Saturday, November 29, 2008

I just sat up through my own arse stink

Don't you hate it when you're firing off fully sick farts, and you're lying down, you rip one off, then sit up - right through the fecal tinged gas you just pumped out?

Errrrgghhhh.

It's probably the three beers I had for brunch.

Friday, November 28, 2008

Adios man hands

My gigantism inflicted temp boss has ended his temp bossery and has departed my fertile fields for another section of the org.

As irony would have it he's off to work for Backy McStab*, and will be in fact working close by to Buckwheat.

May god have mercy on his soul.

So I am free from his wandering hands. Though, of course, he got a last Reiki-esq move in when he snuck up behind me to say 'howdy', put the old dinner plate hands between my shoulder-blades, then smoothed them out along my back to end curled around my upper arms.

You know as a dude I've never been inflicted with unwanted touching. Until now.

And yes, it's creepy. I don't think it's sexual on his part - I think he's one of nature's tactile types. But I did find it most unsettling and definitely unasked for. I can see how workplace females find this touching from men unsettling.

Still ... at least he didn't give me a vigorous farewell tummy rub.


*So named because when she was my boss she gave a verbal referee's report for the dream job I went for where she said I did no work and should never ever be promoted - oh and that I serially showed bad judgment - all of which sunk my planned career path. It should be noted that despite her views I
was subsequently promoted.

Oldest person dies

According to the SMH the World's oldest person has died. Except she's not the world's oldest person. She was the world's oldest person. So shouldn't the header be Once was world's oldest person dies?

Anyway, I was attracted to this slice of the article.

Parker was born on April 20, 1893, in Indiana and had been recognised by Guinness World Records as the world's oldest person since the 2007 death in Japan of Yone Minagawa, who was four months her senior.

So ... once more Guinness has its sticky little Irish fingers deep in record breaking gerontology eh?

Wouldn't it be great if the Guinness book people turned up unannounced at the successor's house, rang the doorbell, then a dude dressed up as a Leprechaun, whose been bending his elbow waiting for the oldester to get into gear with their stair chair and zimmer frame combo, loudly proclaims them 'THE WORLD'S OLDEST LIVING PERSON' at the top of their voice in their best 'Oooh me boyo' accent, then had several kegs of Guinness trundled at them from all directions with O'Shouty decreeing they'd won a lifetime's supply of the fine 'burnt toast in alcohol form' drop whilst pumping their hand vigorously as several publicity photographers with those old style flash cameras got in real close for some shots?

CONGRATULATIONS ON YER AGING!

And, if the oldster happened to drop dead during this sudden burst of alcoholic shoutery they could simply pop them in a keg and preserve them until the undertaker got there.

Human Vs Computer

Newspapers and similar are gradually moving online. There will come a day when the mightiest of the dead tree efforts will fade away for an e-presence only. That day is not yet but it is coming soon.

When doing layout the graphics guys would factor in content for placement of images. You know, to prevent mistakes like this from happening.

In an online format, where ads are living instead of static, they are linked by keywords. They get automatically placed.

In this case the key words were New Zealand I suspect.

The trouble is of course that it would take a human to assess the content and say 'hmmm, probably not appropriate to have a bird of New Zealand next to a story about a crashing jet liner...'

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Training Day

Recently I was sent on a training day.

In the public service training risks being exceedingly boring. I think that's because so much of what we do is statutory / compliance / finance / records management in focus. The engine of bureaucracy needs its parts running in synch. And we need to learn to be good little cogs and sprockets.

Some stand out moments.

A) The instructor actually explained the concept of multiple choice. 'So you have four options right, and two of them, let's say A & B, are right out. So really ... you're left with just C & D right? Then you choose one of those.'

B) The training video. I don't know what it is about these things but they seem to use the same light rock musak backing music in every single one of these. And the sound quality is always shithouse. Come on people - spend a bit of fucking money on some better music ... and some actors. Not Dinner Theatre people or your mates. Cruise down to the local high qual cafe. Half the staff there are trying to break into Neighbours or Home and Away. Use them.

C) We had one of those 'breaking barriers' introduction techniques applied to us. You know, you're paired off with a stranger and they ask you questions, you of them, then you say who they are to the rest of the class, why they're here etc, and they do likewise. Alas there was an odd number so I paired up with a colleague and a stranger, a nice lady named J.

It came time to decide how the intro was going down. My colleague offered to spruik J to the class.

J?

'I tell you what,' she said. 'I can do both of you.'

Gold. I couldn't help it. A smile rippled across my face and I had to turn away.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

There was movement at the station...

I have IBS. IBS is not a specific disease with a set cause and effect. It's a condition where a lot of the symptoms coincide and can have a variety of triggers.

IBS when it comes to the how it leaves the area has two typical types of egress - Poppy the Sloppers or Nigel the Nuggets.

Each have their own disgusting characteristics. For the former you should never be more than five minutes from a lav in order to minimise the chance of an unfortunate still-clad fecal eruption. Not pleasant.

For the latter, which I have christened Nigel the Nuggets, you wish you could go to the toilet. Instead you can spend several days with severe gas pain, building up the fecal fury, which then - if you're lucky - is eventually unleashed.

If you've been brewing up a tropical bowel depression (or swelling) then when it comes time to par-teh, it can be incredibly painful passing the cork as it were. Since chances are its size is one not commensurate with the comfort of your anal Iris.

Some ... stretching occurs.

Recently we had another building emergency. I had to don my Village people style hat and direct people out/in the building and so forth. Post emergency we had a downstairs what went wrong / right sesh (mostly right).

I couldn't leave group without it being noticed. Unfortunately that's when Cyclone Gary arrived. My guts were rumbling in that indicator of some major impending touching cloth, much like nature's warning sign of a spew is excess spittle. I was about a minute off just leaving but finally it broke up and I was able to head for the toilet.

I dashed into the stall and prepared for touch down.

Now I don't know what my rationale is. I tend to think something is a good idea - and do it - and encounter the negative side of the ledger mid way along. I know, it's exciting being me.

But I thought 'I have never done a shit while wearing a helmet.'

Yes, that's the sort of thought process I have. I blame my low grade - self diagnosed - OCD.

IBS OCD. I'm starting to look like a coded communique.

Anyway, I kept the helmet on.

And you know what? I am glad I did.

The "cork" was a biggun. So big, tears smarted in the corners of my eyes. So big that I had to go momentarily to a Happy Gilmore esq happy place to cope with the pain. Fortunately, the head band of my helmet was tight, and it enabled me to focus on the tightness of my head as opposed to the second brown bear head that was being birthed out of my no no place.

So there you go IBS afflicted of the Nigel kind. Facing a touch down after three days of brewing? Wear something tight on your noggin to help take your mind off it.

Mikey, IBS suffer, signing off.

