Hello kids, or adults, or senior citizens, or drooling vegetables who surf the internet using an intricate set of pulleys, some strategically placed pencils and one of those wicked dogs that can pick up remote controls, cross streets, hand over your wallet, open doors and wipe your arse for you. Actually they probably don't do the wiping for you, but they pretty much do everything else. In fact you need one of those little spider monkeys rescued from a laboratory somewhere for the intricate butt work. Now I'm laughing to myself about the image of a helper monkey that wipes your retarded arse for you. How fucken funny would that be, I can see the monkey doing that screaming thing they do when you dress them in dolls clothes and make them ride a tiny bike for the benefit of a bunch of snotty nosed kids. They'd be doing that scream while they shook the piece of loo paper free from their wee little hands, panic struck that you are gonna fall back on top of them with a half wiped ring piece that smothers the last bit of breath from their little lungs. Life must be shit for little monkeys, I hope people are nice to them.
Anyway let's talk about me. It's my topic of choice at all the quiz shows I'm invited onto, as fucken if. Though if I was invited on one, all the black holes within my memory would mean I'd fail and get kicked off the show with sweet fuck all but a copy of the show converted into some lame arse version of a board game. The sort of game you wouldn't play even if it was snowing outside, the log cabin was sealed in and all forms of entertainment were gone but that game. In fact it wouldn't even be useful as fire wood, because it would be filled with toxic game pieces and all that shit. So lets get back on track shall we? Here I am talking to myself via keyboard and being rather pleased that some strangers have been reading this blog and actually enjoying it. Interesting for me, mainly because some of my close friends and the occasional work colleague who has taken the time to visit this place have been so close to accepting a couch in a therapy session somewhere that it is starting to worry me. I mean I know I go off on tangents and ramble on about all sorts of shit but hey that is what this is meant to be about. Also as my readership is close to nil I feel pretty free to write whatever the fuck I like without repercussions or objections. So clearly if someone reads this and goes
"Yo fucko, your blog rocks"
It only encourages me. So to all of you who have sent me positive mentions, what am I up to now, three? I think you fucken rock my jocks and stuff, even though I wear boxers and that. But you get the idea. Jesus, clearly when I'm flattered I start to type like a fucken moron. Oh and what is the fucken story with the cock smacks that send me positive comments about my site only to tag it with links to buying Xmas trees. What kind of fuck knuckle is searching for Xmas trees online and happens to stumble on my blog. Please don't treat me like a fucken dead shit and think I'm stupid enough to believe that you like my site and just wanted to point me in the direction of a great website for buying Xmas trees. I don't think I have ever referenced trees of the Christmas variety EVER, well until now. Clearly if you have to spend your days posting shit like that on blogs like mine you are working in a niche industry that no one gives a fat rats arse about and you should maybe investigate a sideline of selling parts of your body and brain for research projects. Why I would be keen to purchase a tree from the UK makes no sense either. If you have read this blog and enjoyed it by all means leave a comment as it encourages me to write more frequently and tell your friends. I would link to other blogs I read but unfortunately I am a techno wronger when it comes to this thing and no matter how many times I have tried to add links and make this more pretty it doesn't work. Aint it funny how most help sections on these things do little to help and more to confuse, is that just me? Probably, anyway moving on, thanks for reading and I promise more soon.
Friday, November 18
Friday, October 14
EXCUSES, EXCUSES AND YOU KIDS ARE LITTLE FUCKOS
I could dribble out some of those stock standard excuses as to why it has been ages since I dropped words into the blog sphere. You know the ones...I was abducted by aliens and probed so deeply my brain was compacted into the top of my skull, or the one that goes...I sneezed so hard part of my brain dislodged and flew out of my nose taking the head off a passing cat, or who could forget the old...listen fucko I'll update this blog whenever I fucken well feel like and if you've got an issue with that then perhaps you should pay me for my time and then maybe, just maybe I would be a bit more committed to saying things on a more regular basis. Perhaps if I wasn't so busy, pretending to be busy then I would have done something about it.
Anyway today I thought I would write something about being a kid and the horrid things you do to one another as a child. I grew up with two younger brothers and I am quite surprised my parents had the patience and dedication not to smother us in our sleeps and get rid of us years ago. Shocking? Yes of course it is, but when I think back to the things my brothers and I got up to I am inspired to thank the Gods for making me 'mosexual so that the only children I have to worry over are the puppy and kitty kind. Seriously how the hell do parents do it? I've heard all the stories about the bond a mother develops for her child and all that but I'm lost as to how that works. Understandably the only thing I've given birth to comes from a session of serious face stuffing and it ends up sitting at the bottom of a bowl of water and let me tell you even that old saying 'it's got a face only a mother could love' certainly doesn't apply to that.
Anyway enough about my attempts to adopt my own arse art, lets relive the memories shall we. I remember little things like licking my food to prevent having to share it with either of my brothers, this of course progressed into spitting on each others food in order to steal it off them, oh yeah the extent of our creativity knew no bounds. Then there were the times my middle brother and I would torment our younger brother. As we fought he would become more distressed which meant he would freak out and try and make us stop, which usually worked, however it also meant we would then become a dedicated team set on attacking him for stopping us from fighting. As both our parents worked in the family business it meant that we would spend large amounts of time by ourselves. It also meant that our elderly neighbour had my parents on direct dial so she could call them whenever she heard lots of screaming or crying.
This then meant my mother would climb into the car, drive home at break neck speed, using the traffic jams and the embarrassment of having a neighbour say things like 'your children are at each others throats again' to build on her anger so that by the time the wheels of the family car screamed into the driveway she would be so angry that her voice could be heard by dogs 5 neighbourghoods away. As we scattered she would be scoping the scene for implements of punishment, picking up the nearest branch, wooden spoon, fly swat or as a last resort her own hand to beat the living crap out of our arses. Naturally we developed a skill of fighting quietly so the neighbours wouldn't hear us. I vividly remember cornering my littlest brother out the front of our house cos he had climbed a tree, tears streaming down his face, cos we were fighting and my middle brother and I telling him to come inside so the neighbours wouldn't spring us and make the call.
If my middle brother were still a child now he would be classified hyperactive and pumped full of drugs to calm him down but back in the 70's we just knew not to give him red cordial or sweets of any kind. This was of course completely un-avoidable at Easter, which meant my middle brother would devour all his sweet treats in record time and then use the rest of the day to climb the walls like a cat trapped in a box of water. His anger was the sort that entire hospital wings could be devoted to studying. I remember one time when it was possible he may have to wear glasses and my torments of four eyes and other witty asides made him so angry that my Dad had to hold him back as he lurched at me. Hearing my father yell 'RUN!' with a bit of terror and panic in his voice was enough for me to run so fast I could have been an Olympic contender. Just writing this makes me realise something, perhaps the reason my parents didn't smother us was because each day they knew our lives were on the edge anyway because we were more than likely to kill each other without there help. Also with most of our street wishing our parents would eradicate us I'm sure if one or all of us had died they would come out to greet the TV crews with comments that included words like 'devils spawn' and 'pre-pubescent terrorists'.
Thankfully we are much more adult and loving to one another now. Full credit to my beautiful parents for putting up with all our shit and for beating some sense into us. How they coped I will never know but I love them endlessly for everything they did on our behalf.
Anyway today I thought I would write something about being a kid and the horrid things you do to one another as a child. I grew up with two younger brothers and I am quite surprised my parents had the patience and dedication not to smother us in our sleeps and get rid of us years ago. Shocking? Yes of course it is, but when I think back to the things my brothers and I got up to I am inspired to thank the Gods for making me 'mosexual so that the only children I have to worry over are the puppy and kitty kind. Seriously how the hell do parents do it? I've heard all the stories about the bond a mother develops for her child and all that but I'm lost as to how that works. Understandably the only thing I've given birth to comes from a session of serious face stuffing and it ends up sitting at the bottom of a bowl of water and let me tell you even that old saying 'it's got a face only a mother could love' certainly doesn't apply to that.
Anyway enough about my attempts to adopt my own arse art, lets relive the memories shall we. I remember little things like licking my food to prevent having to share it with either of my brothers, this of course progressed into spitting on each others food in order to steal it off them, oh yeah the extent of our creativity knew no bounds. Then there were the times my middle brother and I would torment our younger brother. As we fought he would become more distressed which meant he would freak out and try and make us stop, which usually worked, however it also meant we would then become a dedicated team set on attacking him for stopping us from fighting. As both our parents worked in the family business it meant that we would spend large amounts of time by ourselves. It also meant that our elderly neighbour had my parents on direct dial so she could call them whenever she heard lots of screaming or crying.
This then meant my mother would climb into the car, drive home at break neck speed, using the traffic jams and the embarrassment of having a neighbour say things like 'your children are at each others throats again' to build on her anger so that by the time the wheels of the family car screamed into the driveway she would be so angry that her voice could be heard by dogs 5 neighbourghoods away. As we scattered she would be scoping the scene for implements of punishment, picking up the nearest branch, wooden spoon, fly swat or as a last resort her own hand to beat the living crap out of our arses. Naturally we developed a skill of fighting quietly so the neighbours wouldn't hear us. I vividly remember cornering my littlest brother out the front of our house cos he had climbed a tree, tears streaming down his face, cos we were fighting and my middle brother and I telling him to come inside so the neighbours wouldn't spring us and make the call.
If my middle brother were still a child now he would be classified hyperactive and pumped full of drugs to calm him down but back in the 70's we just knew not to give him red cordial or sweets of any kind. This was of course completely un-avoidable at Easter, which meant my middle brother would devour all his sweet treats in record time and then use the rest of the day to climb the walls like a cat trapped in a box of water. His anger was the sort that entire hospital wings could be devoted to studying. I remember one time when it was possible he may have to wear glasses and my torments of four eyes and other witty asides made him so angry that my Dad had to hold him back as he lurched at me. Hearing my father yell 'RUN!' with a bit of terror and panic in his voice was enough for me to run so fast I could have been an Olympic contender. Just writing this makes me realise something, perhaps the reason my parents didn't smother us was because each day they knew our lives were on the edge anyway because we were more than likely to kill each other without there help. Also with most of our street wishing our parents would eradicate us I'm sure if one or all of us had died they would come out to greet the TV crews with comments that included words like 'devils spawn' and 'pre-pubescent terrorists'.
Thankfully we are much more adult and loving to one another now. Full credit to my beautiful parents for putting up with all our shit and for beating some sense into us. How they coped I will never know but I love them endlessly for everything they did on our behalf.
Tuesday, August 30
REMEMBERING STUFF IS FOR FOOLS
So here I am desperately trying to remember what it was that I said in my previous entry that crashed and burned when I tried to post it…Oh the humanity…alright I suppose on a grand scale this occurrence isn’t as bad as the Hindenburg tragedy Nobody died, it won’t signal the end of a mode of transport and it isn’t related to a tyrannical empire, but it fucken means heaps to me. I slaved away and wasted valuable hours which could have been used for more rewarding pursuits (surfing the net for porn, having a crap, foraging for lost treasure in either of my nostrils, calling a friend, adopting a little Ethiopian kiddie, running away from the paparazzi, writing songs for my next album, calling a press conference, admitting to a drug dependence, cleaning my ears, plucking my nostril hairs…lets face it I could fill your screen with a massive list of things I could have been doing). But oh no, I dedicated a couple of minutes to a keyboard assault that was ignored and disposed of with one click of a post button. Still I could have written it in Microsoft Word and done the cut ‘n’ paste thing like I did for this entry. I will attempt to recover the results of my feverish typing from the lower depths of my head for you now…although I know this will blow for sure…read on at your own peril.
