Friday, June 29, 2012

Implants and the human rocking chair

It's a weird feeling to have body implants. Yep, plural. One weirdness, for example, is my being seemingly able to sense my hip replacement.  A band of cold ache runs up though my left thigh and deep into my arse cheek (1). It's an uncomfortable sensation and I get paranoid it's the sign of an infection; the main thing that can go wrong in the first year post-op.

Added to that goodness my bones creak and crack with any movement, and it's noticeably audible to anyone in earshot. I feel like a mechanical marionette and sound like a rocking chair. One in need of a good dose of lubricant. And sometimes when I rise I fire off like an old man on a 'woe is me' moan.

But hey, better limping than limp, eh? Indeed. Rock on, Canberra

(1) Sorry, again, Aussie Hot Boys, for the mislead.

Would the real Mikey please stand up

I loathe exercise. I do. It's a burden but it's one I recognise I must endure. I have a sedentary job and a big fat gob. I need to burn off my surfeit of fuel lest it blub onto my blubbery body.

Today (1) I had two sessions on the TPC, the exercise bike on loan from the delightful Casso, an ethereal maiden of virtue pure, and went for a walk as well. All up it was a total of an hour (2) of exercise. An hour! I did a mother fucking hour of exercise.

My arse is a big ball of ache.

This is truly weird aberrant behaviour on my part. I am after-all the man who would take the lift one floor and fake a limp on the way out so as not to attract scorn ... only to then have my limp vanish the moment I vanished from view.

But do I feel better for it? I think so, aching and all. I feel fitter than I used to I suppose. But still, me and exercise. It's a weird combo.  But maybe it's like a buddy cop movie where the partnered cops seem so mismatched at first but then their differences compliment each other and even though friction remains their teamwork saves the day?

Pah, I'm too old for this shit.

(1) Technically it was yesterday as I am writing post midnight. Sorry to be a pedant.
(2) For the first 24 hours of this post's life instead of 'hour of' it said 'hoof'. I wonder what hoof exercise would be? 

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

One for the life-before-your-eyes show

The other day theWife was teasing theBoy as he sat at the big table eating. He laughed so hard he choked, gagged, threw up in his mouth, swallowed the throw up, then laughed some more.

Total gold. 

Today theBoy asked theWife about other children who have found me annoying. She then named every single child we have even known ever. When she finished the list theBoy then added himself to it (1).

Also gold. 

And he's right. I can be extremely annoying. Today for instance on the way to work we played 'Spotto, Catch Shrink'. It's where you see a yellow car (yellowish is also accepted) and yell 'Spotto!' Having claimed it you then follow up with 'Catch Shrink' which is you 'catching' the yellow car and then shrinking it. The idea is you collect yellow cars. Eventually, like a catch-and-release fisherman, you 'Release Grow' the cars and let them speed on their way.

I'm really good at it. Like super fucking good. I just have to catch the merest distant flash of yellow and my body and brain fuse into a single perfect being to Spotto the absolute fuck out of the offending far away custard car (2). theBoy, with his restricted view and lesser capability, hasn't a fucking chance. So I win, constantly, effortlessly. 

This morning I compounded it. Not only did I win ... I gloated. I didn't mean to but the glee seized me just post announcement of the 'Spotto, Catch Shrink!' and I totally ended up being super gloatingly gleeful. That's like pulling a rip cord on a mower. You can't gloat over a four-year-old. They will lose their shit. Fortunately for us all his shit losing was minor and over in seconds but theWife rightfully told me off.

I don't know why I love annoying people. Maybe it's because deep down I only annoy people I actually like?

So there you go. If I actively seek to annoy you then I probably likes ya, ya big lug (playfully taps your chin with knuckles).

(1) Favourite Simpsons' list-related humour: their riff on Nixon's enemies list
(2) Slight confession. I practice the game whenever I drive alone. I can be deep into listening to whatever podcast I am beholding—almost certainly a Marc Maron interview or some blend of goodness from NPR—but if I see yellow it's enough to kick me into the present to then loudly proclaim its sighting and seizure of its soon-to-be reduced form.

Keane calls it

Bernard Keane is the mainstay writer at crikey.com.au. His output is prodigious. In a single day he will usually have two or three pieces of a decent length and with insightful analysis to boot.

As you may be aware the refugee issue has arisen again in the wake of the sheer tragedy that occured when ninety people (perhaps more) drowned after their vessel capsized. 

It seems now the Coalition—who are not the party of government but whose NO! crap nonetheless manages to spoil attempts at actual governance—will not budge on their demands that refugee provisions they had in place when in power be restored to what they were; temporary protection visas, Nauru, the lot. Even though the ALP, through gritted teeth, has offered to put the so-called "Pacific Solution" back on the table as part of the dealing process. 
So what does this Coalition intransigence mean? Likely it means more brown people are going to drown. But that doesn't matter to Tony Abbott. It matters it seems to some in the coalition ranks but not to their lord and master, the former trainee Catholic priest (1).

Anyway, as I said, Bernard Keane calls it.

There are some words one is loathe to reach for in politics. Voters may not think it, but rare is the politician at the federal level who isn't there, even in this benighted age, because she or he genuinely wants to do good by Australia. They may be utterly confused, ignorant or lazily unaware about how to maximise the national interest, but they still pursue it. As a consequence, daring to pass moral judgement on politicians can be hazardous and unfair. One may charge them with cynicism or opportunism, yes, but that is more a judgement on their tactics than on their morality.

But, having paid close or not-so-close attention to federal politics since the early 1980s, I can't do anything but conclude that the Coalition's current stance on asylum seekers is the clearest example of outright evil that I've ever seen from a political party at the federal level.

See the rest of Keane's post at Crikey.

(1) Who apparently left the seminary because he was too disillusioned with all the gays being there...

Raged at by a white machine

We all fuck up on the roads at one time or another. If someone fucks up and it affects me then, well, I might mutter something under my breath but I will do my best to adapt to the situation. If I fuck up then I will likely give the universal sorry of the face cringe and actually mouth the word sorry. 

Only once have I ever lost my shit at another driver and in that case it was because I was road raged at during a moment of acute stress and I lost my nut, chasing after them and basically smashing every button on the console in order to activate devices on the vehicle to indicate my displeasure. That driver didn't hang around, speeding away from my psychotic melange of car horn, lights flicked on and off and aggressive window wiper swooshing.

