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
Thursday, May 5
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.
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