So I was talking to the girlfriend of my favourite lady ‘mosexual the other night and she was telling me how they had just celebrated their first anniversary of love. Oh yeah ‘mosexuals can hang in for the long haul, hubby and I are into 2 and a half years already so stick that in your pipe and smoke it. Anyway we were talking about how quickly time flies and all that spazzy crap you get into when you’re stoned and rambling on the phone. As a side note I would like to point out that the only reason I remember this topic of conversation is because I wrote it down the minute she mentioned it…phew. It was then that she mentioned how difficult it was to learn the phone numbers of your partner and it struck me as one of the most difficult things about a new relationship. Yes, while the average punter is worried about how to put up with that thing that shits them, wether they’ve made the right choice, when is the right time to slip a fart out and learning how to say ours, we and us instead of mine, I and me, I was focussed on remembering a friggen phone number. I don’t have a good memory at the best of times so when hubby and I first hooked up and it got serious I was madly working behind the scenes to memorise not only his mobile but his home number as well.
Do you understand the pressure and expectation that comes with a relationship when you are a living, breathing adult in his 30’s with the memory of a goldfish? I would spend days just staring at the numbers trying to make it second nature. Then because my memory is so short term I’d wonder who the hell this number belonged to and why I was staring at it. KIDDING! Of course, it is with great pride that I mention I have learnt the numbers off by heart, but even now I still have lapses. It is kind of like when you forget how to spell the simplest of words. Someone will be standing over you and you suddenly go blank on how to spell ‘the’ or ‘we’ or ‘kidney’. Everyone has those moments don’t they? As for memorising hubbies birthday don’t even mention it. I vividly remember being in a department store filling out one of those forms that authorises them to send you useless crap and build points to buy more useless crap. Anyway it gets to the point where you have to write your partners birthday down and I had a complete mental blank while he was standing along side of me watching. Talk about freaking out inside my tiny head, which of course uses more mental capacity, which means I drain other resources, which means I was drooling and recreating scenes from Rain Man and Forest Gump. Although without the touching teary parts that could win me an Oscar, it was more of a call security, get a cattle prod and round up some big, no neck security types who are coming down from a steroid cocktail. So yeah, remembering stuff is for fools, live for the moment, write things down and get yourself some serious as shit personal assistant who can whisper in your ear while smiling inanely at anyone approaching you….sorted.
So I was talking to the girlfriend of my favourite lady ‘mosexual the other night and she was telling me how they had just celebrated their first anniversary of love. Oh yeah ‘mosexuals can hang in for the long haul, hubby and I are into 2 and a half years already so stick that in your pipe and smoke it. Anyway we were talking about how quickly time flies and all that spazzy crap you get into when you’re stoned and rambling on the phone. As a side note I would like to point out that the only reason I remember this topic of conversation is because I wrote it down the minute she mentioned it…phew. It was then that she mentioned how difficult it was to learn the phone numbers of your partner and it struck me as one of the most difficult things about a new relationship. Yes, while the average punter is worried about how to put up with that thing that shits them, wether they’ve made the right choice, when is the right time to slip a fart out and learning how to say ours, we and us instead of mine, I and me, I was focussed on remembering a friggen phone number. I don’t have a good memory at the best of times so when hubby and I first hooked up and it got serious I was madly working behind the scenes to memorise not only his mobile but his home number as well.
Do you understand the pressure and expectation that comes with a relationship when you are a living, breathing adult in his 30’s with the memory of a goldfish? I would spend days just staring at the numbers trying to make it second nature. Then because my memory is so short term I’d wonder who the hell this number belonged to and why I was staring at it. KIDDING! Of course, it is with great pride that I mention I have learnt the numbers off by heart, but even now I still have lapses. It is kind of like when you forget how to spell the simplest of words. Someone will be standing over you and you suddenly go blank on how to spell ‘the’ or ‘we’ or ‘kidney’. Everyone has those moments don’t they? As for memorising hubbies birthday don’t even mention it. I vividly remember being in a department store filling out one of those forms that authorises them to send you useless crap and build points to buy more useless crap. Anyway it gets to the point where you have to write your partners birthday down and I had a complete mental blank while he was standing along side of me watching. Talk about freaking out inside my tiny head, which of course uses more mental capacity, which means I drain other resources, which means I was drooling and recreating scenes from Rain Man and Forest Gump. Although without the touching teary parts that could win me an Oscar, it was more of a call security, get a cattle prod and round up some big, no neck security types who are coming down from a steroid cocktail. So yeah, remembering stuff is for fools, live for the moment, write things down and get yourself some serious as shit personal assistant who can whisper in your ear while smiling inanely at anyone approaching you….sorted.
Wednesday, August 24
SHIT AS FUCK
I wrote something great, witty, fabulous, all about me and then it crashes as I go to publish...mother f*#king, arse licking, pig fondling, son of a motherless, DNA coated, bug ridden, prick headed, worthless, shitful, FUCKO!
Will try and re-write it tomorrow, over it now.
Will try and re-write it tomorrow, over it now.
Thursday, August 18
CAMP AS SHIT LOVE
So today I got an email from one of my bestest buddies who lives in London. When she and I were teenagers struggling with life in Adelaide (the capital city in the 'State of Unnatural Acts' described by one visiting friend as 'almost like everyone is waiting for something to happen but nothing has yet'). We lived next door to one another in the upper middle class suburb of Somerton Park. Both out families had numerous children, a token dog and an in-ground pool. Cat and I spent numerous hours hanging out and developed a fabulous relationship. At night we would take turns to leave our house and go next door to the others persons bedroom window and knock on it so that we could talk about anything and everything until we were too tired to talk anymore. I'm sure both our parents believed would develop into love, engagement, marriage and kids.
But seriously if my parents didn't have any inkling I was a 'mosexual in the making, they were clearly spending their days hoovering Temazepam and ignoring the OBVIOUS signs. Anyway Cat wrote to me after reading this blog and commenting that some of my musical choices (early INXS) brought back memories which I have cut and pasted for your viewing pleasure
Takes me back to College Rd times when I had an apparently straight boy neighbour my age living next door to me... Oh you spin me right round baby right round... on a mound.. of dirt.. in the front yard...
Yes it is a sorry thing to admit but as a teenager I developed a rather large passion for miming to the campest songs of the day, Dead or Alive being my all time favourite, however I also become so skilled in miming to Bonnie Tyler's 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' that my parents would badger me to mime it for friends at parties! Hello!!! Apparently my parents were clueless cos that sort of behaviour is screaming pooftapalooza to me.
In fact her memories reminded me of the numerous gay things I did as a child and as a teenager that I wrote off as just a phase I was going through but in hindsight were clearly the makings of a wooly woofter or a horses hoof, as my Dad loved to describe them (that's rhyming slang for poofter and poof). I also thought it was wonderful stuff to rave on about and expose for all and sundry to view. So without further ado I present the
Top 5 Signs Your Kid is a 'Mosexual In Training
Sign Number 1:
Well duh, I liked to mime to songs sung by women and camp men and was so proud of my skills that I climbed onto a mound of dirt, dumped on our front lawn to help build up our garden beds and performed Dead or Alive's 'You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)' for all the neighbourhood kids. I know now that I enjoyed the laughs I got whilst doing it but seriously there are other ways to make people laugh that are less gay. Thankfully I never donned the makeup or the dresses, something that still doesn't interest me to this day.
Sign Number 2:
I made jewellery out of FIMO, mostly earrings and badges, which my mother used to wear and I also sold to her friends. I even went as far as to create themed badges (oh who am I kidding I called them broaches) for Christmas which included small Xmas trees, reindeers and snowmen. Plus I took up decorating t-shirts with that bloody hideous paint that puffs up when you iron the back of the t-shirt so you get a slightly raised look. Somewhere out there in some suburban op shop is an old t-shirt with a weird arse looking koala on it, they were my speciality.
Sign Number 3:
I gave up being a lifesaver, which I started learning from the age of 9, so I could learn how to ride a horse. Once again with the benefit of hindsight I realise that leaving an environment that means you are surrounded by well built men in tiny speedos at the age of 15 could indicate that I was actually straight but clearly not only did I want a pony but I was also terrified of getting a stiffy in my own speedos while surrounded by all that barely encased meat...gulp.
Sign Number 4:
Even though I currently do voiceovers using my lovely deep voice, I had to work to find it. A few years back when I stumbled across my first aircheck from the late 80's, which I recorded when I was about 17 or 18, I was shocked at how gay I actually sounded. I also finally understood why so many of my parents friends would ask "Don't you need a deep voice for that?" whenever I told them I wanted a career in radio. How rude, I should track them down and finally respond with a "Don't you have to be more sensitive to a teenagers feelings when he is revealing his dreams to you rather than rolling your eyes, suppressing a laugh and then jumping up and down on his still growing testicles?"
Sign Number 5:
Despite attempts to cover up my sexuality, by feeding myself large quantities of food from the back of a dump truck so I wouldn't appear sexy to anyone, women were all over me. On a few occasions I would actually give in and accept their proposal to be their boyfriend, but the minute they tried to wrestle me to the ground and shove their tongues down my throat it was the old "It's not you, it's me" and the dating was over. When my last "girlfriend" complained to our friends that I didn't put out and that she thought I might be gay, I turned to her and said "I'm not gay and how dare you spread such vicious lies about me, we're over, I don't wanna see you again". Boy did I have some explaing to do to her when I finally came out of the closet.
So there you have it, me in a nutshell. Now I'm all bushy 70's mo, shaved head, military and work shirts and deep voice, but back then I was all the glitz, the glamour, the swishy. How times have changed. By the way, don't worry about Cat, as a 'mosexual herself, I love that we found each other and spent all those years bonding. Her friendship is one of the greatest things I found in my childhood and thankfully I still have to this very day.
But seriously if my parents didn't have any inkling I was a 'mosexual in the making, they were clearly spending their days hoovering Temazepam and ignoring the OBVIOUS signs. Anyway Cat wrote to me after reading this blog and commenting that some of my musical choices (early INXS) brought back memories which I have cut and pasted for your viewing pleasure
Takes me back to College Rd times when I had an apparently straight boy neighbour my age living next door to me... Oh you spin me right round baby right round... on a mound.. of dirt.. in the front yard...
Yes it is a sorry thing to admit but as a teenager I developed a rather large passion for miming to the campest songs of the day, Dead or Alive being my all time favourite, however I also become so skilled in miming to Bonnie Tyler's 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' that my parents would badger me to mime it for friends at parties! Hello!!! Apparently my parents were clueless cos that sort of behaviour is screaming pooftapalooza to me.
In fact her memories reminded me of the numerous gay things I did as a child and as a teenager that I wrote off as just a phase I was going through but in hindsight were clearly the makings of a wooly woofter or a horses hoof, as my Dad loved to describe them (that's rhyming slang for poofter and poof). I also thought it was wonderful stuff to rave on about and expose for all and sundry to view. So without further ado I present the
Top 5 Signs Your Kid is a 'Mosexual In Training
Sign Number 1:
Well duh, I liked to mime to songs sung by women and camp men and was so proud of my skills that I climbed onto a mound of dirt, dumped on our front lawn to help build up our garden beds and performed Dead or Alive's 'You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)' for all the neighbourhood kids. I know now that I enjoyed the laughs I got whilst doing it but seriously there are other ways to make people laugh that are less gay. Thankfully I never donned the makeup or the dresses, something that still doesn't interest me to this day.