We got raged at today. We were on the right hand side of a road that was merging from two lanes to one. The car behind us wasn't leaving enough room for us to squeeze in. By car of course it wasn't a car. It was a big white four wheel drive, the sort of four wheeler you have to climb into. Not only that it had a frame behind the cab that was covered in spotlights. The driver appeared to be on the cusp of elderly.

theWife hit the horn just the once to attract his attention to our plight.

He started screaming at us, his voice muffled by his window, traffic, and our window. Nonetheless we could hear 'fucking fuckers' and so forth and he followed this up with angry gesticulation. When he did finally pull back and the traffic finished merging he not only gave a dose of his normal high beams but also unleashed the power of his fully operational spotlighting rig. 

What a geriatric cock spank. 

For the rest of the time he was behind us he kept close, but not too close, and fortunately he didn't spray us with lights again. But I admit to some relief when we turned off and he kept going. 

The roads. We don't own them; we share them. Get the fuck used to it older four wheel driving Australians. Especially those of you whose hobbies involve lighting up the night so you can shoot animals that can't fire back.  

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Barring an accident The Daily Show is free time

The world is full of healthy axioms we're all supposed to follow. Some are valid—try to eat less and exercise more—and others are not; the drinking of two litres of water a day for example is bunkum.

Then there's this one for longevity. Every minute of exercise you do lengthens your life by a minute. I don't know if it's true or not, though I presume the concept of we should all try and do a moderate amount of exercise a day is a universally accepted given, but I can immediately see the flaw in the logic. If you're doing exercise and all it's doing is lengthening your life by the amount of time exercising then why not do no exercise and simply enjoy yourself? Since the time you're doing exercise is time you don't spent doing something else that's more enjoyable to do, such as sitting on a nice chair and watching some television.

Ah, but you see, you can multi-task with exercise. For me then I get to take the Beloved into the shed and saddle up on the TPC, an ornery cuss on semi-perm loan by Black Dress Casso (1), with the confidence I can watch some awesome-as-fuck television as I ride, television I would have watched anyway. So then effectively, should the minute for minute longevity thing be truish, then I sir have me some free time.

Mind you, it's a bit of an associated reaction now. If I try and watch The Daily Show or The Colbert Report and I'm not riding an exercise bike then it feels uncomfortable and weird. Like it's wrong not to be riding. 

It is fully awesome. When I ride I'm usually medicated, I have the heater bathing me with an orange glow, and I have headphones plugged into the tablet with the stereo sound blanketing all noise of the real world away. So I can just be sucked into whatever I am watching and taken away from the discomfort of the exercise. 

Today I did three sessions on the TPC and rode a total of 20 kays. It took around an hour and ten minutes. I got to watch The Daily Show, The Colbert Report and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia as well as slivers of other things as whim took me. All stuff I would have watched even if I wasn't exercising.

Crazy like a mutha fuckin' fox.

(1) The meanest madam this side of Thorn Gulch, a woman that brook no slappin' of her girls—that's her prerogative alone— and so much so that the last man that tried was ejected buck arse nekkid to land in a horse trough with his bandanna double-knotted 'round his scrotal sack.

Friday, June 22, 2012

When urinating in your backyard

... do you time your release for when there is passing traffic noise so it drowns out the sound of your flow?

Childhood favourite

We all have movies, books or songs that are stand-out examples of their medium, that there was something in them that just blew you the fuck away and you thought it was the shizzle. Unfortunately for the world for many angry socially-odd whities such moments were achieved in reading Ayn Rand

For me one stand-out was the sketch movie Amazon Women on the Moon. A collection of live-action comedy bits loosely strung together as if they were appearing as a broadcast on late-night television with a supposed viewer flipping channels. 

I loved the concept of the movie. I loved the acting. I loved the comedy. I loved the disparate nature of the bits. I just loved it.

This bit is a particular favourite; blacks without soul. I was reminded of it tonight as I strode upon the world like a colossus, mounted on my steam-punk giant penny-farthing robot that crushed all my enemies beneath its massively over-sized wheel (1). Indeed, so loud was my steam-hissing mega machine of death I was unable to hear the cries of my opponents and the lamentation of their women.

I use my Beloved, my Toshiba tablet, to screen out the discomfort of cycling-like exercise and my preferred AV induced soma-coma is The Daily Show. On the episode I saw tonight they made light of the fact that the crowds at Romney's events were almost universal in one ethnicity, labelling the crowd 'Fifty shades of white'. 

Anyway, Amazon Women on the Moon. Worth checking out. Most of it is on YouTube

(1) Seriously, I don't get it. How did the penny-farthing get engineered to be that way? And why was it so popular? To the intertubes

Consequences

I am sure that there are movie quotes out there prominently featuring the word 'consequences'. I imagine there's more than one where in the movie the line is delivered by some sort of mirror-shade wearing white Southerner law enforcement type, likely the local good ole boy corrupt warden of the local jail; the only reliable good paying source of employment in the entire county.

We were doing a Storyverse session. I was lying on the big bed as theBoy danced up and down the side. theBoy didn't like what I said—that both of the sudden guest stars introduced by theBoy to the story, E--- and Z--- from day care (slash) school, had over-sized thumbs—and so there were consequences (1).

theBoy took my slippers off my feet, crossed the room and shoved them in theWife's hamper. 

Told. Told, big time. 

(1) In his defence, however, I had riled him as we'd just thirty seconds before mutually agreed they were completely normal with nothing weird about them at all; no weird moles, no long noses. And, said theBoy with exasperation, 'NO LONG LEGS!'. So I had agreed both the lads were normal then in the story brazenly endowed Z--- with a giant thumb anyway when I claimed that Z--- gesticulated at himself with the oversized digit by way of self-congratulations. Bad daddy.

Shrouded by theBoy

The Shroud of Turin is a linen cloth bearing the image of a man who appears to have suffered physical trauma in a manner consistent with crucifixion with the man's blood staining the shroud. It is kept in the royal chapel of the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in Turin, northern Italy. The theory was that the shroud had been used to wrap J.C. himself. This theory gained further apparent credence when the shroud was photographed and the photo negative showed the 'face' quite clearly and does indeed infer it is Jesus Christ.

Anyway the shroud has experienced a fair amount of controversy and, like many artefacts of faith, its mystery tended to evaporate when exposed to empiricism and science. Which is how it should be. We replace what we don't know but believe with what what is most-likely and/or is now better understood thanks to the march of science.

This morning theBoy was eating his usual breakfast of fruit loaf toast. His lips, sides of his mouth, soul patch and cheek dimples were all dotted with butter. It was time for a goodbye cuddle and kiss and so he kissed me with his buttery face. 

