee and they love each other very much isn't really reflected within that Family.

Monday, June 06, 2011

Rampaging kids

My body aches like I went for an impromptu long-distance run yesterday. I suppose I did in a way.

I was at a kids’ party.

Fortunately for everyone it was held at one of those indoor children’s playgrounds with the jumping castle, mesh-netting two-level frame corridors and soft-fall everywhere. Soft-fall is important. There will be falling.

There’s also running—towards the fleeing, giggling children … and away from pursuing, giggling children.

Despite looking like a shambling slightly younger version of Michael Moore, noted filmmaker and raconteur, kids seem to like me … and I them! One might argue it’s because I am a giant man-child. That would be fair enough, too.

So … some highlights.

The party room. It was a mélange of competing themes—desert oasis harem tent (1) meets dinosaurs meets parrots meets extinction level event. Yes, that’s right, ELE. They had what appeared to be a meteor—about the size of a medicine ball—hanging as a mobile-like arrangement from the roof. Only they’d blinged it up—with plastic necklaces draped over its rocky-resembling form. There was also, oddly, a plastic length of chain hanging from one corner. I asked one of the semi-surly party girls if the room served as an S&M dungeon after-hours, then volunteered the observation that it made sense to maximize use of the facility by having day/night clientele that could use the same space … but they just stared at me blankly with a hint of suspicion.

Fair enough.

Given I was running around I made sure to remove all my pocket tat—wallet, keys, Mp3, pills, phone—as well as take off my shoes since I’d be entering and exiting the no-shoe zone of the soft-fall and/or cushioned surfaces. Only at some point I needed to go to the toilet.

For some reason the light was out in the men’s toilets. So I had to leave the door open for light-spill from the passage-way. Given this was an indoor kids screamatorium I feared for my socks-only feet that I might encounter some spilled number ones. Kids aren’t exactly great aimers. Especially given the gloom of the semi-dark room.

With trepidation I approached the toilet, toes seeking out potential puddles like someone using a bayonet to probe the dirt for a landmine. There were none. So I went.

Only I missed. Yes, me. The man in his near forties missed the toilet bowl. I blame a combo of lighting and awkward pants—trackie daks with an elasticized waist. It fired off to the left. So I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and with the groan of a man in said near forties I bent over to dab it all up.

Only … my toe went into the puddle. The very thing I’d feared had happened to me … only it was my own wee wot done it.

Sigh.

Other highlights include:

... leaping onto the entrance bladder of the jumping castle, hands out-stretched, to grab at fleeing children but always just missing to actually get them much to their scrambling-away-from-me delight.

... pretending the girls who had matching outfits—which were awesome pink floral numbers—were air stewards and demanding ‘pillows, blankets and a toothbrush’ as well as complaining that they’d given me a Halal meal instead of Kosher. Later I even got to do a Con Air quote and say ‘Stewardess … oh stewardess, what’s the in-flight movie?’ [Cyrus the Virus to prison guard Falcone]’ to which older girl replied indignantly ‘Nothing!’

... hiding within the wind-chime arrangement of multiple boxing bags that screened one of the mesh-netting passageways until theBoy came out of hiding under the slide then, bellowing a roar, bull-rushing through the bags to grab him as he gave a frightened giggle-squeal.

When I got home the unusual amounts of acrobatic activity took their toll. I was an aching mass of ouchies with body parts that usually remain in the rested mode apart from occasional flight/fight having been rudely pressed into service and letting me know that this had been a mistake. On the walk from the car at work the next day every step was an aching after-thought of the previous day.

But … I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Kids’ parties are kewl!

(1) They had a gossamer-like fabric coming down from the roof in great swathes like the table was under a marquee in an idyllic desert oasis setting ... one that happened to have dinosaurs plodding past the palm trees. I claimed the palm trees were carrots - an observation which the shrieking kids denounced most vociferously.

Wednesday, June 01, 2011

Blargh morning

We all have these mornings. Where little things go wrong. But they add up to form a blargh.

Me?

Crap sleep. Crying child roused us at dawn. I at least got to go back to sleep. But then I woke late and was therefore late for work.

Sore guts.

My porridge exploded in the microwave.

I dropped my keys just as I was about to insert them in the ignition. I reached for them but flailed around about two inches from them without being able to reach. The only way to get them was to either get out of the car and grab them or find some sort of reaching device to drag them back into grasp range. I did the latter with a rolled up Monthly.

Then, as I drove along ... I coughed and goobed a big golly on to the car horn.

Yay blargh mornings. Yay.