Sign Number 2:
I made jewellery out of FIMO, mostly earrings and badges, which my mother used to wear and I also sold to her friends. I even went as far as to create themed badges (oh who am I kidding I called them broaches) for Christmas which included small Xmas trees, reindeers and snowmen. Plus I took up decorating t-shirts with that bloody hideous paint that puffs up when you iron the back of the t-shirt so you get a slightly raised look. Somewhere out there in some suburban op shop is an old t-shirt with a weird arse looking koala on it, they were my speciality.
Sign Number 3:
I gave up being a lifesaver, which I started learning from the age of 9, so I could learn how to ride a horse. Once again with the benefit of hindsight I realise that leaving an environment that means you are surrounded by well built men in tiny speedos at the age of 15 could indicate that I was actually straight but clearly not only did I want a pony but I was also terrified of getting a stiffy in my own speedos while surrounded by all that barely encased meat...gulp.
Sign Number 4:
Even though I currently do voiceovers using my lovely deep voice, I had to work to find it. A few years back when I stumbled across my first aircheck from the late 80's, which I recorded when I was about 17 or 18, I was shocked at how gay I actually sounded. I also finally understood why so many of my parents friends would ask "Don't you need a deep voice for that?" whenever I told them I wanted a career in radio. How rude, I should track them down and finally respond with a "Don't you have to be more sensitive to a teenagers feelings when he is revealing his dreams to you rather than rolling your eyes, suppressing a laugh and then jumping up and down on his still growing testicles?"
Sign Number 5:
Despite attempts to cover up my sexuality, by feeding myself large quantities of food from the back of a dump truck so I wouldn't appear sexy to anyone, women were all over me. On a few occasions I would actually give in and accept their proposal to be their boyfriend, but the minute they tried to wrestle me to the ground and shove their tongues down my throat it was the old "It's not you, it's me" and the dating was over. When my last "girlfriend" complained to our friends that I didn't put out and that she thought I might be gay, I turned to her and said "I'm not gay and how dare you spread such vicious lies about me, we're over, I don't wanna see you again". Boy did I have some explaing to do to her when I finally came out of the closet.
So there you have it, me in a nutshell. Now I'm all bushy 70's mo, shaved head, military and work shirts and deep voice, but back then I was all the glitz, the glamour, the swishy. How times have changed. By the way, don't worry about Cat, as a 'mosexual herself, I love that we found each other and spent all those years bonding. Her friendship is one of the greatest things I found in my childhood and thankfully I still have to this very day.
Saturday, August 13
MIND BLOWING READ
Putting my own demented ramblings aside, I stumbled on this letter while surfing the blog world and it is amazing. Click here and be moved. I wish I could argue a point home as well as this woman does, she is my new personal Jesus.
Tuesday, August 2
AN OPEN LETTER TO DR JOSHI
Dear Dr Joshi (what kind of name is that anyway?)
Yesterday marked one week into your book Dr Joshi's Holisitic Detox, oh yes, I am finally purging my poor 36 year old body of the years of abuse and magnificent substances that have coursed, congealed and oozed into my veins. I feel fucken fabulous however I do have issues...well duh, read the inner thoughts below and any drooling, monosalibic fool with the mental age of a goldfish that was born with half a brain and then trod on but put back together and then bought back to life and given a translator who uses bright crayons, flash cards, fuzzy felt stick on pictures and those dolls which usually get introduced with the words
"Show me on the dolly where they touched you"
and you could work that one out. No this issue isn't one I have previously listed, this issue is with Dr Joshi's helpful advice on how to stay motivated on your detox. You see I honestly believe the only reason I am still doing this thing is because I have decided I need to do it. I'm sick of feeling like crap, hate that I've tried almost everything on the home delivery menu's and I'm terrified of getting to the point where I start investigating kaftans and washing myself with a rag on a stick. So when I read that this detox will re-educate my taste buds and make me not wanna eat those bad foods ever again I got excited.
Well Dr Joshi you don't know me or my taste buds. Yes I will admit that your holistic detox food is lovely, complex, fresh and stimulating but it aint nothing compared to something smeared in butter, deep fried, dunked in chocolate or served in a big fuck off martini glass. You get what I'm saying? I could keep eating this organic whole food till the day I kick it into the next existance and I would still crave a slab of pig fried in a pan and served on a stack of eggs with butter spread as thick as a slice of cheese melting into a hot toasted slice of really soft doughy bread and a milkshake with enough sugar to shatter your teeth. Jesus I think my heart just squealed in my chest writing that....gulp.
So the struggle continues as I write this I am about to hop on the tram and head to the organic supermarket to load up on more 'treats' but don't ever think for one minute that I wouldn't go you with a knife for trying to convince my taste buds they will be re-educated. This aint some Stanley Kubrick film and I aint falling for it.
Love
me
Yesterday marked one week into your book Dr Joshi's Holisitic Detox, oh yes, I am finally purging my poor 36 year old body of the years of abuse and magnificent substances that have coursed, congealed and oozed into my veins. I feel fucken fabulous however I do have issues...well duh, read the inner thoughts below and any drooling, monosalibic fool with the mental age of a goldfish that was born with half a brain and then trod on but put back together and then bought back to life and given a translator who uses bright crayons, flash cards, fuzzy felt stick on pictures and those dolls which usually get introduced with the words
"Show me on the dolly where they touched you"
and you could work that one out. No this issue isn't one I have previously listed, this issue is with Dr Joshi's helpful advice on how to stay motivated on your detox. You see I honestly believe the only reason I am still doing this thing is because I have decided I need to do it. I'm sick of feeling like crap, hate that I've tried almost everything on the home delivery menu's and I'm terrified of getting to the point where I start investigating kaftans and washing myself with a rag on a stick. So when I read that this detox will re-educate my taste buds and make me not wanna eat those bad foods ever again I got excited.
Well Dr Joshi you don't know me or my taste buds. Yes I will admit that your holistic detox food is lovely, complex, fresh and stimulating but it aint nothing compared to something smeared in butter, deep fried, dunked in chocolate or served in a big fuck off martini glass. You get what I'm saying? I could keep eating this organic whole food till the day I kick it into the next existance and I would still crave a slab of pig fried in a pan and served on a stack of eggs with butter spread as thick as a slice of cheese melting into a hot toasted slice of really soft doughy bread and a milkshake with enough sugar to shatter your teeth. Jesus I think my heart just squealed in my chest writing that....gulp.
So the struggle continues as I write this I am about to hop on the tram and head to the organic supermarket to load up on more 'treats' but don't ever think for one minute that I wouldn't go you with a knife for trying to convince my taste buds they will be re-educated. This aint some Stanley Kubrick film and I aint falling for it.
Love
me
Saturday, July 23
HELP! THEY WANT TO ASSIMILATE ME
There are a few things you need to know about me before I delve into the main topic of this post. Firstly, working in the media is a cut throat business, which means it ain't all love, kisses, celebrities and abundant cash. In reality it is more along the lines of being addicted to some kind of hard core drug and the company you work for is your dealer, they smile and treat you with love and respect but there is an under current of 'fuck us over and your dead'. The minute you get too dependent, start grand standing or become a liability they will cut the supply off and cast you out to fend for yourself and let me tell you the comedown is hard to work through.
A sweeter way to look at it (for the ladies) is this, it is sort of like being a fluffy little bunny, they look sweet, some of them are a bit rough around the edges, have a bit of mange or myxomatosis, and all of the bunnies have some sort of tumor attached that can either grow and absorb its host or can be kept in check with constant medication, more commonly referred to as keeping yourself in check or being grounded. Yes of the course the tumour is also known as an ego. The bigger the tumour the more it drags in the mud, slowing down the rest of the warren and hindering it's owners ability to escape when the bright lights shine in it's face and it gets pressed into the bitumen and remodeled with a tyre tread across it spine. Hmm smacked you around with that one didn't I.
Yeah so in the event the dealer cuts you off or you get turned into some sort of road kill luncheon meat you generally need to find a job. In my 17 year career this has happened to me twice, not bad, all things considered. The 2 times it has happened I have decided to take my limited skills to companies that do telephone research. You spend hours on end cold calling poor, innocent punters and asking them to stay on the phone from a few minutes to a good quarter hour. The level of abuse that you receive from a job like this is immense as most of the calls happen during dinner time and God forbid you interrupt whatever useless reality/soapie/topical/game show/porn they were zoned out in front of to ask them if they think religion should be taught in schools or marijuana should be legalised.
So having spent time being treated like a dribbling freak and abused by faceless morons over the phone whenever someone calls me and asks the question
"Hello Sir, would you mind completing a short survey for us"
I feel morally obliged as I know how soul destroying it is trying to get your quota up and knowing that as soon as the last few people are surveyed you can go home and get paid some shiny beads and a handful of warm spit for your dedication. This happened to me on Saturday last week. A sweet little elderly lady knocked on my door and asked if I could answer a few questions for a survey, thankfully the Scientologists don't do it door to door, so with the usual pangs of sympathy and guilt I agreed.
After spending roughly 20 minutes with her looking at various magazine covers, trying to remember what TV I watched a week ago and sorting through whatever else they needed to know, she wrapped up by saying something about a booklet. I was so wasted and mindless from answering so many questions I thought she was talking about some colour brochure that proves her company is legitimate and agreed that she could drop one at my door the following day. It was waiting for hubby and I when we stepped outdoors the following day and I picked it up and cast it inside and ignored it, as you do. Anyway Wednesday night I get a call asking if I have started filling out my survey and I wonder what the hell this woman is talking about. Then I remember the book on the door step that I have been walking over in the hallway all week, the junk mail that comes back to bite you. So feeling obliged once again I sat down to answer all the questions in the 2 survey boks, that's right, 2 survey books.
Last night while hubby was delving into the Opera world on DVD I started to fill out the first and biggest book, as I kept putting more and more black biro (blue if you don't have back but never a felt tip pen) crosses in tiny boxes and turning more and more pages to be confronted with more and more questions I started to FREAK OUT! Even with all my experience in this industry I have never seen a survey this big. We are talking 118 pages, that's right and each page is FUCKEN over flowing with questions. They cover things like sports you do and watch, toothpaste you buy or have heard about, sanitary napkins (WTF), meat and smallgoods, shopping centres, service stations, telephones, mobiles, gas and electricity, my weight (YOU RUDE PRYING FUCKOS), beer, wine, pre-packaged and mixed drinks, coffee, butter, my height, my bowel movements (actually I made that one up but I would have put my crosses in the boxes if they asked) and the list goes on and on and on.
What was freaking me out the most is how much they will know about me once this thing is completed. They could quite easily being growing a little me clone next to all the sheep named Dolly1, Dolly2 etc., and just program all my info into it and I am totally replaced. Oh and yes I will complete the surveys (sometime in 2007 at this rate) as they have a draw to win $10,000. As far as I'm concerned I should be given the cash for even bothering to answer the questions, let alone that I am actually answering all of them truthfully. Why am I such a fucken goody, good? Oh that's right, because I used to do this job and I know how annoying it is when people don't do it. If I was a nastier man I would use each page to wipe my friggen hairy butt on and then send it back C.O.D. with a couple of house bricks thrown in so they have to spend maxi cash getting it out of the post office only to find it repugnant when they open it.....GRRRRRR.