He then cuddled me ... by pressing his buttery face against the front of my G is for George zippered jacket (1) and thus leaving a reverse imprint of his buttered features. I now have a rough buttery mouth-shaped stain surrounded by buttered stars upon my garment in the manner of the Turin shroud. 

(finger-snaps, curses!) theBoy!

(1) The G is for George jacket is so named because it resembles the jacket George Costanza wore in Seinfeld to try and impress Elaine's assistant that he, George, was some kind of bad boy. So that's the why it's George part. The 'G is for' prefix was because of the bomber of the same name exhibited at The War Memorial. The other day theWife wore her snuggly blue top with the embroidered sleeves. I cheerfully call the top 'Sergeant Pepper' as it reminds me of the uniforms as worn by The Beatles on the cover of the album Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts' Club Band. An album that within features a song of the same name as the album itself. To that top she added a feathery looking scarf that I unhelpfully then called 'stripper scarf' as it looks like the feather boa as worn by '70s Carry On-style burlesque performers. With this christening of the scarf I therefore gravely compounded my earlier error of re-mentioning a name she finds annoying about one of her garments, the aforementioned Sergeant Pepper. Mikey fail. 

Those poor people

Fuck, I just read an article about the refugee boat capsize near Christmas Island with 90 feared dead. Ninety people, fuck. So much life wasted and all because their lives were so shit, or lacked sufficient satisfaction, that they risked their lives on the seas and lost the bet. 

Those poor, poor people and their families left behind. I can't imagine what it would be to ever have to be in the position where you felt your best option was to make that attempt. 

Uncomfortable

I sometimes still use the disabled toilet at work. I still have mobility issues and it helps to use the safety rail bar to hold on to when lowering and raising oneself.

Only I discovered to my abject horror that the disabled toilet was itself disabled when the fucker wouldn't flush post-ablution.  I scrawled a note the toilet wasn't working and stuck it on the door and I presumed that the cleaner would then organise to get it fixed. After-all, that's what happened last time.

By day three it was obvious he would not to that and that he'd simply left the stool to marinate in its own fetid broth. I went back in to try a re-flush—on the off chance the failure was a temporary one that self-corrected—and was hit in the face by a wall of warm air stink. So I emailed in a repair request and, to their credit, a plumber appeared less than 24 hours later.

The toilet was actually broken—a mechanism within had finally completely failed—and after a quick trip out for a part it was repaired within an hour. With the repair done I then took advantage of the good news to not only tell the building that it was all fixed via one of my hilarious missives that skirt good taste but to tell the cleaner as well, I interrupting his cig outside to let him know I'd called in the repair requirement and the repair had been made.

Of course at no point did I admit to him, or to the building's populace, was the fact that the former owner of the non-flushed four-days-afloat floater was myself.

There are after-all some secrets a girl has to keep to herself (tee-hee! OOOooo).

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

High praise

In our pod (family) we've adapted the 'I love you more than...' sketch from Little Britain. It's basically us saying 'I love you more than (something unpleasant)'. Only theBoy forgets and actually will express a genuine love scaling. 

Me—'I love you more than bee stings!'

(This admittedly, after much cajoling. I kept shout-recommending 'mouse bites' or 'mice biting' but he steadfastly ignored me)

theBoy—'I love you more than Lego!'

Aw, he loves me more than Lego. I'll cling on to that. That's a door floater (1).

(1) A neologism invented by me, just then. A door floater. A sorry reference to the wreckage whosie-whatsit from Titanic clings to in the freezing ocean post-sinking even though there's clearly room on the door (I am presuming it's a door) for Jack, who stays in the water. Indeed you'd think the shared body warmth would have been an obvious additional survival advantage but, well, love and hypothermia makes fools of us all.

Found money

Found money is awesome. Typically it's twenty cents or a gold coin. For some reason people don't lose fifty cents. But for me the other day it was a crisp twenty dollar note, snagged in the grass and twitching in the corners from the wind. I found it just where an ant-trail-across-the-grass cut-thru meets the concrete behind the local greasy spoon, all laid out for me and ready for the snatching. 

I'd gone on a quest to get a small milk, our pod having become coffee plunger people of late and a replacement carton needed. I tucked the twenty into my glove in the manner my mother used to wrist-conceal used tissues and then dramatically revealed the note in telling the lads when I got back what had transpired. 

A free twenty! 

Except ... I know ... magical thinking. Good luck like this breeds far greater ill-luck so they say. Who says? You know ... they do. They. Anyway in adherence to the philosophy of "...they..." I felt a little bad that I had snagged the note. I did actually look around for anyone who may be looking for a lost note, even retracing my steps on the way back in case its former owner had appeared to reclaim possession. But no. 

Thanks to the budget our area had to let some non-ongoing staff go. Or rather their contracts ended and were not picked up. A farewell was being laid on for one girl and money was being solicited towards the festivities. In my pod we have another pair of non-ongoings who likewise face a looming contract expiration. As it is they're already having to look for other work and even contemplate lifestyle shifts like moving house. It's all very fucked and they keep getting dragged into social stuff at work and eventually stuff like that adds up in cost. 

So I chucked the twenty in from all of us. I got rid of ill-luck and our contractor peeps got spared enforced costs of workplace socialisation—a cost far more easily born by time-serving mouth breather permanents. And with the twenty much food was bought and much merriment had.  I even got to infer I had on leopard skin underpants and that my overpants were the quick-release Manpower kind. But alas no one believed me.

Anyway, the found money was put to good use and as far as 'sorry your contract ended' farewells go then it was fun—even if all I'd had were two home-made mini-quiches (1) and a sliver of brie.

Thanks, found money! 

(1) Made by the delightfully handsome R--- who, in addition to being handsome, is funny, self-deprecating, and has now revealed he can also cook. Those who dig men in the pants department clearly dig R---. I can see subconscious preening amid the girls when he talks to them; 'Tee hee hee, oh R---!' (waves hand demurely).  I've been weirdly blessed in life to, like George Costanza with 'Tonee', have been the friend of handsome men. To cruise along with them and see the girls perk up as they pass by. And I am ashamed to admit I get a bit of reflected glory. As in 'I may not get to sex you ladies but if HE sexes you then I get to potentially hear about it'; oh, yeah.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Like the —ing Phantom of the —ing Opera

With thanks to Terry Pratchett for the —ing

You know that classic reveal of a disfigured entity that haunts a musical establishment—opera house, music hall, honky-tonk bar etc.—and likely lairs beneath its main segment of the complex? He's banging away, fingers splayed on an elaborate multi-level keyboard like instrument interface and swollen music cascades from the speakers as you encounter him truly for the first time.