Friday, November 21, 2008

When musicians become actors and somehow manage to accentuate their groin


David Bowie. Labyrinth


















Sting. Dune (the kewl David Lynch version)



















Grace Jones. Conan II

















Any others?

Hancock

Finally saw Hancock. I liked it a lot. Solid plot. Some kewl twists. Awesome special effects.

But....

SPOILER















What the fuck was that moon thing? How the fuck did he make it for fuck's sake? It's not lava - the moon does not have Lava. The moon is all rock as I understand it - there's no mantle. Paint? It's the size of Australia isn't it?!

That stupid fucking bit ruined an otherwise tasty flick.

Grrr.

Aldi stockists on crack cocaine

... or some other mentally affecting drug.

For some reason their stores are selling masses of Arachnophobia DVDs and water skiing ropes.

I shit you not. Piles of this stuff. What the fuck are they on and when is Aldi going to sell that too?

UPDATE: Oh, I forgot. Aldi, if you are going to sell inflatable paddle boats that the family can all enjoy, don't sell models titled 'Ocean Arrow'. Because people may actually think you can use them on the Ocean and not read the tiny safety warning that says they should only be used in confined inland waters.

Australia pwned

From the Dikipedia entry for Mel Gibson

Mel Gibson is Australian, though his accent comes and goes, especially during films in which he’s supposed to be an American revolutionary, for instance, or a melancholy Dane. He is perhaps the most odious thing to come from Australia, other than Olivia Newton John. And Chumbawumba. And Outback Steakhouse. And that disgusting black vegetable spread they love so much. In fact, nothing good has ever come from Australia. Okay, maybe Men At Work, but they haven’t released an album in 20 years, and also Nicole Kidman, but she hardly ever gets naked anymore (certainly no bush).

Russell Crowe wishes he were Mel Gibson so bad, it gives him a boner that a dingo couldn’t bite through.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Predicted future article

January 19, 2009, Washington DC; In the dying days of the George W Bush presidency, attention has turned to the pardons that Bush had given as one of his final acts as the 43rd president.

Unsurprisingly the President has pardoned himself, Dick Cheney, and all other members of his administration, living and dead. In addition, all members of his father's presidency, and any other Republican preceding him.

However, in an unusual move, George W Bush has entered a new frontier of pardoning by turning his attention to fiction, using his presidential pardon for the benefit of TV Action heroes 'The A-Team'.

'These gentlemen were convicted of crimes they did not commit,' said President Bush in an interview with The Weekly Standard. 'All they was doin' was following orders see. Following orders. Not their fault. Not their fault their CO, their Commanding Officer, was killed in action and unable to verify that the orders he'd given them was real.'

President Bush said that during the early to mid 80's he liked nothing better than drinking frosty brew after frosty brew and watching 'that fine docu-drama about them A-Team folks' and their crusade for justice by illegal means and through firepower.

'Sure ... sure ... they never actually hit anything theys shot at. I get that. But like the US military they too often travelled in soft skin vehicles that they would then have to armour up in some sort of 30 second montage sequence. Clearly the Lord was on their side in numerous instances when they was holed up in some sort of place with access to a discarded fridge and Oxyacetylene gear.'

Left: Bush and his biggest fans

The President admitted that his giving up alcohol was due in part to the end of the A-Team on network television.

'I tell ya, beer never tasted good again once those gold old boys left the screen,' said a saddened President Bush.

The President said that his pardon of The A-Team was at the pinnacle of his legal-influencin', up there with use of Gitmo as non-US soil for legal protection purposes, black prisons, rendition, definition of torture as causing pain akin to organ failure, or the time he signed the execution order for Karla Faye Tucker.


Mikey Dessert

Take some Coles Natural Vanilla Icecream - best damn Vanilla icecream in the country.

Add a spoonful of brown sugar.

That is all.

Dickipedia

I had no idea Dickipedia existed. Gold. I'm reading the entry on Elisabeth Hasselbeck of the show the View, who like so many people nowadays, got her celeb start on a reality show.

Twatwatch - Paul Broun

It's been a while since a TW was bought out, but it's time to dust off this bad boy and apply it to one (1) Paul Broun, a US representative in the ... Republican party.

You couldn't have guessed he was GOP could you?


The fact that Obama is president elect is obviously still sinking in for some people.

Paul's spent the time since 4 Nov contemplating a future Obama presidency. According to the wiki entry here's what he's decided is possible...


On November 10, 2008, one week after the 2008 presidential election, Broun drew national attention when he criticized
President-elect Barack Obama's call for a civilian national security force, suggesting that Obama might use it to establish a Marxist dictatorship.

In an interview with the Associated Press, Broun said, "That's exactly what Hitler did in Nazi Germany and it's exactly what the Soviet Union did. When he's proposing to have a national security force that's answering to him, that is as strong as the U.S. military, he's showing me signs of being Marxist." Broun later clarified his statement by saying, "We can't be lulled into complacency. You have to remember that Adolf Hitler was elected in a democratic Germany. I'm not comparing him to Adolf Hitler. What I'm saying is there is the potential of going down that road."


Classy.


With thanks to the profiling of this dude by the Nov 13 Episode of The Daily Show.

Oh, the wiki entry notes that the next day he backed away from the statements, then later, re-embraced them.

Now ... who does that remind me of?













UPDATE: I read some more of this dude's wiki.

Check this shit out.

Broun introduced a military anti-pornography bill into the House of Representatives. The bill is meant to stem the sales of pornography on U.S military installations. This bill basically notes that the there should be no loopholes in a former piece of legislation (Title 10 of the United States code), effectively banning military personnel from viewing pornography (Now entitled the "Military Honor and Decency Act"). According to Broun's website, legislation will only be passed based on his "Four Way Test", which includes, "1) Is it moral/right?, 2) Is it constitutional?, 3) Is it necessary?, and 4) Is it affordable?"

If anyone deserves access to stick mags it's lads / ladies stuck in a fucking war zone. There they are, removed often many hundreds of miles away from their preferred genital access point, in highly stressed and dangerous circumstances, and this tard wants to retard the GI's ability to perform a solo on the pink flute / M&M.

Unbelievable.

Apparently Broun is a medical doctor. I think someone needs to check he didn't purchase his qual from a degree mill for god's sake.

What is it with the GOP and their ability to elect people who put ideology ahead of reality?

Oops for the numerologists out there

Um ... why isn't numerologist spelled numberologist? Why drop the b?

Anyway, today Man Hands laid his hands on me twice. Happy pats they were. I think he's just a touch giving dude. Of course the vigorous tummy rub was a touch too far, but still. His heart's in the right place I think.

Today he showed me a purchase from his Xtian book club or shop or what have you.

Here's a picture.

He seemed very proud of his purchase.

The choice of 444 seemed a little strange for the total number of quotes selected.

Then I realised.

444, rounded up, is the same as 0.666 * 666.

Whoops.