A sweeter way to look at it (for the ladies) is this, it is sort of like being a fluffy little bunny, they look sweet, some of them are a bit rough around the edges, have a bit of mange or myxomatosis, and all of the bunnies have some sort of tumor attached that can either grow and absorb its host or can be kept in check with constant medication, more commonly referred to as keeping yourself in check or being grounded. Yes of the course the tumour is also known as an ego. The bigger the tumour the more it drags in the mud, slowing down the rest of the warren and hindering it's owners ability to escape when the bright lights shine in it's face and it gets pressed into the bitumen and remodeled with a tyre tread across it spine. Hmm smacked you around with that one didn't I.
Yeah so in the event the dealer cuts you off or you get turned into some sort of road kill luncheon meat you generally need to find a job. In my 17 year career this has happened to me twice, not bad, all things considered. The 2 times it has happened I have decided to take my limited skills to companies that do telephone research. You spend hours on end cold calling poor, innocent punters and asking them to stay on the phone from a few minutes to a good quarter hour. The level of abuse that you receive from a job like this is immense as most of the calls happen during dinner time and God forbid you interrupt whatever useless reality/soapie/topical/game show/porn they were zoned out in front of to ask them if they think religion should be taught in schools or marijuana should be legalised.
So having spent time being treated like a dribbling freak and abused by faceless morons over the phone whenever someone calls me and asks the question
"Hello Sir, would you mind completing a short survey for us"
I feel morally obliged as I know how soul destroying it is trying to get your quota up and knowing that as soon as the last few people are surveyed you can go home and get paid some shiny beads and a handful of warm spit for your dedication. This happened to me on Saturday last week. A sweet little elderly lady knocked on my door and asked if I could answer a few questions for a survey, thankfully the Scientologists don't do it door to door, so with the usual pangs of sympathy and guilt I agreed.
After spending roughly 20 minutes with her looking at various magazine covers, trying to remember what TV I watched a week ago and sorting through whatever else they needed to know, she wrapped up by saying something about a booklet. I was so wasted and mindless from answering so many questions I thought she was talking about some colour brochure that proves her company is legitimate and agreed that she could drop one at my door the following day. It was waiting for hubby and I when we stepped outdoors the following day and I picked it up and cast it inside and ignored it, as you do. Anyway Wednesday night I get a call asking if I have started filling out my survey and I wonder what the hell this woman is talking about. Then I remember the book on the door step that I have been walking over in the hallway all week, the junk mail that comes back to bite you. So feeling obliged once again I sat down to answer all the questions in the 2 survey boks, that's right, 2 survey books.
Last night while hubby was delving into the Opera world on DVD I started to fill out the first and biggest book, as I kept putting more and more black biro (blue if you don't have back but never a felt tip pen) crosses in tiny boxes and turning more and more pages to be confronted with more and more questions I started to FREAK OUT! Even with all my experience in this industry I have never seen a survey this big. We are talking 118 pages, that's right and each page is FUCKEN over flowing with questions. They cover things like sports you do and watch, toothpaste you buy or have heard about, sanitary napkins (WTF), meat and smallgoods, shopping centres, service stations, telephones, mobiles, gas and electricity, my weight (YOU RUDE PRYING FUCKOS), beer, wine, pre-packaged and mixed drinks, coffee, butter, my height, my bowel movements (actually I made that one up but I would have put my crosses in the boxes if they asked) and the list goes on and on and on.
What was freaking me out the most is how much they will know about me once this thing is completed. They could quite easily being growing a little me clone next to all the sheep named Dolly1, Dolly2 etc., and just program all my info into it and I am totally replaced. Oh and yes I will complete the surveys (sometime in 2007 at this rate) as they have a draw to win $10,000. As far as I'm concerned I should be given the cash for even bothering to answer the questions, let alone that I am actually answering all of them truthfully. Why am I such a fucken goody, good? Oh that's right, because I used to do this job and I know how annoying it is when people don't do it. If I was a nastier man I would use each page to wipe my friggen hairy butt on and then send it back C.O.D. with a couple of house bricks thrown in so they have to spend maxi cash getting it out of the post office only to find it repugnant when they open it.....GRRRRRR.
Wednesday, July 20
PROOF THAT NOTHING HAPPENS TO ME
So walking to work this morning and decided to grab a loaf of wholewheat which is this bullshit amazing organic bread from what has to be Melbourne's best bakery, Baker D. Chirico, read about them here:
http://danlepard.com/content/pages/dchirico1.htm
Anyway this bread is quite literally a mind fuck, I love going to the shop before 9am as they usually have a pile of this wholegrain bread covered in sesame seeds and most mornings its only a few minutes out of the ovens so it is super hot and soft and doughy inside. It just rips your nostrils apart with all these amazing mouth watering smells.
So to go with my hot, just baked bread I run across the road and grab some organic crunchy peanut butter from the IGA (that's a supermarket in case your thinking it stands for International Groping Academy or Internal Gut Analysis or some fucked up shit like that). I love my organic food as much as life itself, in fact, I can't understand why you would buy souless, dead supermarket food when you could have the amazing flavour of real organic food.
So before I get any further side tracked, train crashed, hundreds dead etc., this peanut paste is $5.67 a tub, fair enough, run to the counter and run it through with Miss 'Oh Look What You Eat You Pig' Checkout Lady and it won't swipe, so she says
"Um, do you know how much this is?"
and inside my head the good me is going
"Ya huh it is $5.67"
and the bad me is going
"Lie, say no I don't, go on, I dare you, make them work for it, make them work for it fucko, what are you the gayest of the gayest guys in the world?"
so without a moments hesitation I say
"Um, no I don't sorry" (LIAR, LIAR, LIAR!)
So she just shrugs, types in a price she pulls out of her arse and hands it to me in a plastic bag with all my other groceries. I was so excited I almost tore the sales docket out of her hand in my rush to get out of the shop and check how much I saved.
This is where it gets sad, I mean really, is my life that pathetic that the highlight of my day so far is how I stole from a reputable business? Am I that old that I get excited about something as sad as getting a breakfast spread for below suggested retail. Could I be sad enough to run to work, grab my phone and ring hubby to tell him in detail about my adventure and brag about how much I paid for 375 grams of organic peanut butter? I think we can safely say YES to all those questions. I did run to work, ring hubby and brag about it, I am excited I got a product worth $5.67 for $1.50. I mean seriously who charges $1.50 for a tub of organic peanut butter, what is she retarded? Therefore, regardless of how sad I am, I still feel I deserved my little bonus...I don't know why but hey serves them right for being stupid.
http://danlepard.com/content/pages/dchirico1.htm
Anyway this bread is quite literally a mind fuck, I love going to the shop before 9am as they usually have a pile of this wholegrain bread covered in sesame seeds and most mornings its only a few minutes out of the ovens so it is super hot and soft and doughy inside. It just rips your nostrils apart with all these amazing mouth watering smells.
So to go with my hot, just baked bread I run across the road and grab some organic crunchy peanut butter from the IGA (that's a supermarket in case your thinking it stands for International Groping Academy or Internal Gut Analysis or some fucked up shit like that). I love my organic food as much as life itself, in fact, I can't understand why you would buy souless, dead supermarket food when you could have the amazing flavour of real organic food.
So before I get any further side tracked, train crashed, hundreds dead etc., this peanut paste is $5.67 a tub, fair enough, run to the counter and run it through with Miss 'Oh Look What You Eat You Pig' Checkout Lady and it won't swipe, so she says
"Um, do you know how much this is?"
and inside my head the good me is going
"Ya huh it is $5.67"
and the bad me is going
"Lie, say no I don't, go on, I dare you, make them work for it, make them work for it fucko, what are you the gayest of the gayest guys in the world?"
so without a moments hesitation I say
"Um, no I don't sorry" (LIAR, LIAR, LIAR!)
So she just shrugs, types in a price she pulls out of her arse and hands it to me in a plastic bag with all my other groceries. I was so excited I almost tore the sales docket out of her hand in my rush to get out of the shop and check how much I saved.
This is where it gets sad, I mean really, is my life that pathetic that the highlight of my day so far is how I stole from a reputable business? Am I that old that I get excited about something as sad as getting a breakfast spread for below suggested retail. Could I be sad enough to run to work, grab my phone and ring hubby to tell him in detail about my adventure and brag about how much I paid for 375 grams of organic peanut butter? I think we can safely say YES to all those questions. I did run to work, ring hubby and brag about it, I am excited I got a product worth $5.67 for $1.50. I mean seriously who charges $1.50 for a tub of organic peanut butter, what is she retarded? Therefore, regardless of how sad I am, I still feel I deserved my little bonus...I don't know why but hey serves them right for being stupid.
Wednesday, July 13
IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!
Yah, I am older, so now I can start to think about acting my age, as fucken if. That would mean I should be married to a woman who pretends to love me but secretly fantasies about running off with anyone who shows her any interest and have a bunch of shitty sprogs that eat me out of house and home, think I'm a tool and cost me a fortune in peer group pressure buys and school fees. Phew sometimes being a 'mosexual rocks even more than you could possibly imagine.
So woke up this morning to hubbies birthday wishes (he is so cute and sexy in bed...well he is sexy anywhere, but I love his messed up hair, just woke up look the most) and as an example of my creeping dementia (can you get that at 36 or is it just the follow on from rampant drug experimentation) I had actually forgotten about it until he gave me the hatch day wishes. In fact, yesterday I thought I had missed it entirely and no one had bothered to say anything as well, how very Molly (16 Candles) Ringwald of me.
My littlest brother tried calling me a few times, the first time I was washing the bits and pieces and the second I had a face full of toast and a cup full of hot water and lemon juice and I'm too old to be interested in running to answer a phone like some kind of tragic teenage fucko desperate for recognition and approval. Then mum got through to send me her love and apologise for being slack with the forwarding of a present which her and Dad intend to deliver to me personally in August.
Wandered into work were the day has been broken up with calls and SMS's wishing me the best. Although not many people at work have bothered to say anything to me and as far as my declaration to hubby this morning that I would be eating cake for lunch it is a good thing I had money in my pocket to buy a pastry case of lips, tits, arseholes and face bits commonly referred to as a meat pie, because this little fuckos cake never turned up. How ungrateful and self absorbed of them to think I wouldn't want one.
As for tonight, well we are off to our mates little cafe so we can sit at the bar with her and hoover a plate full of roast meat and vegies for their $10 roast night, gotta love a cheap, pensioner type feed. According to rumours I have heard red wine will be served and I will be force fed massive chunks of Mar Bar slice....bring it on fucko, I am so bang up for that. Remember it is never too late to give so organise something with a value of a hundred bucks or more and forward it to me post haste.
So woke up this morning to hubbies birthday wishes (he is so cute and sexy in bed...well he is sexy anywhere, but I love his messed up hair, just woke up look the most) and as an example of my creeping dementia (can you get that at 36 or is it just the follow on from rampant drug experimentation) I had actually forgotten about it until he gave me the hatch day wishes. In fact, yesterday I thought I had missed it entirely and no one had bothered to say anything as well, how very Molly (16 Candles) Ringwald of me.
My littlest brother tried calling me a few times, the first time I was washing the bits and pieces and the second I had a face full of toast and a cup full of hot water and lemon juice and I'm too old to be interested in running to answer a phone like some kind of tragic teenage fucko desperate for recognition and approval. Then mum got through to send me her love and apologise for being slack with the forwarding of a present which her and Dad intend to deliver to me personally in August.
Wandered into work were the day has been broken up with calls and SMS's wishing me the best. Although not many people at work have bothered to say anything to me and as far as my declaration to hubby this morning that I would be eating cake for lunch it is a good thing I had money in my pocket to buy a pastry case of lips, tits, arseholes and face bits commonly referred to as a meat pie, because this little fuckos cake never turned up. How ungrateful and self absorbed of them to think I wouldn't want one.