Recently ... recently that disfigured entity was me.

My stupid IT system at work recently had a major conniption. A large swathe of people ended up with reduced or even zero functionality for a while. I had a calm-in-the-storm normal day following the event and then it all fell over in a steaming heap of shit and stayed that way. I had foreseen Trouble at 'mill and wisely stored some material on group drives outside the main records keeping network and spent the rest of the week using work arounds to build my report. But now ... now all the content had to be married together in one fusion in order to be provided to the relevant report receiving people and processed accordingly.

I know, it all sounds like something out of bureaucracy in a dystopian future like in Futurama or Brazil.

In order to complete this fusion I had two computers running me, an off-the-network computer and was using—under supervision—a colleague's account to process reports materials within the records system I'd not been able to access for several days. 

Jesus H pogo-stick hopping about Prince of Peace. Four separate computers running three different interface or system types all in order to bypass the monumental stuff up that had landed upon my chunk of the verdant e-workspace. I kept wheeling my office chair between the three different desks like I was a kewl tech-dude in the ops room in some sort of espionage movie then clacking at a keyboard in a maddened frenzy. 

On my work account other programs started to die off. My email fell over again, and again, and again. Then even my sticky label machine software fritzed as did Word. Fortunately I did not go down my normal expressing annoyance trouser leg of snarling hate speech like a malformed henchman afflicted with Tourette's. Instead the other leg presented—mild hysteria. As in 'Ah ha ha ha—look everyone, now the label machine won't work—ah ha ha ha.' Often I'd turn and grin inanely, my smile distorted as if I'd a mild stroke, and gesticulate vaguely in the direction of the combined technica that together barely worked like one normal operating machine should.

I was not the only one afflicted with torment. Poor ole S---, assisting me this day, was sick as. Indeed she could have deliciously crooned a near-perfect imitation of the original singer of 'Betty Davis Eyes' so croaky 'twas her voice. Though she should have stayed home she had crawled into work like a still-animate severed hand to deftly stitch closed some outstanding sections. S--- then collapsed into the guest chair in our work pod (1) as I frantically prepped the content trapped within the bowels of the record system. Eventually, though, the discordant impassioned song of agony was spent and the disc puffed into my waiting hand from the drive with an exhausted pah.

I left into the light chill of mid-afternoon to beetle the fucker out to the recipient. Fortunately I had the good car and I got to enjoy the delightful company of Joan Rivers and Terry Gross as I weaved through light traffic. Hand over went well then I filled up the car and, once more again with Tezzer and Joan, headed into the dusk.

So in many ways I do have it better than a menacingly maimed stalker of a musical space.

(1) Four work stations in a pod. Four desks, two side-by-side, with under drawers and sometimes a free-standing coat-rack drawer set. We have a cushioned proper armchair (I know not from whence it came) next to our filing cabinet for guests to flop in when annoying theBoss. S--- puddled herself into that. And even as she gathered her strength she was still working, lasering her peepers into dated PR stock and rightfully savaging its horrid content. She's a public service equivalent to the terminator in the last act of The Terminator.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Kewl

Thanks to some kind friends that took theBoy for a sleep over we were able to go to dah movies—we saw Prometheus

The movie itself was okay but the most fun was before the movie. We went to dinner at one restaurant, had dessert at another, then killed the remaining waiting time just wandering around and making fun of shops, dodgy ads or shop names, as well as window shopped for awesome Lego sets. We even fired up a pair of side-by-side massage chairs in the cavernous shopping strip below the cinema but decided their robotic ministrations were creepy and untoward. It felt like a giant camel was kneading my knees with robot lips.

But it was so super nice to get a chance to go out. Yay, Super Friends!

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Eep

Past life regression therapy was a big deal in the seventies and from memory celebs such as Shirley MacLaine (1)(2) went through the process and inevitably discovered their past life was, like them now, also in the top tenth of one per cent of the social strata—Cleopatra, French nobility, the dude in charge of the King's Toilet (3). Past life regression rode the wave of spiritual uplift that occurred in the flower-power era just past. It is likely hokum, as likely an actual body-releases-spirit-to-new-body existing probability as Dawkins would say of fairies existing at the bottom of the garden (4)

So I was watching The Thick of It and Malcolm Tucker made a comment about what sounded like 'James Mapewether hates himself'. Presuming that was I'd heard I sat down and did a search for James Mapewether. I had a link to James Mapes pop up instead.

I am a man not adverse to improving my skillz (and shit) and am into accepting opportunities when possible do I clicked on the wiki for James Mapes to read about it and discovered that Mapes was a 19th century scientist. 

I couldn't but help however notice the photo. It looked sort of like me were I old, had let my remaining hair sprout, and that the fashions of the time demand that I pronate my stomach against snug fitted clothing. 

It was most unsettling. It was a kind of past-life regression moment only where the body I was once in resembled much the body I was in now. Perhaps the spirit gets accustomed to a certain type and even though in the new body I have no memory of the old but once more, for some reason, my spirit chose short and fat?

When I was in high school I played a lot of solo Advanced Dungeon's and Dragons. Oh, don't be sad for me, it was my most favourite thing to do. I had a party set in Greyhawk and I took them on jaunts through randomly generated dungeons and then a couple of the officially released campaigns—the Slavers series and Against the Giants through to Demonweb Pits to name but a few. 

One of my characters was Sir Roderick Blackstar. He was a half-elven cavalier, using the game-mechanics from the first edition enhanced rules-set, Unearthed Arcana (5). As Blackstar progressed in power he obtained followers and eventually I decided he founded a city where he mined super hard metals (6).

Thanks to my love of AD&D it led me, as it led so many other people into fields of endeavour—with countless lawyers, geographers, scientists, writers, writers, writers, actors, writer/performers owing their entry to their field to having played the game and expanding their desire to read books or delve into concepts that they encountered in the game—to explore the wonders of human history, to read about explorers, scientists, peoples, customs, sexy-time secrets; all that guff. And given my dad was also a farmer I read about crop rotation mechanics in the Middle Ages. 

Armed with this knowledge I decided to apply it in game to Blackstar, assigning multiple non-weapon skill proficiencies to agriculture so as to improve his people's yield (7). I even went as far to photocopy pages showing the evolving of open field farming to three-field-system and four-field-systems and attaching them to Blackstar's character sheet. Though in retrospect given the hilly climes of his hidden city that mined super hard metals, terrace farming would have been more applicable.