Can that be a coincidence? I suggest area Christians scope out the bona fides of Ms Bunn in case she's playing for the other team*

*Not that she's same sex preferred. But rather possibly a follower of the dark one. Though of course she could be same sex preferred and/or a follower of the dark one. Whatever floats her boat shoes mandatory evil boat.

Giant Post It Humour

Here in the public service we love our post it notes. I assume that's a broad appeal thing across the white collar world. Though I like to think I am not a white collar worker since I tend to not wear ties and if I can get away with it, collared shirts of a different hue. Indeed, polo shirts.

I digress. We love our post it notes. We use them for many things. Mostly for what they are intended. Then there are the giant post it notes for meetings. Seriously big fuck off post its you can stick to the wall and scrawl on with a maker pen and, presumably, those around a conference table can read the note's contents. Most useful.

In the break out area near my desk, for a couple of weeks now, an empty cardboard backing for a giant post it note pack has been leaning against the wall. On the reverse is a pic of some people in a meeting employing the post it in action with some handy text talking glowingly about the product in question. The smiling man who is in the pic at the post it note in question happens to be African American.

Today I noticed someone had written OBAMA!!!! and underlined it, with an arrow helpfully pointing at said African American.
Well done mate. Seriously well done. Post it note man is African American. The president elect is also African American. Ergo, they're similar!

Seriously fuckstick. You just made a joke whose entire premise is based on the colour of a man's skin. Great stuff. If that's not what you intended then why not also have an arrow pointing at one of the other people in the shot who is middle aged and white with the words GEORGE BUSH!!!! next to it.


What a twat.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Sarcastic big noting

I like to think at work, if I big note myself to others they can detect my sarcasm or self mockery. I don't think I am great. Sure, I recognise I am skilled at my core job - but then I've been in it a long time. I only talk that up when people are trying to drag me down (as noted in a previous post).

For some reason my colleague and favourite desk bud A, and moi, have acquired somewhat of a rep as IT fix it people when it comes to 'how do you do this?' with microsoft products.

The delightful J, who I'd accidentally called a skank a week or so back, came to me to ask my assist with adding a mailbox to her Outlook account.

I succeeded in doing so. As I did I yelled out 'I am so smart, s - m - r - t.'

You Simpson's buffs will recognise that line from Homer when he was accepted into College.

After I got back to my desk, I was worried J thought I was in fact big noting myself when all I was doing was Simpson's quotes.

So ... I sent her an email.

From: HM
Sent: Tuesday, 18 November
To: J
Subject: BTW

The "I'm am so Smart" is from the Simpson's. It's not actually my declaring my smarts.


I felt it was important to say in case you thought I was a deranged egotistical bully.

I am just ever so slightly vain is all.

(smooths hair, admires visage in reflection in monitor).

After all... I have a lot to be vain about. It's impressive I am able to dial it back as much as I do.

Her response?

From: J
Sent: Tuesday, 18 November
To: HM
Subject: RE: BTW

yeah yeah, I hear Simpson's quotes all day from the girls - but it is more entertaining to think you might actually feel this way! :)

I couldn't let it go...

From: HM
Sent: Tuesday, 18 November
To: J
Subject: RE: BTW

... I have three degrees ...

(buffs nails on shirt)

Now, the trouble is, this last email I sent exacerbates the original problem of my not being sure I was coming across as sarcastic or self mocking. I don't have three degrees - I have a Degree, a Grad Dip, and a Masters, but I suppose "three degrees" is close enough to be truer than not true. But I honestly think even though I had the buff nails line in she might think I genuinely was bragging about having quals. I'm not. It's kewl and all I have it, but I've never succumbed to the lure of sticking letters after my name in my auto-sig or, indeed, on a Business Card, which I have seen done. Unless you've got a PhD there's no real call to spruik your academic stats in that manner.

Have I done more harm than good? Maybe.

Oh for you long time blog fans, Buckwheat, my former baby with a one eyebrow nemesis, who moved sections many months ago, gave me a call to try and secure some assistance with a project. I went and told the lovely ladies (of which J is one) about it - they being aware of her previous equity unfriendly efforts. Since J was new to the area, and never experienced BW in action, we decided to background her.

C - 'Yeah her views were akin to something you'd see in the KKK.'

Me?

'I suspect she's packing extra genitals ... I don't mean actually on her, like she grew them ... I mean she took from someone else ... keeps them in a jar of alcohol ... I think it's Crème de menthe ... when she swirls the jar the genitals loom from the green fluid interior and appear up against the glass wall.'

All through this stream of consciousness outburst from my good self at the back of my mind, while my mouth was bleating this shit, all I could think is 'what the fuck am I saying?!' This inner monologue was driven in part by the increasingly confused expressions the lovely ladies had as I lurched down this weirdo mad scientist genital in jar keeping theory concerning BW.

And to think Michelle wants to work with me ...

Area man undermines his manliness

At work I tend to volunteer for things. Yes, I have learned my lesson. Never again will I take a step forward when others take a step back.

One thing I volunteered for was assisting with admin stuff. By and large it means granting access to things, filing, signing off on forms, witnessing docs and so forth.

On occasion I deal with more unusual activities. Recently a senior slot changed hands. When someone has a combination safe the combo has to be changed since the new person can't have the old combo since the old person knew what it was.

Yep ... it fell to me to try and change it.

I've never changed a safe combo in my life. But the instructions seemed straight forward enough. So I gave it the old college try.

Only ... I stuffed it up and now a lock smith has to come in to fix it.

In an office environment that's about as unmanly as having to call NRMA to come and change your tyre.

Girls can get away with that. Guys can't. Even metrosexual ones like Thorpie.

That's an idea for a new product line for Thorpie to foist on his Japanese admirers. Bejewelled tyre irons. I can just imagine paddle foot, a string of Thorpie pearls gracing his neck, smiling as he applies his wonder iron to the nuts of a tyre.

Go Thorpie.

Gradations of terms for women of questionable character

I know that women cop a raw deal when it comes to sex. I think it comes from their gate keeper capability. After-all they determine who has access to their lady parts and the manner in which access is granted.

So a guy who can successfully woo multiple ladies is a legend. Where a girl who's all too ready to allow access to her bits is considered morally suspect.

Ladies, I hear you. And I think that sucks the soggy SAO.

But ... let's not let that get in the way of this.

There are many synonyms for women who are said to have moral failings. And let me say from a personal perspective, Area Man if Woman (equals) Super Slut. I'm not however, so it's easy to say that. Because unless I have gender re-assignment surgery that cannot be proved. At any rate, I'd make a very ugly new woman---even with hair retarding hormones because I'd still look like Mr. Potato Head.

However not all synonyms have the same level of "power" or badness.

So, here's my list of nasty names for loose ladies and the order in which I think they'd appear, from least worst to most.