As for tonight, well we are off to our mates little cafe so we can sit at the bar with her and hoover a plate full of roast meat and vegies for their $10 roast night, gotta love a cheap, pensioner type feed. According to rumours I have heard red wine will be served and I will be force fed massive chunks of Mar Bar slice....bring it on fucko, I am so bang up for that. Remember it is never too late to give so organise something with a value of a hundred bucks or more and forward it to me post haste.
Monday, July 11
CHILL TO THESE GROOVES NOW FUCKO!
Back again, with a purpose and a mission besides just my usual rants and self absorbed hoopla, time to spread the love to someone else me thinks. Having been so vocal in expressing the limitations of my diagnosed disease (which will probably inspire Tom Cruise to bag me out and babble on like the repressed 'mosexual that he secretly is) it should come as no surprise that I have been meaning to write this entry for ages...doh. Anyway if you're reading this then congratulations, you clearly graduated from some sort of educational institution, now that you have proved your superiority, how about you grab your mouse and rub it over the link below. I could rave for pages about how great Jess McAvoy is, but really, you just need to experience it for yourself.
While some people go ape shit for the incredibly over rated Missy Higgins and her over the top ocker whinging to piano accompaniment, this woman is being ignored. Having purchased her En Masse CD recently I can guarantee she provides more substance and variety from beginning to end of her CD rather than the continuous blah that Missy dishes out. Full credit to Missy for her talents and all, but really, I would rather go my left bollock with a rusty splade (see: a weird arse hybrid all in one spoon, fork and knife that is pointless and rather dangerous considering how sharp the edges are...what demented fucko decided that was a good idea? Have him or her sacked) than have to tolerate her debut album from start to finish. Then again if you are an insomniac it could be just the thing to send you off into the land of ZZZZZZZZZ.
I should point out that this is my blog so my thoughts and theories reign supreme and what I say goes or my underlings see the wrath of Supreme Fucko unleashed. You of course may not agree but hey that is what the comments section is for. All I really wanna say is have a look and a listen, some of her music is available to preview and it is well worth the effort. If you like Missy take the plunge and experience something on a higher level and purchase the CD right now.
http://www.jessmcavoy.com/music.htm
PS: Yes I know Jess personally but even if I was just some sad arsed, waiting at the stage door, crying at the mention of her name, going to every instore, see all the tours, buy every album, set up the fansite, get the autographs, ask for a photo, sleep my way backstage kind of person I would still think she fucken rocks.
While some people go ape shit for the incredibly over rated Missy Higgins and her over the top ocker whinging to piano accompaniment, this woman is being ignored. Having purchased her En Masse CD recently I can guarantee she provides more substance and variety from beginning to end of her CD rather than the continuous blah that Missy dishes out. Full credit to Missy for her talents and all, but really, I would rather go my left bollock with a rusty splade (see: a weird arse hybrid all in one spoon, fork and knife that is pointless and rather dangerous considering how sharp the edges are...what demented fucko decided that was a good idea? Have him or her sacked) than have to tolerate her debut album from start to finish. Then again if you are an insomniac it could be just the thing to send you off into the land of ZZZZZZZZZ.
I should point out that this is my blog so my thoughts and theories reign supreme and what I say goes or my underlings see the wrath of Supreme Fucko unleashed. You of course may not agree but hey that is what the comments section is for. All I really wanna say is have a look and a listen, some of her music is available to preview and it is well worth the effort. If you like Missy take the plunge and experience something on a higher level and purchase the CD right now.
http://www.jessmcavoy.com/music.htm
PS: Yes I know Jess personally but even if I was just some sad arsed, waiting at the stage door, crying at the mention of her name, going to every instore, see all the tours, buy every album, set up the fansite, get the autographs, ask for a photo, sleep my way backstage kind of person I would still think she fucken rocks.
Wednesday, July 6
YOU LAZY ARSED FUCKO
I know, I know, I should be shot, but hey maybe I was and all this time I've been wallowing in the bush, fingering my entrails as the life slowly drains from me, wishing I could place one last entry in this blog. Do you feel guilty yet? NO? Ok perhaps I am milking it beyond belief but you get the picture and the truth of the matter is still quite shocking. I've been diagnosed with an incurable disease called....(pause for effect)....LAZINESS.
Shocking isn't it, right now I'm lending my image to a campaign to raise awareness about the disease, we were gonna nominate a day and choose a coloured ribbon to wear but at this stage we are all too....um, busy to get together and organise it. We need to select a place to run the campaign from but, well, there's quite a few good things on the TV and besides who would care. I mean really, if we do go to all this effort would the general public just be so lazy that they'd ignore us? Me thinks so. Fuck them all. I'd actually withdraw myself from the campaign right now if I could be bothered lifting the phone and....ah who gives a shit.
Shocking isn't it, right now I'm lending my image to a campaign to raise awareness about the disease, we were gonna nominate a day and choose a coloured ribbon to wear but at this stage we are all too....um, busy to get together and organise it. We need to select a place to run the campaign from but, well, there's quite a few good things on the TV and besides who would care. I mean really, if we do go to all this effort would the general public just be so lazy that they'd ignore us? Me thinks so. Fuck them all. I'd actually withdraw myself from the campaign right now if I could be bothered lifting the phone and....ah who gives a shit.
Thursday, May 5
IF YOU LOVE ME SIGN THIS NOW
Ok so maybe that heading was a little too forward but really, I don't care if you think I'm some shitful loser and you've only used the word love in regards to me within a sentence like this
"I would LOVE to smash that fuckos head in with a house brick"
All I am asking of you is to click on this link and sign the petition, seriously 'Duckman' is heaven and I want it to come out on DVD so bad I could shit (actually I shit everyday so perhaps I will change that to) I want it to come out on DVD so bad I could do a sex wee in my pants. Still doesn't help huh? Just sign this and do it now.
http://www.petitiononline.com/DMonDVD/petition.html
"I would LOVE to smash that fuckos head in with a house brick"
All I am asking of you is to click on this link and sign the petition, seriously 'Duckman' is heaven and I want it to come out on DVD so bad I could shit (actually I shit everyday so perhaps I will change that to) I want it to come out on DVD so bad I could do a sex wee in my pants. Still doesn't help huh? Just sign this and do it now.
http://www.petitiononline.com/DMonDVD/petition.html
Wednesday, May 4
I WANNA BE RICH NOW DADDY!!!
Had a bit of a revelation the other night, you know how it is, your stretched out on your couch, your hubby (wifey, lover, flatmate, blow in, friend, family member, serial stalker, invisible friend, the voices in your head....go with whichever one applies) is stretched out on their couch, your lost in the world of reality television and some out and out cock snap is just giving you the screaming shits and all you feel like doing is picking up a solid object and forcing it through the screen at high velocity.
It was at this point that I decided that I wanted to be bullshit, super rich, Oprah style. My reasoning is that if you had a massive amount of disposable cash you could pick up something heavy, and lets face it, if you are really rich you'd have some sort of solid gold rock that you could throw at the screen whenever someone or something gave you the shits. I'm thinking that perhaps the best option would be to have a constant supply of plasma screens on a conveyor system that responds as soon as the currently viewed TV explodes into a shower of sparks and electrical bits 'n' pieces.
I can see it now, the new plasma screen would slide back into place and some underling who was at the beck and call of hubby and I, would retrieve our solid gold TV rock and place it back on its purpose built, silver platter within easy reach for the next time Daryl Somers decided to pick up a microphone and pretend the awful screeching that dribbled from his mouth was actually singing. So if you are justly inspired, please grab the nearest means of contact and force feed me all the free cash you can accumulate and send it my way so I can make my dreams a reality.
It was at this point that I decided that I wanted to be bullshit, super rich, Oprah style. My reasoning is that if you had a massive amount of disposable cash you could pick up something heavy, and lets face it, if you are really rich you'd have some sort of solid gold rock that you could throw at the screen whenever someone or something gave you the shits. I'm thinking that perhaps the best option would be to have a constant supply of plasma screens on a conveyor system that responds as soon as the currently viewed TV explodes into a shower of sparks and electrical bits 'n' pieces.
I can see it now, the new plasma screen would slide back into place and some underling who was at the beck and call of hubby and I, would retrieve our solid gold TV rock and place it back on its purpose built, silver platter within easy reach for the next time Daryl Somers decided to pick up a microphone and pretend the awful screeching that dribbled from his mouth was actually singing. So if you are justly inspired, please grab the nearest means of contact and force feed me all the free cash you can accumulate and send it my way so I can make my dreams a reality.
Thursday, March 24
AMERICAN IDIOT
I am an out and out reality TV junkie, love it, live for it, long for it. I don't care what kind of reality show you have created, I will probably give it a go and even if it is shit, I will still sit through it. Why? I think mostly it's because I am fascinated by humanity. I could quite easily spend an entire day watching people, checking how they walk, eaves dropping on their conversations, seeing how they interact with other people. In fact, truth be known, if it was socially acceptable to stand in the street and stare in the windows of other peoples houses, I would be setting up a couch on the footpath and bringing along a selection of snacks.
Anyway before I arouse suspicions of stalking and restraining orders, lets move on. Really, for me, the joy of reality television is the village idiot. Seriously if you are stupid enough to sign a waver saying you can use my image at your discretion you are just asking for it. What kind of tool squeezer rolls along to one of those audition things anyway? You don't go unless you are seriously talented and looking for a break or seriously mental and think you can actually fucken sing. Though I have been proved wrong, try this link for further proof of that theory www.shannonnoll.com.au
Recently I witnessed the auditions for the latest season of American Idol, now truly, if there is a bigger collection of morons anywhere else in the world, I would finger fuck my own butt until my brain fell out my arse, geez graphic! Also a great idea for a reality TV show.
(AMERICAN VOICEOVER)
Tonight we begin the search that America has been waiting for, prepare yourself for America's Next Top Finger Fucker!
(DRAMATIC MUSICAL STING)
We've traveled the length and breadth of the great U.S. of A. to find the best of the best...
(VIDEO MONTAGE OF HUNDREDS OF AMERICA'S FINGER FUCKING ELITE - ALL BLEACHED TEETH AND BOTOXED FACES, LUBRICATED FINGERS AND HIGH SPEED INSERTIONS)
and along the way the hopeful and inexperienced
(VIDEO MONTAGE OF PATHETIC, DELUSIONAL FINGER FUCKING WANNA BE'S - ALL MISSHAPEN, UGLY TO LOOK AT, POTENTIALLY VIOLENT, BROKEN AND DIRTY FINGERNAILS POINTING AT THE SCREEN)
Strap yourself down America and get ready to choose who will get to finger fuck themselves until their brain falls out of their arse and become America's Next Top Finger Fucker!
Ok, tiny bit side tracked there. Anyway, some of the people who auditioned, weren't good at all, but actually believed the judges were stupid not to see how talented they were, really scared me. They believe in themselves and their talents so much that they are wasting their lives pursuing this dream. I am bang up for people going after their dreams but seriously, if you can't take constructive criticism and adapt or adjust your dream to suit it then what the hell are you doing going postal on camera, spitting, snarling and waving your arms around like you need to hold some kind of pump action shotgun and start taking pot shots at anyone who doesn't take your fancy. Clearly it is a dangerous business being a judge on some of these reality shows and I think I can safely make a prediction that one of them will be the victim of an attack sometime in the future. The sad thing is, more than likely, it will be Simon Cowell. Yes he is brutal, yes he doesn't pull any punches, but not once have I listened to his advice and thought he had no idea. He knows what he is talking about, he offers amazing advice and yet still these pointless fuckos get stroppy and dismiss him.