So why go into a long-winded roleplaying character story, a story which can totally bore the upper lady bits off anyone in ear shot if performed poorly? 

Because James Mape, in addition to being a chemist and inventor, was an agricultural scientist. 

That's another nail in the past-life regression coffin LIFTED from the lid, right there; a vague possible resemblance to what I'd look as a future me now combined with Mape's lifelong cause and passion of agriculture being also a minor fleeting interest I had as a girl-denied child-man who unilaterally declared his AD&D character had laid claim a chunk of hillside—and, what's this? Now he has a mine for super hard metal, ho-ho-ho.

Anyway, that's something to think about. Have a fun dreary weekend!

(1) This is not to rag shit on Ms MacLaine. She is a most-awesome actress of whom I was first associated with when I watched her hilarious comedic turns in Cannonball Run II. I should also point out that past-life regression therapy as a mystic-themed concept is no less whack-a-doodle than anything else out there, from the Abrahamic faiths through to the most ancient of fire-gazers. In the end we all die and we all spend our time trying to deal with that. The idea that you forever float from body to body and obtain wild adventures you'd not had in this life is a tremendously beautiful and lustrous thing. How awesome would that were true.
(2) Shirley MacLaine also most-excellently fell asleep (2a) during a John Howard speech at a dreary function where he was droning on in that horrid 'er um oh oh er um too many Asians' manner he had when pontificating from a podium. The TV news later gleefully ran snippets of her nodding off. I tried to find the moment on YouTube but could not. But of the words I used to hunt for it this was the number one ranking. I think that's just spankingly awesome.
(2a) Still with me? I'm impressed. Not many people get this far. It feels like an Easter Egg, don't it? Any-hoo the reason she was there is because she was the date of Andrew Peacock, Howard's intra-party rival during the '80s (2b). They spent
(2b) I once hugely got in trouble for putting out reports that didn't meet the standards of the Australian Government Standards Manual. I'd just been pottering along for years doing the wrong thing because, sadly, I didn't know any better. So I learned. I combed through it and I embedded its rules and regs consistently and without fail, even in places like this, because I never ever wanted to do it in a dumb manner again. A clean report that is well-written and has all its formatting and punctuation (mostly) correct 'tis a beautiful thing. I feel like an artisan in older times who crafted functional items that were also things that were pleasing to behold. Anyway the correct usage of the contracted decade when expressed in numbers is to have an single quote mark representing the first two digits, the number, then an s. For example, '60s for the nineteen sixties. We were talking about a report just edited and theBoss said the new convention was to shave space where you can and not be overly formal. So you didn't need the single quote mark in the single quote mark+digits+s string any more. The representation '60s would be equally valid as 60s. This was the person who methodically, and rightly, pulled me up on my failings and led my to stick my nose to the stone of the manual and learn all its arcane secrets. Down to how some post-nominals are italicised and having to put a note on a report explaining that to the next one up the chain because it looked wrong to have 'OA, ACG,' even though it was most right. And to now be told to put all that aside and be all lassie-faire from now on seems fucked. And annoying. And I won't do it.
(3) I think that was a real job, too.
(4) It gives me somewhat snooty pleasure, like the person who ruins the story of Disney's head, to say that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of logician cocaine-abusing detective Sherlock Holmes, actually did believe in fairies at the bottom of the garden. Mapes himself was a spiritualist ... and a friend of Arthur Conan Doyle!
(5) If you have a copy give it a whiff. Seriously, smell it. That's the most glorious book smell I have ever smelled. It smelled like actual Unearthed Arcana. It is a memory forever associated with the happier times of childhood, utterly losing yourself in another world so, so, so much better than this one. Also check out 2b where I use a work book like an actual manual of unearthed arcana. Go me! I'm a big fat dynamo!
(6) I know, it seems dreadfully sad and hideously girl-repelling. But, back then, girl-repelling was already mission accomplished. So in many ways I was free to live a nerdy live because I was already dealt out of the romance game. In retrospect it made me what I am so I have to embrace it.
(7) Trying singing 'improve his people's yield' to the tune backing 'Let my Cameron go'. You'll be pleasantly surprised how good it makes you feel.    

Friday, June 15, 2012

theBoy V Bookaboo

'I stomp my feet and I kick Bookaboo in the tummy and he fall down! Then I put blast-off pants on him and take him to slide world.'

'So, Chooky, are you saying you kick Bookaboo in the tummy then put blast-off rocket pants on Bookaboo and you're taking him to slide world and putting him on a slide and pressing a button?'

'Yes I press the button and he blasts off down the slide (makes rocket noise). Then a hook comes out and hooks off the blast-off pants and Bookaboo keeps going!'

I fully love that he factored in the need for a blast-off pants retrieval system.

As Bookaboo flew off I yelled out 'ARRRrrrggghhhh' until theBoy said 'thump' with deliberate glee.

I decided to have theBoy V Bookaboo out in a Google fight and I was pleasantly surprised (1) to see theBoy kicked Bookaboo's doggy butt. 

Go theBoy!

(1) Attention web/IT people. You know who you are. You lurk and watch but don't say anything. You should. I am very talented (1a). But was the placement of the hyper-link an optimal choice given the choice of words available? I'd introduced the concept and then SMACK in with the link as I indicated my reaction. Did that make you click? Or did it not? Did it work for you? Am I basically asking the same question twice? Bullshit or not?
(1a) I was involved in a joking back-and-forth email with a downstairs colleague and made sure in every email to be massively vain. I salted my talk with 'As you know I am very talented' or 'my compare is beyond reach'. That sort of fancy locker room pep talk you give yourself in the mirror before you have to speak to strangers. I find it self-amusing now and then to go all Tony Clifton and adopt an antithetical persona of brash overconfidence. Speaking of Tony Clifton and comedy in general if you admire me in any way—be it my handsome side-on profile fusion of Orsen Wells and Alfred -Hitchhock, my sense of rhythm or my bewitching gait—then I beg of you to give yourself over to the bosom of Marc Maron and Bob Zmuda as they discuss their lives and that of the departed Andy Kaufman. It's just over an hour and I think you will like it. Get thee to the nunnery!

The night grazer

I am a night grazer. There, I said it. I am. 