On a side note, in year nine I got sent to the Deputy Principal* for calling Kathy a slut. Which I understand is quite high up on the scale of nastiness. Or in this case low down, since I am going least to worst.

Upsetting
Not very pleasant
Mol
Skank
Scrubber
Slapper
Slag Mol
Bush Pig
Slut
The C-Word

So bloggers. Do you agree? Is the C-Word the worst word you can assign when describing a lady as being all to willing to drop trou and lay a Cleveland Steamer on your chest?

*The knuckle draggers in the year below us used to play with low rent nudie cards during a free period---you know the sort. The photos were taken in the '70s and the ladies looked like they were the photo animated versions of the Joy of Sex model. When the Deputy encountered card sharps with their nudie cards in the common room he'd simply confiscate the Ace of Spades---since that ruined the deck. Unless of course they used one of the Jokers and drew an Ace of Spades on it.

Oh dear - Mikey has a bristle

Lawyer: Your Honor, even though I've proven my client's innocence, I'd
still like to call Freddy Quimby to the stand. So that we can
all bask in his gentle decency.
[Freddy stands up, grins winningly at audience, takes stand]
Mr. Quimby, did you assault Mr. LaCoste?
Freddy: Of course not. I love each and every thing on God's green
earth.
Lawyer: Therefore, you would _never_ lose your temper over something as
trivial as the pronunciation of "chowder".
Freddy: That's "chowdah"! Chowdah! I'll kill you! I'll kill all of
you, especially those of you in the jury!
[man on jury mutters, "He's clearly guilty"]
Lawyer: Wow, that didn't go well. The defense rests.
-- Making the best of a bad situation, "The Boy Who Knew Too Much"

I have spent the last week waiting on boss++ to clear a report I had edited. So basically everything was on hold for them. In their defence they were very, very busy - but still I have deadlines to meet.

Today boss++ came to discuss it.

They had some minor clearance issues, and wanted the order of some elements moved around. Then it came to a head.

They did not understand why one of the sub reports was in it. I tried to tell them it was of interest, it balanced the heavier stuff, and that while it didn't meet the interest of the entire report audience it did however meet a niche group that routinely got left out.

I startled to bristle since I felt my professional skills were being called into question. The end result was I was seething, hostile, and semi-aggressive with them. I even reached down and pulled out 'agree to disagree'.

I dislike intensely interference with what I do by people who are not skilled at what I do. Every single time I get a new hierarchy I have to explain how my job works and why I do the things I do and in the manner in which they get done. Hell, I have to re-educate the SAME people each time because they forget all I told them last time.

Why can't people just let me do my job?!

When they left, my acting boss came over with some actually helpful advice. In the end I crafted a proposal style email, dressed it up all purty, and pinged it to the boss++ with the recommendations. All of which they agreed to.

Unfortunately one suggestion I then acted on that they had made was to double check an interested area had cleared content from another organisation. I assume that org had done so when they submitted it.

They had not.

Area cat thrown amongst pigeons. Said cat, opposable thumbs + chainsaw. Said pigeons - wings clipped.

So my stupid report is now even more delayed as that gets sorted.

I dislike confrontation. But I am proud I still stood up for what I believed and justified it with the knowledge gleaned from the skills I possess - which other people do not. And I got to keep my sub report in - even if I did have to take a hit on all the other "suggestions".

I tell ya. It makes wanting to be your own boss - or an uber rich gadfly without a care in the world - that much more attractive.

Poo bum wee.

Work. Who needs it?!

Monday, November 17, 2008

The Howard Years

Watching it now.

Fucking hell these people make my skin crawl.

If indeed ... they are people. Maybe ... pod people?

Stop touching me

In some computer games characters you semi control will have amusing phrases they like to bleat out when you cursor click on them. Baldur's Gate I was no exception.

One of my favourite recruit-able characters was Xzar, one of the first you meet that will join your party. His time worn phrase was "Stop touching me", delivered in a girlish falsetto.

Which is exactly what I felt like saying when Man Hands once more ventured his dinner plate palms on my stocky person.

I was regaling P and Man Hands the tale of my visit to Just Cuts, and mentioned the whole no man's land band thing twixt neck and shoulder hair - given my hairy back.

Cue Man Hands. He stood up, loped over, loomed over me. Grabbed my shoulders and turned me the other way. Then said 'yeah, my wife shaves my shoulders across here.'

He then smoothed his oversized hands from my spine outward.

That is the second time he's touched me. TheWife suspects he has a Jones for my puddly bod. I think not. I'd hazard that for the most part the only people who have ever found me at all desirable have been mentally damaged in some way* and -

Wait a minute!

Anyway ... uncomfortable (again).

*Except theWife obviously

Sunday, November 16, 2008

The little red chair that could

Heirlooms, the best ones, look good, have "meaning", and are useful. It's all very well having an Opium pipe from 1920s Japan but unless you bong on with sweet lady O, it just gathers dust.

In the 70s my parents bought some left over furniture from a closing down kindy. I think that's what happened. This included four sturdy wooden chairs.

These chairs served them well over the years. You can sit on them as an adult - they don't have arms - which means they can be readily employed to play games at the coffee table. They served as kid seating for visiting kids. And were tough enough to stand on when needing just that extra bit of height - like painting the ceiling with a roller.

My mum can't walk and their house does not need anything really done to it. Since we have an industrial strength Noo, my Dad bought two of the chairs down for us. He even went to Bunnings and got new stoppers for the legs - and theWife repainted them. They look great and serve as ideal guardian seating for when theNoo is in the bath.

Certainly beats kneeling on the tiles.

As regular HM punters know I have trouble eating now thanks to stomach surgery from last year. I have to take care or food can get stuck.

Tonight it happened again. Uber well cooked steak, not chewed well enough by moi, got stuck.

From about 8 pm until 940 pm I was in the toilet hacking up globs of spittle and food.

It's when another use for the red chair presented itself. It's the ideal seating for long term vomitage. I pulled it up to the lav so my knees were straddling the bowl either side and was able to lean forward to gonk up some goobers.

Being stuck near the toilet for such a long time is boring. So I had a book with me. Some weird new age thing about Polar myth (Thules, Hyperboreans etc and so forth).

Only it looked very much like I was giving the toilet a bed time story. In addition to throwing up in it. Maybe I was like a mother bird or something?

Anyway, the little red chairs. Very, very useful. An heirloom that works well.

On a side note I hate tales of heirlooms that have been in the family where continual parts replacement means they are no longer the same item. Eg the axe that's been in the fam for two hundred years and gone through five heads and four handles. News flash fuckos. Once the original head and handle went - no longer the same fucking axe. It doesn't magically acquire 'sameness' via osmosis.

Where's the pugg?

Actually, it's meant to be 'Where's the puff?' - but I liked pugg better.