Clearly I am a man who will never have children, hubby Adam and I keep trying but it just won't stick....hmmm. However, if I was to have children and they one day came to me and said
"Mummy, I really, really wanna be a singer one day"
If they could sing like my husband then all well and good, but if they sing like me I would turn to them and say
"Listen kid, there aint much of a future in that, why don't you try being a politician, working in computers, playing the stock exchange, or showing off your extraordinary attributes in some kind of porn related enterprise, that's where the money is, now run along and stop being silly"
Unfortunately, most of the wanna be stars on these reality shows have spent their lives being told
"Honey, put the cat down, don't hurt your sister, if you be good I will buy you lots of sugar laced candies and one day you can dress like a dirty alley slut, sing songs written by strangers and complain to all and sundry that you wish you weren't so famous cos you just wanna get on with your life, all the time exploiting the media to market the cavalcade of pointless things you agree to attach your name to and promoting an image to little kids everywhere that says being a skanky whore, treating people like shit and offering nothing to society is the answer to all their dreams too"
Gee whiz, I think I will have children now....NOT.
Anyway before I arouse suspicions of stalking and restraining orders, lets move on. Really, for me, the joy of reality television is the village idiot. Seriously if you are stupid enough to sign a waver saying you can use my image at your discretion you are just asking for it. What kind of tool squeezer rolls along to one of those audition things anyway? You don't go unless you are seriously talented and looking for a break or seriously mental and think you can actually fucken sing. Though I have been proved wrong, try this link for further proof of that theory www.shannonnoll.com.au
Recently I witnessed the auditions for the latest season of American Idol, now truly, if there is a bigger collection of morons anywhere else in the world, I would finger fuck my own butt until my brain fell out my arse, geez graphic! Also a great idea for a reality TV show.
(AMERICAN VOICEOVER)
Tonight we begin the search that America has been waiting for, prepare yourself for America's Next Top Finger Fucker!
(DRAMATIC MUSICAL STING)
We've traveled the length and breadth of the great U.S. of A. to find the best of the best...
(VIDEO MONTAGE OF HUNDREDS OF AMERICA'S FINGER FUCKING ELITE - ALL BLEACHED TEETH AND BOTOXED FACES, LUBRICATED FINGERS AND HIGH SPEED INSERTIONS)
and along the way the hopeful and inexperienced
(VIDEO MONTAGE OF PATHETIC, DELUSIONAL FINGER FUCKING WANNA BE'S - ALL MISSHAPEN, UGLY TO LOOK AT, POTENTIALLY VIOLENT, BROKEN AND DIRTY FINGERNAILS POINTING AT THE SCREEN)
Strap yourself down America and get ready to choose who will get to finger fuck themselves until their brain falls out of their arse and become America's Next Top Finger Fucker!
Ok, tiny bit side tracked there. Anyway, some of the people who auditioned, weren't good at all, but actually believed the judges were stupid not to see how talented they were, really scared me. They believe in themselves and their talents so much that they are wasting their lives pursuing this dream. I am bang up for people going after their dreams but seriously, if you can't take constructive criticism and adapt or adjust your dream to suit it then what the hell are you doing going postal on camera, spitting, snarling and waving your arms around like you need to hold some kind of pump action shotgun and start taking pot shots at anyone who doesn't take your fancy. Clearly it is a dangerous business being a judge on some of these reality shows and I think I can safely make a prediction that one of them will be the victim of an attack sometime in the future. The sad thing is, more than likely, it will be Simon Cowell. Yes he is brutal, yes he doesn't pull any punches, but not once have I listened to his advice and thought he had no idea. He knows what he is talking about, he offers amazing advice and yet still these pointless fuckos get stroppy and dismiss him.
Clearly I am a man who will never have children, hubby Adam and I keep trying but it just won't stick....hmmm. However, if I was to have children and they one day came to me and said
"Mummy, I really, really wanna be a singer one day"
If they could sing like my husband then all well and good, but if they sing like me I would turn to them and say
"Listen kid, there aint much of a future in that, why don't you try being a politician, working in computers, playing the stock exchange, or showing off your extraordinary attributes in some kind of porn related enterprise, that's where the money is, now run along and stop being silly"
Unfortunately, most of the wanna be stars on these reality shows have spent their lives being told
"Honey, put the cat down, don't hurt your sister, if you be good I will buy you lots of sugar laced candies and one day you can dress like a dirty alley slut, sing songs written by strangers and complain to all and sundry that you wish you weren't so famous cos you just wanna get on with your life, all the time exploiting the media to market the cavalcade of pointless things you agree to attach your name to and promoting an image to little kids everywhere that says being a skanky whore, treating people like shit and offering nothing to society is the answer to all their dreams too"
Gee whiz, I think I will have children now....NOT.
Tuesday, March 8
IT'S A WHORE-IBLE LIFE
Gotta love an entry that creates a new word for the ages, English teachers everywhere are scratching their computer screen, but hey what else are they gonna do? Ok before I delve into the sad and sorry life of an English teacher and bore everyone to snores, lets just get down to the topic at hand. I promised I would write about this and the time has come my friend. Let's talk about whores, junkies, street slurries, hookers, a pimps gravy train, the list goes on. I choose to talk about this little feature of daily life simply because there are heaps of them working around my place of employment. Actually, now that I think of it, they aren't really hookers, they are junkies who are desperate for their next hit and they are willing to sell the shit out of themselves just for another deal man.
"Yo fucko hit me up maaaaaannn, just one more time mother fucker"
Clearly I have no idea what they actually say as that sounds like some piss weak line from a forthcoming Keanu Reeves movie. You get the general idea. Anyway I have only been propositioned once before, very early in the morning whilst walking to work. She was a lovely creature, the sort of woman you could imagine looking after a brood of 20 kids, all of them complete nightmares slowly forging careers in all things illegal and all of them from different fathers who no longer featured in their lives. She just yelled out across the road.
"Oi love, you looking for a good time"
Being the complete fag that I am, I did a silent little fart in my pants as a precursor to the shit that was about to fill them, laughed and hurriedly crossed the road yelling back something that would register my lack of interest, but also prevent me from getting knifed to death. I really am that gay that a woman propositioning me on the street terrifies me, pathetic really. So the reason I wanna talk about these ladies of the night is that my new office fronts onto a street with large floor to ceiling windows that are mirrored on the outside but completely see through from the inside. Now when your building faces the street and your windows are mirrored, it provides all passers by the perfect opportunity to give themselves a sideways glance and see how styling they are. We have all done it, in fact along my regular walking trails I will actually prepare myself for any mirrored glass or windows en route so I can give myself a quick viewing to make sure the fly isn't down, the face is clean and nothing is hanging off the edge of my nostrils and moving to the rhythms of my breathing (have I talked about my hanging snot phobia yet?) So everyday a parade of people walk past my office and give themselves the once over and it is piss funny when it happens to be a junkie.
When a junkie decides to stop mid walk and give themselves a viewing, they don't do the casual sideways view, oh no, they stop, turn to face the window and then go about the routine of fixing themselves up. Now this could involve a variety of things, from moving the breasts into a better position, to making sure the skirt is straight , to fixing the hair. Some of them will work themselves over on the footpath for a good 10 to 15 minutes, all the time doing that stilletto wobble that most of us only see out at clubs after a really long night. They lean forwards into the glass, desperately staring at their reflection trying to work out who the hell they are looking at and if it is them trying to work out what they need to do to make the reflection they are viewing looking a little tidier. In the grand scheme of things that aint ever gonna happen but you have to admire their dedication. So to all those smacked out junkie whores who stop to re-adjust for my personal pleasure, may I salute you. While my heart breaks for everything you could have had and could have been, had you not taken the path you have taken. I am forever grateful that your routine provides me with a moment to stop, stare and wonder how many drugs I would have to take before I became entranced by my own reflection in a window and dedicated a portion of my day to sorting out my bits and pieces.
"Yo fucko hit me up maaaaaannn, just one more time mother fucker"
Clearly I have no idea what they actually say as that sounds like some piss weak line from a forthcoming Keanu Reeves movie. You get the general idea. Anyway I have only been propositioned once before, very early in the morning whilst walking to work. She was a lovely creature, the sort of woman you could imagine looking after a brood of 20 kids, all of them complete nightmares slowly forging careers in all things illegal and all of them from different fathers who no longer featured in their lives. She just yelled out across the road.
"Oi love, you looking for a good time"
Being the complete fag that I am, I did a silent little fart in my pants as a precursor to the shit that was about to fill them, laughed and hurriedly crossed the road yelling back something that would register my lack of interest, but also prevent me from getting knifed to death. I really am that gay that a woman propositioning me on the street terrifies me, pathetic really. So the reason I wanna talk about these ladies of the night is that my new office fronts onto a street with large floor to ceiling windows that are mirrored on the outside but completely see through from the inside. Now when your building faces the street and your windows are mirrored, it provides all passers by the perfect opportunity to give themselves a sideways glance and see how styling they are. We have all done it, in fact along my regular walking trails I will actually prepare myself for any mirrored glass or windows en route so I can give myself a quick viewing to make sure the fly isn't down, the face is clean and nothing is hanging off the edge of my nostrils and moving to the rhythms of my breathing (have I talked about my hanging snot phobia yet?) So everyday a parade of people walk past my office and give themselves the once over and it is piss funny when it happens to be a junkie.
When a junkie decides to stop mid walk and give themselves a viewing, they don't do the casual sideways view, oh no, they stop, turn to face the window and then go about the routine of fixing themselves up. Now this could involve a variety of things, from moving the breasts into a better position, to making sure the skirt is straight , to fixing the hair. Some of them will work themselves over on the footpath for a good 10 to 15 minutes, all the time doing that stilletto wobble that most of us only see out at clubs after a really long night. They lean forwards into the glass, desperately staring at their reflection trying to work out who the hell they are looking at and if it is them trying to work out what they need to do to make the reflection they are viewing looking a little tidier. In the grand scheme of things that aint ever gonna happen but you have to admire their dedication. So to all those smacked out junkie whores who stop to re-adjust for my personal pleasure, may I salute you. While my heart breaks for everything you could have had and could have been, had you not taken the path you have taken. I am forever grateful that your routine provides me with a moment to stop, stare and wonder how many drugs I would have to take before I became entranced by my own reflection in a window and dedicated a portion of my day to sorting out my bits and pieces.
Friday, March 4
BITS 'N' SHITS 'N' THAT
Ya huh I know it has been ages and it has mostly been a simple case of needing to go home before the sun sets. Until the home computer upgrade happens, I have to do this guff at work and now that summer is officially over, the sun seems to be quitting and baring its dark arse an hour earlier...doh. Two things will be addressed in the coming days.
1) American Idol returns to Aussie TV - The search for America's most demented continues
2) Having fun with Junkies - You won't believe what I get to see
in the meantime how about you ponder something fabulous like this
http://www.rudypospisil.com/swc/
Gotta love 'Strangers with Candy' and if you are clueless as to what I am talking about please order the DVD's from www.amazon.com I promise you will not be disappointed.
1) American Idol returns to Aussie TV - The search for America's most demented continues
2) Having fun with Junkies - You won't believe what I get to see
in the meantime how about you ponder something fabulous like this
http://www.rudypospisil.com/swc/
Gotta love 'Strangers with Candy' and if you are clueless as to what I am talking about please order the DVD's from www.amazon.com I promise you will not be disappointed.