I typically don't eat breakfast. When I wake I normally have some low-to-mild gut pain and I'm not hungry. Even when midday rolls around it can be 2 pm before I feel actual tummy rumbles—though I will have partially filled the ole gut cavity with liquids (Diet Coke, Mochas, Green Lid Dare Ice Coffee) before that time. Even if I do eat lunch then it will be a light affair, typically just half a bowl of something hot readily eaten with a fork. 

But come the night, when at home, the grazing commences. I can eat a full dinner and be nicely full but then immediately follow it with a dessert. Then something else—toast perhaps? Then something else—cheese and biscuits? Then something else—weetabix covered in long life cream and sugar? Frequently I'll find myself in front of the pantry cupboard, doors wide open, as I gaze blank-eyed within to see if there's anything else I can cram in my never-stop-eating gob-hole. I won't even remember the walk there.

I suspect it's because eating for me at night is also twinned with watching awesome teev that theWife and I have saved up. I have always accentuated good times with food. If at the movies then I get popcorn and ice-cream. If reading an entertaining book I'll pause to get a snack to magnify my enjoyment of the tome. Hell I used to have a tradition where on Good Friday I'd read Asterix and Cleopatra whilst eating as many fucking hot cross buns as I could get my chubbers on (1).

And then food is there too in the bad times. Had a shitty day? Let's order a shit load of food. Work getting you down? Let's get a packet of sweet biscuits and chomp them all down. 

I guess I only have a limited store of self control and it tends to be exhausted by the time I get home. And of course when you're at home you have access to a massive array of food possibilities with a full meal and yet another full meal just a few ingredients and little bit of work away. Indeed if I am at home during the day then chances are I will be eating food before lunchtime because it's far more accessible as I am right next to it.  And I can make fuck-off yummy stuff that even when riven with gut pain I'll likely find it of interest.

Recently we had an afternoon tea at work. I hadn't eaten anything all day and even missed having a lunch. I could have readily gone to town on the arvos proffered—and oh Lordy there was a lot of nice stuff to have—but I demurred. I did not succumb. I instead spent the time talking to a pair of delightful colleagues all the while as others sampled and masticated around us (2).

But what's the bet come 9 pm there I am in front of the pantry again? Blank-brained, eyes roaming, searching for any edible possibilities. 

Stupid night grazing!

It's a bit later.

The irony, proper irony, of it all it's now a post-biting incident. An incident ... at night! Yes theBoy attempted to masticate on my person after I gleefully stole two victories over him in a play game and gloated. He lept across the doona, his mouth agape, then latched his teeth onto my forearm and started fully munging on. I actually had to slap the heel of my hand into his back four times to make him let go.

It's horrible in a post-biting environment. There's time out, there's tears, there's sad talks. It's all awful. Plus I had to semi-hit him. It most-sucked. Poor theBoy.  

(1) chubbers = chubby hands. It's not me being blessed with more than one schram and said schrams now in 'interest mode'. 
(2) The afternoon tea was to welcome a new boss+++. He seems nice enough. As he was giving his hello speech I noticed that one of the ladies sitting at the table right next to him (and in view of everyone) completely ignored him and continued with her crossword. Ouch. I hope that didn't throw him. I do miss my old boss+++. He actually got a lot done in a public service that can be sclerotic at times. And he liked me enough to leave kewl fantasy or sci-fi books he'd read on my desk. I have to admit I had it pretty lucky to have old boss+++ as a boss+++ and I hope his sails are still full where he is now.  

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Who keeps tapping the Echidna?

As most of you are aware, since almost all of you who come here are Ozzers, the Echidna is a cute-as-all-fuck weird hedgehog-like creature native to Australia. Only it doesn't do live birth; it lays eggs.

Recently I discovered the Echidna is also the name for a diety from Greek mythos, a half-woman, half-snake who begat a bunch of evil monsters that spewed into the mythos in order to have something for heroes to beat up and thus preen themselves in front of vacuous highly suggestible virgins.

Echidna's spawn included Cerberus, the three-headed dog that guards Hades, the Lernean Hydra,  and the Crommyonian Sow

So ... who keeps tapping the Echidna to make the other half of the toxic love stew that is their spawn?

Why it's Typhon, unsurprisingly known as 'the father of all monsters'. 

He was no prize chicken himself, though as irony would have it he was covered in wings. Here's a redacted slice from his wiki;

Typhon was described ...  as the largest and most fearsome of all creatures. His human upper half reached as high as the stars. His hands reached east and west and, instead of a human head, he had a hundred dragon heads; some however depict him as having a human head and the dragon heads being attached to his hands instead of fingers ... His bottom half was gigantic viper coils that could reach the top of his head when stretched out and made a hissing noise. His whole body was covered in wings, and fire flashed from his eyes.

I am however struggling at working out the bio-mechanics required for those two to hook up given their differing sizes and physiology. And it seems odd they don't spit out children like them with dogs, pigs, and gorgons popped on out instead. Also I suspect Typhon would be somewhat hampered in the foreplay department as he either has a hundred dragon heads or dragon headed fingers and I simply cannot see how possessing then using either is going to get the Echidna foaming at her snake hole. 

Maybe she laid them as eggs and he kind of hosed them down in a giant love spray? 

Apparently Zeus later imprisoned Typhon under Mount Etna, an active volcano.

I guess that means if the mountain ever fires up then it's probably Typhon and the Echidna going at it in the conjugal trailer. 

Simply messing about in boats

Every now and then there will be a system wide IT failure. People won't be able to log on or, if they can, it will be slow and they won't be able to access certain programs or secondary email accounts.

When it happens it's like the gopher undead with public servants rising into view above their waist-high partitions to look at each other with a 'you too?' expression.

So ... what to do when an entire building's IT system fall over? In the good old days when I was a mere speck in the machine—an APS1 no less for I joined long enough ago that there were APS1s still employed—they'd actually give up and send people home when the network failed. Alas not so now so people end up doing largely pointless busy work—tidying desks, attending to paper filing (what little remains) and so forth.

I was feeling in a jolly mood and I crave attention for my shtick. What can I say? I am a shameless attention seeker. I needed to ask someone on the other side of the floor—about 30 metres walk away—so I decided to chair canoe it. You know where you push yourself along in your office chair but you're going backwards, trading safety for speed.

Only I chair canoed past our OH&S officer.

She actually came away from her desk and looked at me and asked what I was doing.

There as no defence for that. And with shame I had to wheel my chair back to my desk, a single wheel squeaking as if to remind the world of my safety transgression.

Still ... it did momentarily liven things up so it's was worth it for that. However it did kind of undermine my reputation for being Mr Safety and trying to get obvious OH&S issues rectified.