You kids, and your music, are probably too young to remember the heady days when VHS was king. DVD was but the glint in the technician's eye in the 80's. The rich people who bought VHS when it was first out got these monster sized efforts that top loaded - kind of the equiv of the house brick sized mobile phone. Eventually even us plebs got a VHS.

Put up we did with tracking problems - or tapes so gunked up the only way to clean them was to play them in fast forward mode then hope for the best.

No wonder DVD was embraced so fiercely, though I admit I have flashes of annoyance when the shop rented DVD skips and hisses because it's mirror finish ain't so pretty.

One thing DVD has not embraced that VHS did was the puffy cover. Yes, a puffy cover. The cover equiv for media that Seinfeld's puffy shirt was for torso wear.

Basically the cover would have raised detail of elements of the cover to give a semi 3d effect. It was hollow crappy plastic - the sort of plastic quality you'd find in petrol station Halloween masks.

A cover that sticks in my mind is that of Salute of the Jugger, a low rent Oz Sci Fi starting the Sci Fi (save for one notable exception) everyman of Rutger Hauer.

The raised detail of Jugger were the arms if you're wondering.

So there you have it. A moment in time. In the future, when Collectors 2525 is on the ABC4D(pie symbol), and they pull out a puffy cover, perhaps this archived blog post will be the clue as to what the fuck it was.

The puffy VHS cover. Circa 1982-1995.

Recurring thigh growth rears its head

As a chubbo certain things happen that don't happen to normal people.

For example we can't wear T-Shirts with humorous slogans because our flab will distort the words and people fixate on that instead of the amusing message.

Also our legs rub together on occasion. Yes, it's not pleasant. One of the side results is that you can get lumps of hardened tissue forming - grey and unpleasant looking - from the repeated movement of the wobbling flesh. They feel and look like boils but alas they are not. Just compressed skin tissue. You can squeeze all you like but you won't pop them.

In the real world and equivalent of a recurring thigh growth that just won't pop and die is John Howard. He's been cruising the right wing think tanks of the world and exalting in their praise of his nasty little person.

He's recently appeared on Fox News where he went to say that we should not compare now to the Great Depression. As much as it irks me, he's right. But the thing that really pissed me off was this bit.

He warned the Rudd Government against going "carelessly" into deficit, reminding viewers that the Howard government had been good at balancing the budget.

Balancing the budget is somewhat easy when A) you slash social services (like dental support to the poor declaring it's not a health issue), B) when the preceding government restructures the economy to deliver increased revenue, C) a commodities boom the likes of which the world has never seen since the Industrial Revolution began commences and the mining sector of the Oz economy goes gang busters (sending money the government's way - and the share holders of mining companies - but not the average punter).

Fuckstick.

The second thing that annoys me, and it's somewhat ironic given he himself was a Treasurer at one point (though should be pointed out one of the worst in Australia's history given inflation / unemployment / deficit he left behind in '83 - though admittedly like in the late 80's world economic factors were in play), governments routinely go into deficit when times are bad because they need to kick start the economy.

It's economics one oh fucking one. He knows it. We all know it. Howard successfully bleated on about 'paying off 96 billion dollars of Labor debt' when he was in office, knowing full well that much of that debt was from spending designed to get the economy better functioning - which it did given the revenues coming his way when he got into office.

Instead of preparing the economy for when times turned - and need I remind everyone that Howard could not see why the mining boom wouldn't continue indefinitely in the last election - he gave away chunks of money in middle class bribery and targeted pork under things like the Regional Partnerships scheme.

Also Mr Howard, you are not the Prime Minister. It is an affectation in the US that former Presidents still retain the appellation of President. You do NOT get to be called Prime Minister unless it's prefaced by "former". If the interviewer keeps referring to you as the PM grow a pair a balls and tell them not to.

Two other pieces of interesting Howard news.

1) The Howard Years reveals that then Chief of the Defence Force told the Libs they were telling porkies over Children Overboard - which the Libs gleefully ignored because it was their political benefit. Howard also claims he didn't "road test" his infamous "we decide" comment in the poll research - though I remember (and still have the proof) the full page ads of the Little General pounding the lecturn with that tag line beneath it during the 2001 election.

2) The News Review section of the Weekend SMH (and for some reason I can't find this article online) had an account of when Petro Georgio and three other Lib back benchers met at the Lodge to talk with Howard about his locking children up without charge under his draconian battler friendly refugee legislation. Howard yelled at Petro that if he bought the member's bill to the floor that it would embarrass the party. Petro responds in clinical detail that allowing a child since birth to be detained to the point where she self harms at three from her conditions is far more of an embarrassment. Worth the purchase for that article alone.

Please Mr Howard, fuck off and recede from the world's stage. Your kind of politics of division is not what we need. Nor did we ever need it.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

My saturday

1. Elmo Wall

The new scary animatronic Elmo is out just in time for gorging-on-toys day (amen tm). In Target they built a display wall of them. The kewl thing is you can trigger him (press his left foot) to activate, and you can get about eight going at once.

Treis creepy.

Hilariously, one of the "speech bubbles" the packaging has is "Oh boy Elmo's arms are getting tired!"

Great stuff marketing geniuses.

2. Barbie Car

In K-Mart I saw this (this graphic pinched from a UK site). The tech details made me titter so.















3. Abbott and Costello

I stood in queue for ages in K-Mart. Two teenie girls in front of me, two lads behind. One of the girls was buying a pair of extremely brief lacy things that look like they'd disintegrate the moment contact with vag juice was made. Yes, I am aware the PH of the downstairs lady grease is likely near 7 but the thing she was buying did not like it was intended for long term wash and wear. More like it could be easily bitten off like cotton candy by her opposing sex number.

The guys behind me were buying a baseball bat and ball combo. One of them talked about a game he'd like to invent that consisted of a cage and baseballs studded with nails on one 'side'. Combatants would enter, dive for the balls, then grip the non naily side and attempt to slot the pointy bits into their opponent.

Prior to this detailed and disturbing explanation, the title of this "game" was offered when discussing what the ball they were buying could be used for.

A - We could play Death ball

B - Deaf ball?

A - No, Death ball

B - Deaf ... ball ??

A - Death ball

B - Deaf ball yes.

A - No, you misunderstand. Death ball.

B - I don't get it.

It was a serious non intentional conversation that sounded like any second would by natural progression devolve into a round of who's on first.

4. Ben Hur

Prior to going out the Hesto classic Ben Hur was on. As theWife was with theNoo out at the changing table I watched Heston deliver a powerful line from the first act.

"No! I warn you! Rome is an affront to God! Rome is strangling my people and my country, the whole Earth! But not forever. I tell you the day Rome falls there will be a shout of freedom such as the world has never heard before!"

A moment later, from the change table where theNoo had successfully been encouraged to clap, I heard theWife faintly cry out "... yay ..."

Gold.

