Saturday, February 28, 2009
In my home town there used to be a micro greasy spoon takeaway on the main street. The sort of place that had a layer of grease on every surface from 20 years of enclosed frying. It was run by an immigrant Greek couple.
How it escaped the attention of the health department escapes me. But, nonetheless, I liked hot food back then and would occasionally purchase stuff there.
One day I bought a big glass bottle of coke. Yes, it was the 80s, they sold coke in big glass bottles. I was due about $1.50 in change.
I held out my hand for it.
The woman, a big distorted heavy set facially hirsute lady, barked at me the following.
'Huh?' I said.
'Youlikeredskin?' she barked again.
I was a socially awkward kid. Rules of behviour were an unknown land for me. So I figured just saying 'yes' was the easiest way.
So she reached her flabby hand into a box of redskins, grabbed a chunk and dropped them in my palm.
Redskins you see are a horrid chewy lolly for sale in Oz. I don't like Redskins.
I was too embarrassed to exchange them back for my desired cash. So I walked off with a handful of redskins I never intended to eat. I think in the end I dumped them.
Did I mention it was the 80's? A dollar fifty was like five bucks in today's money. Well, to me at least.
Man was I pissed off.
No, I fucking do not.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
But, that's neither here nor there. The Sunlight I refer to is the brand of cheap soap.
When I was a kid I had trouble controlling my bowels. On occasion I crapped myself. Even right up into early high school. Turns out I had IBS the whole time which explains much of it. My mother, rightly so, expressed the desire that soiled garments of that nature should be cleaned by the one that soiled them. Kind of a mash up of smelt it dealt it I guess.
Even now I can remember these horrid moments of my childhood of the incredibly embarrassing and disgusting job of applying a bar of soap to my shitty undies' gusset and trying to remove the stain.
Flash forward to a couple of weeks ago. We'd run out of soap and I was at the local IGA. There was some cheap soap so I got that. To tide us over until the next big shop.
Normally I enjoy new soap day. I was naked, ready to in the shower hop, and cracked the box.
The box of sunlight soap.
The exact same soap I used to clean the shit from my underdaks as a kid.
So cue the flood of memories linked to the smell of Sunlight. Horrible cringing painful memories of a horrible moment in life.
So there you have it. Sunlight smells like wet poo. And always will ... for me at least.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Go theWife! And, since I was at work, I didn't have to add to my kill spiders / open jars repertoire and move the stuff. She did it all!
Everything's coming up Milhouse.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
He can also dance. Well, wiggle to music.
We have a narrow corridor that is the arterial route of our house. It's about three feet wide (so -2 penalty to melee if D&D 3.5 I think). On Saturday we were playing YouTube derived music clips. We had Salt'N'Peppa's Push It going - which is a blast from theWife and my high school days. So there we all were, in this narrow corridor, dancing to Push It, theNoo wiggling his butt as theWife recounted lyrics letter perfect (she's like Rain Man for 80's lyrics) while we did dodgy hip hop robot moves.
One for the memories album in the old noggin.
UPDATE: Yes, I am that much of a nerd. I went and checked the open game rules on the net RE squeezing. You're -4 to attack rolls and AC in a narrow space.
At that point I could see a Roo's body lying in the middle of the road.
I had a fraction of a second to decide what to do. I decided against braking sharply because I would still have hit it and I could have lost control. Instead I went over the top of it and tried my best to guide the wheels so they'd go either side of the body.
The car shook and made horrible bump noises as I went over the top.
I slowed down after hitting it, worried I'd done some damage to the vehicle (I assumed the roo was already well fucked). As I slowed one of the by the side people came looming out of the dark. She was making the exaggerated 'what the fuck?!' open hand gestures and mouthing at me like I was an idiot.
Listen lady. I made a snap decision to do what I did. If you were so concerned for the fucking roo then you should have dragged it the fuck off the road. I sure as fuck wasn't going to pull over and check my car in the dark in the middle of the night with a blonde halfwit like you getting in my ear.
I hazard you were the mol that ran it down. Like I said, if you're so concerned drag it off the road. In fact you should have done that anyway.
So take your 'what the fuck?!' exaggerated hand gestures and please to be cramming them right up your arse.
UPDATE: I probably should have stopped. But I was feeling a bit shocked about the near accident (and running over of the presumed corpse), and the abusive gesturing from Little Miss Roadside Assist decided it for me. Apologies nature lovers.
The morning bus crowd were at the bus stop. The usual mob - about ten of us.
This dodgy skinny ancient Elvis looking dude comes along with a leaf blower, blowing crap along the gutter. I think for the most part he was trying to blow away a box lid. Surely it could not have been the dirt and leaf litter since being the outdoors it would only return. He spends excruciating minutes wafting this lid and muck along, soaking the immediate area with the painful whine of his blower and the smoke from its engine and spraying us with dirt from the blowing. Most of us move away from the road to get out of the radius of his noise and dust flurries. He seems oblivious to our discomfort and annoyance.