Nice one, mimo. You sacrificed a hard-earned rep. as Mr Safety for a five minute hijink involving a chair canoe.

And I'd do it again! Workplace comedy rules. 

Seriously, having a dour grey workplace sucks the wang. And I will forever attempt to shoot a wad of colour into it whenever and wherever I can; great wads of Mikey colour all over the place like Jackson Pollock and Pro Hart had a fight over who got to shoot paint from a tennis ball gun.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

My self-hate avatar

You know the voice in your head that tells you you're fucked? As in when you daydream something ridiculous like future success and it pops into shot and says 'Jesus Christ you're a fuckhead'? Yeah, that voice. Well my voice has a NooYawk kind of sound to it and is as spoken by a short man trying to sound tough.

As I thought about it I realised what I was channelling. The voice, the accent, the tough shortness.

It was Louie the Fly. The much beloved iconic victim of the Mortein brand fly spray's killing power. Where they chillingly force you to see Louie as a guy just trying to make it in this world and in doing so endow him with humanity only then to literally choke the life from him for the crime of simply being present yet unwanted.

Thanks, brain. Thanks so, so much. Louie the Fly. Thanks.

Steps forward, takes a bow.

Monday, June 11, 2012

He's testing bits

theBoy is creating comedy routines. Some work, some do not.

Here's one that didn't. It involved me hearing a running tap noise at the bath where theBoy had just dashed to and was awaiting emplacement within only for me to find him gleefully urinating over the bath's rim and into the water and treating the entire business as a giant stretched-to-the-right super toilet. 

I was not happy. Especially as when he was sprung in flagrante he turned to his left and hosed down a section of floor tile.

That little bit cost him the rest of his night's scheduled activities—which is typically twenty minutes of free story play and three regular (i.e. book) stories. Unless that was he redeemed himself. Fortunately he did and we did have a great free story play time that was especially super entertaining for me.

Still. I was irked. 

However this bit worked. 

We were standing in the kitchen when we heard a dragging noise coming up the corridor. Well it sounded like dragging, but it turned out it was pushing. He was in his pyjamas, lying on the floor on his stomach. His head was in theWife's green plastic mesh clothes hamper, lying on its side. He kept going, at a turtle's pace, grind pushing himself along, his head resting on the green plastic mesh as he slid out of view.

That's worming gold.

Saying yes more

I've been "...accepting offers..." of late, trying to say yes to new experiences and not letting preconceived notions or the potential difficulties dissuade me. 

I used to work with W---. He finally kicked it in the head of his unhappy public service career and is exploring new paths such as sampling uni or doing teacher's aide work. Thanks to staying dedicated to fitness despite his similar age to mine (near forty) he's exploring that as a profession idea and learning to become a masseur. He needs to log hours of treatment giving in order to advance his qualifications and thus it came to be that he offered up a free massage. 

I've never had a massage before and the idea of someone willing to engage with me physically was a novelty. Any lingering worries about unwanted erections due to the touch of another man were placed aside and I manned up and nuded up (1). Well, to undies level. 

Well, so how was it? It was awesome. W--- was skilled—he had a good strong long fingered touch and when he dug in it was never to the point of agony—and he happily answered questions about what he was doing and what techniques he was using—such as how a towel's placement gives the client a subconscious feeling of security that zones they don't want to be touched won't be touched. When it was done I felt light headed and vaguely greasy but that only twenty or so minutes had passed. I was shocked to find it was an hour and twenty. Wowsers. W--- also showed me some nifty kettle weight things and how they could be a potential adjunct to my daily wrestle with the Nemean lion that is the TPC (2). 

Anyway that massage experience was a kewl result of trying to say yes more. And I think it gave me a hint at what it would be to live a pampered life where such things are a scheduled joy. 

I hope you literally pampered rich fuckers appreciate it!

(1) Yes, there were stirrings. I have no worries about such things. When you are touched in certain places there is an autonomic response. I liken it to the ears pricking on a dog. It cannot be helped and fortunately I don't compound the issue by flashing up a magic lantern show of erotic imagery to further embolden things.
(2) I'm so scared ... so scared. It ... it can hear me. It can hear me. It of course being The Purgatory Cart, an exercise bike owned by the winsome Cass, who totally rocks out the glasses plus crochet beanie look.

Saturday, June 09, 2012

The key to my back door is my rake-nemesis

I know, I can hardly believe that the title to this post will make sense but sense it will now make.

Remember how Sideshow Bob keeps stepping on rakes? And how rakes became his other nemesis? I know, good times. 

Anyway the rake-equiv in my life is the key to our back security screen door. At some point the loop of the key's back snapped off and now there are two ragged-ended stumps sprouting from the stub of the key back that remains, the key looking, when key point down, like a twin-horned metal devil. 

If you exit the door and don't fully open it then the horns can prick your flesh as you go past. Or if you let the screen door close behind you and you're not fully clear then you can get stabbed in the back as well.

Mid-week I was on the way out the door when I scraped right into the horn points, the ragged metal slicing nastily into my skin, gouging twin puffy rimmed slices into my hairy spotted arm. The blaze of agony that sprouted forth was most excellent, made the more memorable for it being as cold as a witch's tit upon the air as the realisation I'd opened up my arm arrived up the brain stem. 

The thing is that there's a proper fully intact key that's the spare and it's in it's spare key hiding place. I should really just get off my arse instead of blogging this and go swap them out.

Maybe, perhaps. Maybe, perhaps one day I will. 

Maybe, perhaps. 

Have a good weekend!

UPDATE: Perhaps it is because of Nudge I self-nudged myself as by the mere dint of positing the possibility of my action actually statistically improved the likelihood of taking my action. Whatever the reason or motivation today I actually went and swapped the keys. The devil-horned arm-ripper is now stowed with the hidden spare set, to be used in emergencies and hopefully it will be months before we tangle again. Lurking for me as it does in the place of concealment, biding its time, waiting ... waiting ... waiting to arm rip again. Nasty little fucker.

Area man accidentally delivers hateful screed

theBoy has had these little toy fairy eggs for a while. You put them in water and then later split them a little. The egg shells swell and split apart and the inference is that a fairy has hatched from within.

It's like Alien only without the invasive face hugging and certain death upon the stage following incubation.

So theWife split the eggs and they "...hatched...". 

theBoy called me over and showed me.

Me—'I thought I felt fluttering around my butt. They must be butt fairies!'