UPDATE - forgot more

5. "I feel the need, the need for speed"

I got to mind theNoo while theWife was looking at baby clothes in K-Mart. Safely belted into the kid carry section of the trolley we wiled away the time looking at DVDs (I looked, he grabbed then spent happy moments sliding them between the handle and trolley and on to the floor). Then I went for a cruise along the main passage strip.

Turns out in addition to being a proto head-banger (of his own accord nodding his head to the beat of the Pistol's Anarchy during a YT sesh), he's a speed freak. I'd accelerate then rapidly slow down - not enough for whiplash - but enough that his head would roll back and he'd grip onto the handle to steady himself.

He fully giggled up a storm. Loves the speed!

6. The Change Room

I don't know how other heavy-set feel, but I suspect they feel the same way as me, but I hate buying clothes. I've hated it before I got fat - when I was like nine (because no one gives a shit about clothes when they're nine ... well ... at least you didn't in the 80's). I hate it post fat.

But lately my shirts have been looking a little loose on me - kind of like Cooter the Grifter from the Carnival Episode of the Simpson's where he comes out in one of Homer's shirts, hanging loose on his normal frame, then shouts 'look at me, I'm a millionaire.' Don't get excited, I've dropped like a size that's all.

It's been some time since I've delved into change-room land. I have noticed however the room is bigger - enough for two people - and I don't have to do that contortionist caravan dweller esq dance of twists and turns to disrobe. So that's a feather in the cap.

The black eye was the giant mirror that reflected my man puffiness in all its hirsute glory.

Speaking of hirsute...

7. The Haircut

Fortunately the line at Just Cuts, which feature those actual size cut outs of that ex Channel Seven weatherman now race car driver, was nil. So I got to get my hair cut without waiting for it.

I used to have a pony tail. It went to my arse. But about 10 years ago I noticed "the thinning" - a bald patch bonanza'ing at the crown, and, well off with its head. That of course did not prevent the patch spread. As my hair gets longer now, it means I tend to look like Riff Raff from Rocky Horror. Which means more frequent haircuts.

I asked my exotic doe eyed beauty hairdresser for a number three, and towards the end she pulled out the smaller razor to trim the neck. At that point she pulled my collar away to reach the nape.

Since my 20's my back to arse hair has grown in thickness. Indeed it's at about a number two in length.

'Um ... ' she said. 'I've never seen that before.'

Yes, always good when a professional says that about your bod - like the time a podiatrist said I had 'the ugliest feet' she'd ever seen. Apparently EDEB had never seen someone with back hair so luxuriant that it nearly matched the length of their head hair.

Me?

'Er yeah ... it's a tad long. You could pick me up by my back and arse hair.'

Cough ... coughcough.

So basically she shaved a no man's land band between nape and neck to hide my hairy horror from the world.

I hate my body. I'd get a full body Brazilian - except maybe for some sculpted ball fuzz - save that the mass depilation would likely kill me through sheer pain.

Once, pre surgery, I decided to get my stomach waxed because I didn't want hair to regrow through the wound (figuring it would be itchy). It was akin to that scene from 40 Year Old Virgin - so never again.

Only it turned out I got the location wrong and they had to razor down my right pec.

Which meant the only patch on my front torso that had hair was my left pec.

Yes, that's right. I looked like a fucking flag.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Super slutty dolls well fcked

Apparently the Bratz empire had a whacking great gob of justice spurt in their face when rivals Mattel were awarded a cool 100 million US for copyright violation.

Check out the google hosted AP story here.

Barbie, bless their cotton socks, wants Bratz dead. They want their entire extended figure range dead. They want their Bratz dream houses burned to the ground. They wanna go there in the middle of the night and wanna PISS ON THEIR ASHES!

How the fuck would a barbie piss anyway? She can't move her fucking legs? The pee would just run down her legs like an uber drunk mol who can't be arsed lining up for the portaloo at the Melbourne Cup.

I do find it somewhat ironic that Bratz ended up in court. Do you think there were wearing their curb crawling gear when standing before the judge?

I do

Then later fighting the other hos in the tank for a cigarette?


Now that would be a doll playset we could all enjoy.


Moronic mother purchases KFC

The family car, drive-way; Local mother, name unknown, today purchased KFC for her family then drove the meal home only to engender tragedy when she stopped.

'Mum for some bizarre reason drove with the fucking food all laid out on the passenger seat next to her,' said annoying boy child.

'I mean KFC have fucking bags for fuck's sake. Why the fuck didn't she bag it?'

The mother, who had previously called the family whilst on the road to say she had KFC so she could then smugly announce some fucked in the head combo catered for all their specific desires RE menu choices, pulled into the drive and braked. Newtonian physics then kicked in with the non secured food items still retaining energy of motion and motioned themselves right into the footwell.

The family then gathered to look at the food resting on the carpeted tiny stone dotted surface and attempted to recover at least some of the items.

'Fucking hell woman, you are fucked in the head,' added her husband.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Andrew Bolt and the sandwich at the Downstairs Café

Actually, it wasn’t Andrew Bolt. But clearly this person had taken a leaf from Andrew Bolt’s Big Boys Bumper Book of Leg Splaying.

I was walking back into my building and past the downstairs café when in the corner I couldn’t but help notice this person’s sitting stance.

Above the table was normal, and he was consuming some sort of sandwich, but beneath the table, well, the horror … the horror ...

He was fully Sharon Stoning his Man Bulge. No, not sans pants. But his legs were open way more than the allotted 90 degrees accorded to us men by nature. They were almost 180’ing. As a result his legs, which I can only presume were straining the friendship of his pelvic ligamentage, were making the groin at the apex – what remained of it – far more prominent.

It couldn’t have been more leaping to the attention of a passer-by if sewn into the seam of his inner leg were northwards pointing arrow shaped LEDs that blinked in sequence from knee and up the leg to fly and directing your sight dickward.

Maybe he’s one of those pelvically blessed nature’s acrobat types? Perhaps instead of a chair at his desk, he has it close to the floor and he “sits” balanced on his arse with his legs wrapped around his shoulder in the manner of a human ball contortionist?

At any rate, the moment I got back to my desk, I described what I saw to P, then attempted to emulate the stance – facing forward on a chair but backwards straddle style in an effort to demonstrate just how splayed the sandy man’s legs were.

Needless to say, it hurt to do so.

‘Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?’

I’m not sure how I generated this invitation but today something unusual happened to me.

My current acting boss, whose the seven foot fundy with the dinner plate hands, asked how I was feeling. I think I said something along the lines of ‘okay’. Or words to that effect. I’m not sure, since the memory of how this happened was kind of wiped out by what then happened.

He was standing next to me as I was seated and facing the computer. Next thing I know he’s lurched at me – giant hand outstretched – then lands it on my belly.

He then rubbed it vigorously, shouting ‘Are you okay?! Are you okay?!’

Now I have IBS – and have had surgery. As a result my guts are quite sensitive.