Monday, February 28
ADD VODKA - CREATE MAYHEM
Hubby and I hoovered Vodka on the weekend, jeez, hoover aint the word, let's just say we developed flip top heads and poured the worlds entire vodka stocks down the back of our throats. Such alcohol consumption obviously has ramifications, hmmm I love that word, its like someone mummified a ram or some shit, actually its not like that at all, but with my weekend brain fog lots of things are making perfect sense to me, anyway, back to the topic at hand. So with bountiful spirits still trapped on the breath of my cake hole, allow me to unveil my list of things NOT to do when your belly is full of vodka and you unleash it on the world.
1) HIDE ALL PHONES - I can remember ringing friends of ours in London (apparently finances are never ending when your maggoted) the one thing that sticks with me is they laughed, they laughed a lot. Thankfully it was midday where they were so we weren't being that bothersome (as fucken if). Nothing is worse than being sober and having to deal with a drunk on the phone sprouting volleys of dribbly shit peppered with the words 'love' every five seconds. It's like you somehow think you are so close to paralytic that you might die at any minute so you may as well make sure your last words on this planet have you telling someone you love them. Then they can appear on the news, mourning your untimely demise and saying how nice it was that you managed to slur out the words "I love you" before you keeled over, smacked your head on the floor and gargled a mouthful of your stomach contents until your lungs couldn't keep you alive no more. Of course large portions of these conversations no longer exist in my memory so fuck knows what sort of dribbly shit I did utter. Somehow I think your body evaluates your drunkenness and decides to self edit
"Oh yeah this fucko is off his trolley, in fact it's surprising we can operate this mouth at all, systems check, brain please delete all incoming memories, set yourself on hold and please maintain all other functions, please advise immediately if bladder control weakens, over"
Course that doesn't help things, God knows what I organized thru the use of speech and SMS texting, damn me and my multi tasking, seriously, they should have breathalyser testing on mobiles so it won't operate if your too trashed.
2) STAY AWAY FROM BALCONIES - We have a balcony, on a warm night it's lovely to sit out there and watch the world go by. On a warm night when you set your head to flip top and you've clearly over indulged it is dangerous. I would like to hereby apologize to anyone who had the great misfortune of walking down our street on Saturday night. Against a soundtrack of everything from Kate Bush to Jeff Buckley and maybe even some Kylie (lets face it we don't remember what we played, it could have been a static hiss and we would have boogied to it) anyway, against all that we dished out a volley of abuse, including such catchphrases as
"Get the fuck out of our street, your ugly"
"What the fuck are you looking at fucko?"
"If you take a picture right now you will remember the time I told you to FUCK OFF"
How desperately unattractive is that? We also threw the contents of our balcony at passersby, nothing worthwhile or expensive mind you, just things like chewing gum, used cigarette butts and old wrappers.
3) ORGANISE RECOVERY DRUGS BEFORE GETTING TRASHED - There is nothing worse than waking up the day after you converted your head into a funnel for alcoholic beverages, to find you need some herbal remedies to relax your throbbing head and add to your paranoia and no one can deliver. By deliver I mean, supplies are non existant and if they do exist they are below average and not worth sharing, though in the state we were in a heady cocktail of bong water served with a slice of lemon and a friggen umbrella would have sufficed.
I am sure there are other things that need to be added to the list but because of tip number 1 they no longer feature in my collected thoughts. Anyway the end result of this weekend of debauchery is a complete lack of interest in doing it again for a very long time and a resolution that goes something like this, next time put the bottle away and make mouth love to a herbal remedy, it's probably worse for you but the hangover is a fucken treat in comparison.
1) HIDE ALL PHONES - I can remember ringing friends of ours in London (apparently finances are never ending when your maggoted) the one thing that sticks with me is they laughed, they laughed a lot. Thankfully it was midday where they were so we weren't being that bothersome (as fucken if). Nothing is worse than being sober and having to deal with a drunk on the phone sprouting volleys of dribbly shit peppered with the words 'love' every five seconds. It's like you somehow think you are so close to paralytic that you might die at any minute so you may as well make sure your last words on this planet have you telling someone you love them. Then they can appear on the news, mourning your untimely demise and saying how nice it was that you managed to slur out the words "I love you" before you keeled over, smacked your head on the floor and gargled a mouthful of your stomach contents until your lungs couldn't keep you alive no more. Of course large portions of these conversations no longer exist in my memory so fuck knows what sort of dribbly shit I did utter. Somehow I think your body evaluates your drunkenness and decides to self edit
"Oh yeah this fucko is off his trolley, in fact it's surprising we can operate this mouth at all, systems check, brain please delete all incoming memories, set yourself on hold and please maintain all other functions, please advise immediately if bladder control weakens, over"
Course that doesn't help things, God knows what I organized thru the use of speech and SMS texting, damn me and my multi tasking, seriously, they should have breathalyser testing on mobiles so it won't operate if your too trashed.
2) STAY AWAY FROM BALCONIES - We have a balcony, on a warm night it's lovely to sit out there and watch the world go by. On a warm night when you set your head to flip top and you've clearly over indulged it is dangerous. I would like to hereby apologize to anyone who had the great misfortune of walking down our street on Saturday night. Against a soundtrack of everything from Kate Bush to Jeff Buckley and maybe even some Kylie (lets face it we don't remember what we played, it could have been a static hiss and we would have boogied to it) anyway, against all that we dished out a volley of abuse, including such catchphrases as
"Get the fuck out of our street, your ugly"
"What the fuck are you looking at fucko?"
"If you take a picture right now you will remember the time I told you to FUCK OFF"
How desperately unattractive is that? We also threw the contents of our balcony at passersby, nothing worthwhile or expensive mind you, just things like chewing gum, used cigarette butts and old wrappers.
3) ORGANISE RECOVERY DRUGS BEFORE GETTING TRASHED - There is nothing worse than waking up the day after you converted your head into a funnel for alcoholic beverages, to find you need some herbal remedies to relax your throbbing head and add to your paranoia and no one can deliver. By deliver I mean, supplies are non existant and if they do exist they are below average and not worth sharing, though in the state we were in a heady cocktail of bong water served with a slice of lemon and a friggen umbrella would have sufficed.
I am sure there are other things that need to be added to the list but because of tip number 1 they no longer feature in my collected thoughts. Anyway the end result of this weekend of debauchery is a complete lack of interest in doing it again for a very long time and a resolution that goes something like this, next time put the bottle away and make mouth love to a herbal remedy, it's probably worse for you but the hangover is a fucken treat in comparison.
Wednesday, February 23
DAMN SHE'S A SWEATY BE-ARCH
Don't really see the point in having a thing like this without revealing more pointless, potentially embarrassing and slightly humorous things about myself. As the title suggests this one is about getting all sweaty. The sweaty be-arch (street slang for bitch in case you were a bit clueless) in the title refers to me. I am one hell of a sweaty be-arch (is anyone else getting sick of that word yet?) in fact my co workers use me as a barometer. When someone feels hot in our office they will turn to me and say
"Yo fucko, is it hot in here"
and if I say
"Nope"
they will think twice about arcing up the air conditioner, then again, because I'm so sweaty, I will generally encourage them to set it to chill anyway cos I'm bang up for the cold. I've heard stories about David Letterman having his TV studio nut freezing cold, I can sympathize, if I was in a suit, under hot TV lights, I too would want it so cold my nether regions resembled a second belly button. Being a sweaty individual doesn't help when you grow up in South Australia, which actually holds the record for being the driest state, in the driest continent on earth and it can crank out some seriously hot summers. In fact I just got off the phone with my heavenly mummy who's just be suffering through a 39 degree day (102.2 Fahrenheit) and it's been like that for a few days. Still, as luck would have it, that wasn't hot enough for me. Eager to pursue a career in the media, it would figure that my very first job would be in the north west of Western Australia, where everyday is generally over 35 degrees. In fact, I remember one particular day when our temperature gauge was flashing "HHH" because the outside temperature was too hot for it to read. Even more horrifying was the fact that it was well before midday when it happened. Suddenly, as my sweat glands were organising a search party to find all the available water in my body and preparing for its release, I get a phone call from the air traffic tower saying
"Hey fucko, we just wanna know what your temperature gauge is reading cos ours is saying it is 62 degrees (143 Fahrenheit) outside and we think it might be broken"
as a 19 year old, working in the bush (which means country, small isolated outpost, shitsville) that was enough to do my tiny head in. Of course that was before I left the comfort of our air conditioned office to walk home. Here's a tip, in those temperatures, those oh so funky black Raybans we wore in the late 80's tend to heat up so quickly that they actually start to burn your face and your forced to remove them very quickly. So here I am sweating like I'm the living, breathing equivalent of Niagara Falls, my sweat glands are so widely open that I look like I have a billion tiny mouths vomiting salty water all over me, plus I'm practically blind from the glare of the sun. If the walk home had taken any longer than 5 minutes I honestly believe I would have experienced spontaneous combustion in all it's flesh fusing glory. As for the amount of sweating, well lets just say, even when it is freezing cold here in Melbourne (a place recognised for being cold and unforgiving) I can usually be found 5 minutes into my walk taking off my scarf, 10 minutes later removing my beanie, 15 minutes later removing one glove so I can wipe the slick of sweat off my buzz cut head. Ya huh I said buzz cut, there is no thick mop of hair there to add to the warmth, its a zero buzz cut, which means its pretty much a freshly shaved ball that still manages to overheat. Now I know in some circles it is considered horny to work up a sweat, to be all wet and slick, especially when it comes to sex, but with me, I can lean in for a romantic snog (pash, suck face, French kiss, a bit of tongue hockey) with the hubby and I will need to change my t-shirt and have a shower...OK now I am exaggerating but you get the general idea. If I had my way and money was no object (Hello Paris!) I would have someone walk around behind me with a big fuck off air conditioner pointed directly at me, either that or a nice foot bowl full of iced water. Then again perhaps I could go the surgery option and have a few glands severed, burned, annihilated, exorcised, evicted and asked really nicely to piss off and don't come back. Though knowing my luck, that would mean I would be reduced to panting like a dog or all the sweat would combine to force itself out of any available pores which would probably mean I would spend the rest of my life wearing adult diapers and sliding around with a wet arse. Anyway just typing this has got the armpits a bit moist so I'm off to find two sanitary napkins and stuff them where the sweat won't stop dripping.
