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.
Friday, October 14
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.
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