I shrieked at him to stop, screaming out ‘I-I-I-I H-A-V-E H-A-D S-T-O-M-A-C-H S-U-U-U-U-R-G-R-Y’, whereupon he did come to a halt.

There was this awkward silence. Then he left and went back to his desk, leaving me shocked at this mauling.

As a friend noted, there’s no excuse for touching someone in the workplace.

However, if you’re a first aid officer of course you can – by medical invitation.

The attractive J, who I’d accidentally labelled a skank the other day, confessed that she had her Senior First Aid certificate. However despite the first aid officer slot being open, and you get an allowance for it, she declined to perform the role here.

A and my theory is that guys would fake a cardiac episode if she did …

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Fox well pwned


















A taste

To: Mr. Roger Ailes
President, Fox News

Dear Roger,

You should be sitting when you read this, because I'm writing to apologize.


In times past, I've had harsh words for Fox for its consistent misrepresentation of the news. In 2003, I cited a survey from the Program for International Policy Attitudes (PIPA) and the Knowledge Network that showed that 45 percent of Fox viewers believed that the United States had uncovered incontrovertible proof that Saddam Hussein and al-Qaeda had worked together; that we had found weapons of mass destruction in Iraq; and that a majority of peoples in other lands supported our war in Iraq. In case these bizarre misconceptions merely reflected the a priori beliefs of President Bush's supporters, PIPA further documented that Bush backers who got their news from other networks had a decidedly firmer grasp of the facts.

Now, I don't in any way retract my judgment that you guys were at the time and still are a constant source of right-wing fantasies. It's just that, at least in today's political environment, I'm no longer sure this is a bad thing.

The election has left the Republican Party reeling, its base shrunk to those Southern, Plains and Mountain West states where rural cultures still predominate. The party's smarter strategists are arguing that the worldviews of the social conservatives and free-market extremists who dominate the GOP are either irrelevant or ridiculous to voters in the middle of the political spectrum. "We can't be obsessed with issues that are not the issues that are important to American voters," Jim Greer, chairman of the Florida GOP, told the New York Times.

But Fox has won its viewership precisely by promoting such obsessions.

For the rest go here.

Chicken Kiev


I love Chicken Kievs. They are delish. Only they are dangerous as well.

Because if you don't take care with your cutting into it, you can end up copping a buttery money shot in the face and/or chest.


Take care of your Kiev lest it spurt in your eye.


That's an aphorism we can all embrace.

Optimism

I work for a government agency. An agency big enough that it has dedicated staff and space assigned to the tricky problem of workplace furnishings. If you want a desk altered, or wardrobe changed, you contact said dedicated area to make the arrangements.

Recently our area had a refit. The end result was that in the process of reloading staff into the altered area, some furniture became surplus.

The solution one person chose was to slide their empty cabinet into the corridor and stick a sign on it saying 'Empty - please return.'


Maybe they think it's like the tooth fairy? That somehow, magically, a muscular furniture fairy wearing a back support under their wings, will turn up - having been mystically alerted to the presence of unwanted surplus corridor dwelling furnishings - and spirit the unwanted leavings away to their magical fairy furnishings warehouse until it is summoned once more into the office world.

Cockfaces.

Poo Pause

I am poo shy. I don't like people hearing my leavings leave and meet water. Which is why, when using a work stall, I pre-flush, wait for the water to stop running, then use the cistern re-fill noise to mask the sounds nature makes when you drop item A) into liquid B).

Only today I had run out of time and boss+++ was washing his hands outside. Unfortunately for me I was in mid push when the cistern refill backing vocals ceased and I didn't know whether he'd left yet. So I perched there, sphincter at maximum dilation with a ground hog practically dancing ala Caddyshack, frantically listening for sounds of outside stall activity before I went the tilt and drop.

I like to aim for the side of the bowl to rob some of the kinetic power of the pebble before splash down happens.

Luckily he was gone when it had finally happened.

Don't you hate it when you get a surprisingly large movement to move and you kind of have this searing unexpected pain. You're like 'Oh my golly, where did that come from?!'

Then you go to look to see why that was such a rectal stretcher and are robbed of the reasons why because it was so powerful that it went around the S bend of its own accord.

Yeah ... I hate that.

It's an emergency!

Recently our building experienced yet another emergency. We were locked down for ages (you can't move between floors or leave the building until the all safe has been declared). As a wardeny type I had to be ready to shepherd my people Moses style out an exit.

During said emergency we were joking around as you do ...

1. The Red Shirt

As you may know, Star Trek TV coined the term red shirt, the name for any spear carrier on a TV show that would accompany a main protagonist and die during an encounter so as to up scale the sense of threat. P was wearing a Red Shirt. We laughed and said he would cop it first given his wardrobe choice.

Me?

'Yeah, and I'm suffering anal chaffing at the moment. So I'd cop it to right there too.'

Why? I know not. It seemed like a good idea at the time to say that (and it's not true, for it is lovely and pink). But well for some reason the idea of the red shirt applying to my anus seemed to ring true as a concept of being threatened by danger.

2. The miscommunication

J was about to go running when the lockdown happened. J is young, blonde, very attractive and fit. She was dressed in sprayed on running gear.

The topic of Aerobics Oz Style came up. I didn't know what made it Oz - I assumed they used ocker language or something (eg instead of "clean and jerk" then "buff and grab" - I know not Ozzer, I was stretching). It's Oz apparently because they would have their show (three aerobics instructors outside) set in an Oz locale like at the Opera House or a park with the Harbour Bridge in shot.

Me?

'Did you ever notice they'd have some blonde skank up the back?'

I gesticulated with my thumb to represent an up the back motion.

Yep ... right at J. Who was wearing her aerobics style running clobber.

There was this shriek of indignation and I went straight into the verbal equivalent of dropping prone and curling up in the midst of a bear attack as I tried to explain I wasn't talking about her.

Fortunately ... good sense of humour. So, so, so could lodge a complaint for that.

I am the king of workplace clanger droppers.

Monday, November 10, 2008

All in a day's work citizen

1. The Fox Po

Whilst talking with the delightful K, the subject of trying to make yourself throw up when you have a skinful of grog came up.

K?

'I had a friend who did it once. She'd been drinking blue curacao. She looked like she'd brought up blue loo.'

Me?

'Or that she blew a smurf.'

Now don't get me wrong. That was a dumb thing to say. And I knew it was dumb the moment it past my lips. Especially given the erroneous supposition that smurf spoof is the same colour as their skin. African ejaculate is the same off white clag-esq colour and consistency as whitey, unless interacial porn has steered me wrong. So why the fuck would smurf sauce be blue? Just does not make sense. So not only was it a violation of equity rules, to whit discussion of adult themes in the workplace, it also violated logic.

2. The discussion

We were having one of our free range workplace chats and the subject of recluses was touched on. When, we asked ourselves, does the delineation recluse cross over to hermit.