"Yo fucko, is it hot in here"
and if I say
"Nope"
they will think twice about arcing up the air conditioner, then again, because I'm so sweaty, I will generally encourage them to set it to chill anyway cos I'm bang up for the cold. I've heard stories about David Letterman having his TV studio nut freezing cold, I can sympathize, if I was in a suit, under hot TV lights, I too would want it so cold my nether regions resembled a second belly button. Being a sweaty individual doesn't help when you grow up in South Australia, which actually holds the record for being the driest state, in the driest continent on earth and it can crank out some seriously hot summers. In fact I just got off the phone with my heavenly mummy who's just be suffering through a 39 degree day (102.2 Fahrenheit) and it's been like that for a few days. Still, as luck would have it, that wasn't hot enough for me. Eager to pursue a career in the media, it would figure that my very first job would be in the north west of Western Australia, where everyday is generally over 35 degrees. In fact, I remember one particular day when our temperature gauge was flashing "HHH" because the outside temperature was too hot for it to read. Even more horrifying was the fact that it was well before midday when it happened. Suddenly, as my sweat glands were organising a search party to find all the available water in my body and preparing for its release, I get a phone call from the air traffic tower saying
"Hey fucko, we just wanna know what your temperature gauge is reading cos ours is saying it is 62 degrees (143 Fahrenheit) outside and we think it might be broken"
as a 19 year old, working in the bush (which means country, small isolated outpost, shitsville) that was enough to do my tiny head in. Of course that was before I left the comfort of our air conditioned office to walk home. Here's a tip, in those temperatures, those oh so funky black Raybans we wore in the late 80's tend to heat up so quickly that they actually start to burn your face and your forced to remove them very quickly. So here I am sweating like I'm the living, breathing equivalent of Niagara Falls, my sweat glands are so widely open that I look like I have a billion tiny mouths vomiting salty water all over me, plus I'm practically blind from the glare of the sun. If the walk home had taken any longer than 5 minutes I honestly believe I would have experienced spontaneous combustion in all it's flesh fusing glory. As for the amount of sweating, well lets just say, even when it is freezing cold here in Melbourne (a place recognised for being cold and unforgiving) I can usually be found 5 minutes into my walk taking off my scarf, 10 minutes later removing my beanie, 15 minutes later removing one glove so I can wipe the slick of sweat off my buzz cut head. Ya huh I said buzz cut, there is no thick mop of hair there to add to the warmth, its a zero buzz cut, which means its pretty much a freshly shaved ball that still manages to overheat. Now I know in some circles it is considered horny to work up a sweat, to be all wet and slick, especially when it comes to sex, but with me, I can lean in for a romantic snog (pash, suck face, French kiss, a bit of tongue hockey) with the hubby and I will need to change my t-shirt and have a shower...OK now I am exaggerating but you get the general idea. If I had my way and money was no object (Hello Paris!) I would have someone walk around behind me with a big fuck off air conditioner pointed directly at me, either that or a nice foot bowl full of iced water. Then again perhaps I could go the surgery option and have a few glands severed, burned, annihilated, exorcised, evicted and asked really nicely to piss off and don't come back. Though knowing my luck, that would mean I would be reduced to panting like a dog or all the sweat would combine to force itself out of any available pores which would probably mean I would spend the rest of my life wearing adult diapers and sliding around with a wet arse. Anyway just typing this has got the armpits a bit moist so I'm off to find two sanitary napkins and stuff them where the sweat won't stop dripping.
Tuesday, February 22
PARIS HILTON - WHEN MOBILE PHONES ATTACK
Righto, here is a confession, I LOVE PARIS HILTON. There I said it, well actually I wrote it, but you know what I mean. So here I go, getting ready to explain myself again. It's like you, as a reader, have been cast in the role of some kind of cyber Judge Judy, quick run to the kitchen and find a paper doily (that's a small ornamental mat, usually of lace or linen) to stuff into your shirt collar so you can stare down at me like some kind of twisted, badly dressed, dominatrix who woke up with a cracking hangover and is going through her monthlys. She tuts and sighs through my declaration of love for Paris, looks down her glasses at me and dishes up timely wisdom about how I shouldn't have come in front of her courtroom with such pointless cases for her to preside over. Once that's done I then have to go outside to face the waiting camera's and whinge about how
(adopt Southern accent....fuck knows why cos I'm an aussie but it works for me) "Well I know now I was barking up the wrong tree loving that dirty rich slapper, she done me wrong with her devil may care attitude and her 'look at me, if I didn't have buggery loads of cash, I would just be a B grade hooker' ways"
At this stage I would like it noted that I am not alone on this one. My beautiful hubby Adam shares my love for Paris, in fact, he is more devoted than I am. As soon as we saw the first episode of 'The Simple Life' we were hooked, in fact we went straight to Amazon to order the DVD. As for her 'whoops my clothes fell off while I was coked off my eyeballs and I went home with someone who likes to film his escapades' movies, we asked one of our lesbian friends to lend us her copy, but she is yet to deliver...something about parting with it doesn't sit right with her, go figure. So what is this strange love that we have for her? I think it comes down to a few things.
1) She looks like she is permanently off her trolley, in fact, I'm sure she is so seperated from her trolley that she doesn't even remember what shopping centre carpark she originally came from and a variety of small marsupials have started using her for shelter.
2) She wafts around like some sort of expensive fart, caught in the breeze, I use the word fart because farts know nothing, they inspire laughs and looks of shock and disgust and they never last long enough to make any real difference to your life.
3) She's bullshit rich and she doesn't give a shit about anyone but herself and some animals and thats mostly because they have the same brain capacity as her and even if they actually have more, they can't use it against her.
4) Regardless of what gets thrown at her, she keeps on going, though if you threw a hand granade at her she may find that a bit more challenging.
That brings us of course to the latest news from Paris, someone has hacked into her mobile phone (shock, horror, who knew they could do that?) and stolen all her celeb phone numbers plus her private phone pictures...see below. I feel sorry for her in someways, clearly she is a target but anyone in the public eye is, especially when her only claim to fame is that she is rich and she also does....um.....ok, so she doesn't do much, other than party, pose for pictures and get herself involved in messes like this one. As I said before, who knew they could hack into your phone and steal phone numbers and images. Then again, Paris isn't the sort of person who never loses her phone, so you would think she would use code names and make sure there were no naughty pictures on file. However that would require some pretty serious thinking on her behalf, which clearly is something she ain't very good at. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if she was sitting at home in her mansion, surrounded by every whim and fancy she desires and for one brief second she thought about this new crisis and before she could even muster the strength to get upset about it, she remembered she was so spastically rich she didn't have to worry about anything.
(adopt Southern accent....fuck knows why cos I'm an aussie but it works for me) "Well I know now I was barking up the wrong tree loving that dirty rich slapper, she done me wrong with her devil may care attitude and her 'look at me, if I didn't have buggery loads of cash, I would just be a B grade hooker' ways"
At this stage I would like it noted that I am not alone on this one. My beautiful hubby Adam shares my love for Paris, in fact, he is more devoted than I am. As soon as we saw the first episode of 'The Simple Life' we were hooked, in fact we went straight to Amazon to order the DVD. As for her 'whoops my clothes fell off while I was coked off my eyeballs and I went home with someone who likes to film his escapades' movies, we asked one of our lesbian friends to lend us her copy, but she is yet to deliver...something about parting with it doesn't sit right with her, go figure. So what is this strange love that we have for her? I think it comes down to a few things.
1) She looks like she is permanently off her trolley, in fact, I'm sure she is so seperated from her trolley that she doesn't even remember what shopping centre carpark she originally came from and a variety of small marsupials have started using her for shelter.
2) She wafts around like some sort of expensive fart, caught in the breeze, I use the word fart because farts know nothing, they inspire laughs and looks of shock and disgust and they never last long enough to make any real difference to your life.
3) She's bullshit rich and she doesn't give a shit about anyone but herself and some animals and thats mostly because they have the same brain capacity as her and even if they actually have more, they can't use it against her.
4) Regardless of what gets thrown at her, she keeps on going, though if you threw a hand granade at her she may find that a bit more challenging.
That brings us of course to the latest news from Paris, someone has hacked into her mobile phone (shock, horror, who knew they could do that?) and stolen all her celeb phone numbers plus her private phone pictures...see below. I feel sorry for her in someways, clearly she is a target but anyone in the public eye is, especially when her only claim to fame is that she is rich and she also does....um.....ok, so she doesn't do much, other than party, pose for pictures and get herself involved in messes like this one. As I said before, who knew they could hack into your phone and steal phone numbers and images. Then again, Paris isn't the sort of person who never loses her phone, so you would think she would use code names and make sure there were no naughty pictures on file. However that would require some pretty serious thinking on her behalf, which clearly is something she ain't very good at. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if she was sitting at home in her mansion, surrounded by every whim and fancy she desires and for one brief second she thought about this new crisis and before she could even muster the strength to get upset about it, she remembered she was so spastically rich she didn't have to worry about anything.
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Monday, February 21
I GOT SOMETHING TO SAY!
First things first, what the hell is FUCKO INC you may be asking? If you weren't asking that, then allow me to force you to think about it and now that you have done that, it's time to suffer through the explanation for it as well. Let's just say, one of my dear, close, potty mouthed friends slipped that word into my mental dictionary a few years ago....thanks so much Claire. I should also mention that Claire was a delicate little flower when she first met me, but 7 years of working together changed her into a carbon copy of me...a constantly swearing, foul mouthed little minx who only stopped mid curse to perve at the passing punters, although conversations could continue while said cursing was being said. Does that make sense? Anyway, I have no idea where she found it or how it arrived in her head but I will forever be grateful for its inclusion in my life. Perhaps I should explain its adaptability to your everyday living. Fucko is a cheesier way of saying that favourite of four letter words FUCK, it can be as loving or as brutal as you wish it to be, it all comes down to the two "P's".
PRESENTATION - How you choose to present the word in a sentence.
PASSION - The passion with which you slip it or spit it out of your mouth.
For example Johnny might say as he wanders into work and greets his beloved co-workers
"Morning you bunch of Fucko's, how are ya?"
and Johnny's co workers might reply with
"Good thanks fucko and you?"
and that would be a delightful display of friends expressing their love for one another with a personalized greeting....sort of.
Then again if Johnny was cut off in traffic whilst driving he might choose to roll his window down and yell
"You fucko! Where did you learn to drive at Fucko headquarters?"
each letter coming from his mouth with a volley of spittle and phlegm that sprays forth in a display of open hostility and hatred. That would be.....well honestly it would show that Johnny really needs to take public transport and maybe indulge in some sort of rest and relaxation workshop, but it would also display the word 'fucko' in its most brutal form.
Now that you have seen the majestic beauty of the word fucko and its many uses may I suggest you make it part of your everyday, slip it in when you are next in conversation and see how your friends react, share it with loved ones or just spit it at the next stupid fucko that rubs you up the wrong way. Anyway I think I have said enough for today, more to come as I allow my thoughts to attach themselves to the keyboard in front of me, then pollute the minds of good, God fearing people like yourselves. Actually if you read this far and you are actually a good, God fearing person, no doubt you are tut tutting me and thinking how lucky you are because you won't have to share a cloud with me in heaven sprouting philosophies about Fucko cause I will be burning in hell with anyone else that ever used the word FUCKO.
PRESENTATION - How you choose to present the word in a sentence.
PASSION - The passion with which you slip it or spit it out of your mouth.
For example Johnny might say as he wanders into work and greets his beloved co-workers
"Morning you bunch of Fucko's, how are ya?"
and Johnny's co workers might reply with
"Good thanks fucko and you?"
and that would be a delightful display of friends expressing their love for one another with a personalized greeting....sort of.
Then again if Johnny was cut off in traffic whilst driving he might choose to roll his window down and yell
"You fucko! Where did you learn to drive at Fucko headquarters?"
each letter coming from his mouth with a volley of spittle and phlegm that sprays forth in a display of open hostility and hatred. That would be.....well honestly it would show that Johnny really needs to take public transport and maybe indulge in some sort of rest and relaxation workshop, but it would also display the word 'fucko' in its most brutal form.
Now that you have seen the majestic beauty of the word fucko and its many uses may I suggest you make it part of your everyday, slip it in when you are next in conversation and see how your friends react, share it with loved ones or just spit it at the next stupid fucko that rubs you up the wrong way. Anyway I think I have said enough for today, more to come as I allow my thoughts to attach themselves to the keyboard in front of me, then pollute the minds of good, God fearing people like yourselves. Actually if you read this far and you are actually a good, God fearing person, no doubt you are tut tutting me and thinking how lucky you are because you won't have to share a cloud with me in heaven sprouting philosophies about Fucko cause I will be burning in hell with anyone else that ever used the word FUCKO.
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