As the word string 'butt fairies' hung in the air I realised how it sounded. I then stupidly called attention to it.

Me—'Er ... don't ever say that.'

theBoy—'Butt fairies!'

Daddy fail.

Friday, June 08, 2012

theBoy gets Scared Straight

Remember those Scared Straight programs where they'd take at risk kids around to jails and police stations and shit so the kids would be 'scared straight' as opposed to slipping into their poverty-determined lives of drifting existence? Yeah, funny stuff. There's even an award-winning documentary (1).

Tonight theBoy ended up in Space Jail. He wouldn't tell me who he played with at school, insisting it was Humpty and Stumpty, so I declared he'd lied and off to jail he went.

He was in his cell when he made his escape attempt ... by pulling out a key he had in his pocket.

Now way, José, it's Scared Straight time.

'Sorry, Chooky, you have to get searched before you go to jail. You get nude, they look in your bum, your pee-hole, your ears, your mouth—everything. There's no way you could have got a key into Space Jail.'

He thought about it for a moment. 

'Yes, but they didn't look in my special beard.'

No ... no they did not. 

Chooky: 1, Space Jail: 0. 

I imagine his beard was a combo of Biker Beard and the Rasputin. And that he stroked his beard and smirked as the cell door closed only for Ocean's Eleven-style music to fire up as his slender fingers fingered his whiskers.

(1) I think this is the doco is on YouTube.

Welcome to the family














A shout out to GametesRhyme who has joined the PAG family

♫♪We are PAG Family. You successfully did a non-wee♫♪.

(Mikey does a shooter finger and makes a click, click noise)

Later, during Humpty and Stumpty, Rat ran into the toilet and got such blissful PAG he ululated. In order to mimic the impact of the sounds coming from behind a closed door I muffled the sound of Rat's ululation by trilling loudly from beneath the doona.

At my work we have a Word of the Day on the whiteboard and yesterday that word was ululate.

Reader's Digest, stick that up your Word Test.

Oops

I got Godfathered recently, pulled back in to help with Emergency Management. 

In my long time in the public service I have tried my hardest to step up and help make for a safe and happy workplace. Why? Because it benefits me to have a safe and happy workplace. So it's altruism with a core of Mikey-selfish. Anyway for years I volunteered in those various add-on tasks that they ask people to do—section warden, first aid officer, OH&S officer—but that you don't get fiscally compensated for because it's important to step up and do these things.

But when my First Aid Certificate expired—and with an eager replacement lined up to step in—I hung up my various coloured hard hats for what I thought was the last time. With my hip operation I still have mobility issues and so I didn't wish to be clambering up and down stairs or rapid jogging or all that other assorted physicality that can arise with such roles. 

Alas my retirement was not to be. I got pulled back in because the core person in my area who is the official wearer of the workplace Emergency Management hard hat wasn't in. And unlike other potentials I was trained.

It had been about three years since I've done people wrangling in the steering them to safety sense so I forgot a lot of it. I remembered to check the toilets for example when rushing people out the door to make sure no one was left behind.

Only ... two people were left behind. As the building alarm had failed on first attempt the drill-spawning lads used an alert tone on the bull horn. No one had heard that tone before so there was some confusion as to what it meant. It also meant that those people trying to have a private meeting who heard this odd noise, and likely presumed it to be construction ambiance, simply shut their door to block it out.

I forgot to do a sweep to check for inhabitants in offices with closed doors.

It was only when the two came wandering around the corner across the road from where we were all huddled in the assembly area that we realized they were missing, the head count having failed to detect their absence.

So yes ... I'd sent two people to the crisper were the drill an actual event of fire and with the burning and the screaming and waving of arms.

But as the lads running the drill noted this is why you have drills—to note the kinks, work out the solutions, and to instill in the mind the need to check all doors and who could be behind them; not just check for people having a sneaky sleep on the shitter.

Later I went and apologised to the two left behind, and to another senior person who only found out the drill was on when she saw people gathering across the road through her window and she opened her door to find out what was happening and I then hustled her out of the building.

Still, it could have been worse. It could have been super yucky outside so at least it was, on balance, a nice day for it. You know ... apart from the having left two people to choke to death on roiling toxic smoke.

Thursday, June 07, 2012

Lunchy Wunchy

I eat lunch by myself. Don't worry, it's not sad. I prefer to eat alone in the middle of the day. I usually have some entertainment going—a podcast to listen to, a magazine, or my trusty loaner iPhone with a longform.org sourced article dialled up and ready for reading—and I get to bliss out of the work day for 30 minutes whilst also eating something yummy and drinking a Diet Coke.

Today I took myself off to a nearby Chinese restaurant. It's a nice place but the only downer is they have post-mix soft drink. And I likes my Diet Coke to have the proper fizz and taste to which I am accustomed. 

So ... I smuggled in a can and I kept it concealed beneath my Ford hat (1). Only I knocked the fucker with my magazine and the can tipped over. Precious illegally sourced fluid raced across the plastic covered tabletop and swelled into the various catalogue tat that came with The Monthly that I was reading, as well as dripping onto the empty chair next to me.

Fortunately the waitress wasn't around. So I used my scarf to soak up the worst of it then daubed up the remainder with assorted decoratively folded napkins I raided from the empty table next to me. By the time she came within view my crime had been effectively concealed. I even took away all the sodden napkin tissue and catalogues when I left so I didn't give the gig away.

So all in all as far as accidents went in this case the dead hooker was safely buried and I didn't have to involve my good friends Ben Affleck and Matt Damon.

Once, at a work function no less, I got sprung by a blonde asparagus of a snooty waiter. He saw my Diet Coke can balanced covertly on an aluminium window sill behind me. He pointed at it and demanded to know why its presence was present. I lamely confessed it was mine and that I'd brought it in with me because I couldn't stand post-mix, the only soft drink they had available.

You know what he did? He charged our table $5 for corkage. 

What a total cock-spank. I hope he failed at every audition he went for (2).

(1) theWife got it for me the other day. I think it came from one of those Reject shop type places. It has the Ford symbol. I should point out that I do not give a fucking flying fuck about cars or driving. Indeed I can't even really drive a  car with a manual transmission. So a downside on wearing it is people presuming I give a fuck about cars. Not only that but give a fuck enough to worry about what company made them. Tinkers given not to cars or driving.
(2) I have a sneaking suspicion that most wait staff at proper cafes are would be actors only doing waiter work until they break into an Aussie soap. I blame such suspicions on my lifetime of bitterness against fit beauty. Fuckers.