We decided it was based on access to bathroom facilities. If you have them, you're a recluse. If you don't - you're a hermit.

If you're so fat that you need the fire services to extract you from your house then you're a mentally ill shut in.

Bathroom facilities assumed for the latter.

3. Kate Bush

Why doesn't Kate Bush put out a special limited edition CD of her greatest hits that comes with a bonus Merkin?

4. The Chemist

I'd run out of my uber expensive IBS Support pills and went to the chemist for more.

Me to the shop girl.

'You know what, it'd be more accurate to call these Shitwell ... '

And after a moment's thought.

'... Or Poogood.'

She tittered in that 'hee hee, customer made funny' automatic response kind of way.

It's just what I do people.

Carry on.

Can't sleep, clown will eat me


Actually I just can't sleep. It's 2.23 am and I have to be up just past 7 am to get ready for the work day. I have my pair of trusty tan pants - wrinkled - resting on the arm of the couch, along with a polo shirt for tomorrow's work adventure. Weeeee.

Can't think of anything interesting to say apart from Jesus Christ why can't I stop picking at my foot?! I do get pleasure from it I know, and it's instinctive. Sometimes I won't even realise I am doing it. Shards of stupid skin are drying and dying on the shelf behind me.

Grrrr.

Stupid weak man.

Anyway, better go give sleep a try. Big shout out to other insomniacs. You know who you are.

Sunday, November 09, 2008

Standy man!

Attention Americans

Emu is pronounced "Eem-you" not "Ee-moo"

That is all.

Snot mo

Sorry Sarah, but more gross baby tales ahead.

There's something both amusing and disgusting when your baby gleefully turns their head and smiles at you when they have twin trails of snot running down the outside of their philtrum like the burning tyre tracks left by the DeLorean in Back to the Future.

That they don't give a shit and will happily babble with the snot running over their top lip to their bottom lip in the manner of a jungle creeper obscured cave is an added layer of yuck.

Your senses do improve as a parent*. You get adept to listening for typical activity to know approx where they are in the house and what they're doing. And your sense of smell is enhanced so the faintest hint of pants ordure is enough for you to grab the often giggling retreating combo and take them for a nappy check.

In fact, it's a bit like when Frank Drebbin rubs off Gorbachev's portwine stain, when you triumphantly shout 'I knew it!' upon pants loaded discovery.

Enjoy. What a fucking funny movie.



*It should of course be noted that theWife's parental senses are far more acute than mine. She should add that to her 'anything you can do, I can do better' list she sings about in the shower.

Resumés

I admit that I am not the best placed person in the world to talk of the job seeking process. I've won exactly 0 jobs off formal interview in my lifetime (so 0 for 20 or so attempts by my count).

But I have been on the other side, and have vetted candidates (well, once), and even done that mandatory 'so you want to vet a prospective employee' online training my workplace foists on you if you are going to be on the evil more heavily populated side of that insidious conference room table.

When reading an application you pay exactly zero attention to any handy supplied 'hobbies' information.

We don't give a fuck if you like reading or walking. And well done if surfing is your thing. If you enjoy abseiling then well fair enough. If you think pig shooting is fantastic then whatever floats your boat. The only advantage in supplying it is as an ice-breaker for someone on the panel to make you more comfortable in the interview process. We're not actually allowed to give you the job or even a preference for an interview based on the information you supplied under the hobbies header.

I'm reading this excellent Newsweek series on the US election (courtesy of a web ping from Grods). This section is concerning Palin's recruitment.

I read this bit with interest.

McCain loved the whole Palin family. They seemed to offer some relief, if not a touch of anarchy, to the Straight Talk Express, which had become a bit joyless. Piper, the governor's 7-year-old, thought nothing of crawling across Joe Lieberman's lap to get to her mother. Lindsey Graham mischievously enjoyed getting the child hopped up on Mountain Dew, a beverage to which he was mildly addicted. McCain relished talking to his running mate about guns and hunting in the wild. Duprey made up a T shirt that read OUR CANDIDATE FOR VP CAN HUNT, SHOOT, DRESS, COOK HER DINNER. JOE BIDEN ORDERS TAKE-OUT. Palin put on the shirt and gave him a hug. "I love this shirt," she said.

Fucking hell they had a Jones for Palin's fucking hobbies didn't they?! To the point of making up partisan snitty T-Shirts for their dream candidate (I predict said shirt was a size too small so as to accentuate her Pamela Anderson's).

But, thankfully, the US facing a set of readily preventable crises meant the presidency was less about values and identity politics, and more a job interview for the more acceptable candidate. Which meant the fucking hobbies section of the CV had no real impact. Sure it got the base out, the same flag waving guns shootin' knuckle dragging kill anything with four legs religious embittered and clinging to whitey as Palin+brood, but by and large the average 'what's in it for me' independent that dominates who gets in when times are tough appears to have dismissed it as irrelevant, or simply a big fucking neon sign of 'woah, this bitch be scary'.

For those of you facing an interview process, and you wish to self sabotage, then I suggest you load up your offered hobbies with the faux disturbing. For example;

- Fang gliding
- Pig guttering
- Midget wrangling
- Jesus fire dancing
- Barbed wire fancying
- Poodle melting
- Global Warming denying
- Smoot Barley filtering
- Barkle-snarking

As for me, I do enjoy the odd bout of Barkle-snarking. In fact, I see a Barkle now. I might just have to go snarkle it.

Absolutely pissweak

The Bali Bombers are dead. The whole thing, start to finish, has been a tragedy and a farce. A) bunch of fundys thinking that blowing up foreigners is some how going to usher in an Islamic supersate, B) the nation state that owns them thinking somehow shooting them on a beach is going to resolve anything.

Naturally the media are all over it. Channel Seven in particular.

I get that it's a big story. But to open the broadcast with almost fist pumping and excited declarations that they are 'all over the story' and that they will talk to victim's families is abhorrent. It's the same poisonous public spectacle mentality that thankfully modern society fucked off over a hundred years ago.

I was annoyed enough to ping Sunrise an email of said annoyance.

Here's their contact page.

























If you want to give them an idea, say a 'do a weather report from my deep north fried rat eating country town' request, then you get an email address. Feedback or a complaint ... then you have to go through a formal lodging procedure.

Seriously seven, how fucking pissweak. Sure, formal complaints are one thing. But generic feedback or a non official complaint should be allowed to be emailed in. I work in a government agency. We offer people email means to vent their spleen at us. We don't make them jump through fucking hurdles like this.

You're willing to offer a one stop email shop for an idea, but effectively stick your e-hands over your ears and shout LALALALALALALA if someone is irked by the content of your show.

It's crap communication and you fucking know it.

UPDATE: Insider's on ABC is also ghoulishly reveling in the minutia of how to tie someone to a post and shoot them in the chest. Come on people, how is this news?