So the bus comes along. On the road where this guy is standing. The driver to his credit slows down - I presume expecting leaf blower Elvis to clamber onto the curb.
Leaf blower man faced off the bus ... and kept blowing! The bus had to pull around him and we had to walk across the road to get in.
We were all laughing as we got on, shaking our heads, as Elvis faded into the distance - still spinning the box lid down the road.
Fuckstick. Pick it the fuck up.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Tonight we had fish. It's a Friday thing. I like to add coleslaw to the mix.
I noticed as I was getting changed I must have spilled some coleslaw on the Dr Evil chair. Without thinking I picked up the small blob and ate it.
Then I realised that sometimes some nude sitting on the chair occurs, and the place where the meat drapes was right where the colesaw had sat.
Yes, that's right, I'd inadvertently eaten Turkey Slapped Slaw.
So in retrospect ... yeah ... gross ...
I was talking to a producer once where he said 'drama is normal life without the boring bits' - or something along those lines. Which is why you tend not to see on the teev someone like me on the shitter straining out an arse turkey unless there's a plot point in it (cardiac arrest, ninja star fished above the toilet etc).
My work is undergoing a re-org. It's probably the twelve-thousandth one I have been through. I have a sneaking suspicion management has a re-org because it looks splendidly busy - what with all those meetings, charts, pointy sticks used to point at the charts, and those kewl whiteboards that have a printer hooked up to them. Lots of fun for everyone in a re-org!
Except of course for the people who have no involvement in it and actually have real work to do. Like me. Unfortunately attendence was mandatory.
If drama is like life without the boring bits, I experienced today the anti-matter equivalent of it. It was 90 minutes of a show and tell so breathtakingly boring that I was in physical pain. Admittedly I was also afflicted by a rumbly tum, lack of sleep, and general low grade ouchies I suffer from, but it was as if the universe had applied some sort of mind trick on me to make those 90 minutes the longest minutes ever. Yes, I know, a minute is a static unit of time measurement. You can't have an actual long minute, year, or short weeks. But you know what I mean.
Even now blogging this revisits the pain of that boredom.
And the people that asked questions?! I mean, come on?! Serious ?! The worst was by the balding mutant from table nine, who asked when the next missive from management was due on the re-org. He only fucking told us about three times during the presentation and in answer to other questions. There's really only two reasons for that to have happened. A) she's an agent of the universe sent to sow discord. 2) she's a fucking moron.
Suffice to say I have attended my mandatory missive. Next time I will enter the room, then exit the room, enjoy some radio time somewhere sunny, then mingle and join the crowd as they leave.
I do not know why I didn't think of that until now.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
Mr ABBOTT (Warringah) (3:04 PM) —My question is to the Prime Minister. Given the relativities of the lump sum payments for pensioners in today’s package, does the government now accept that the coalition is right and that the single «pension» should be raised to two-thirds of the married rate?
Mr RUDD (Griffith) (Prime Minister) —In response to the honourable member’s question about pensions, can I say a couple of things. The first is that we, in the measures we have announced today, have indicated that we will cover all pensioners and carers, not just one group of them. Secondly, we have indicated that, if you take the amount we are proposing by way of a one-off bonus to single age pensioners, that is equated over nine months to an amount of about $35 a week. It seems to me to be a number in excess of one floated recently by a certain political party, even narrowly ascribed to one particular group of pensioners. Thirdly, I say to those opposite, if the honourable member who asked the question was really serious about «pension reform, what did he do for 12 years?
Today, 19 February 2009
Opposition Families spokesman Tony Abbott appears to be pulling away from supporting a payment increase for pensioners.
The Opposition has previously supported a $30 boost for single-aged pensioners, with then leader Brendan Nelson last year introducing legislation into the Parliament in a bid to force the Government's hand.
But Mr Abbott today told 2GB radio if the Government were to raise the pension in the current economic circumstances, it would amount to an "enormous hit on the revenue".
"I think something like this would need to be considered very carefully and very cautiously," he said.
"I think that at least in the short term a better way of proceeding might be to look at those pensioners who are doing it toughest, such as pensioners who don't own their own home and targeting assistance directly to them."
Tony Abbott. The gift that keeps on giving.
2) How is Bert Newton still mobile after all the chemicals he's had pumped into him?
3) How the fuck do those dodgy Channel 9 stable reprobates think they're any different from the celebs they're hanging shit on? They live in the public eye and I am sure decry the lack of privacy in their lives. Yet, there they are, with their scripted pretend off the cuff commentary about the foibles of public people. Hypocritical fuckwads.
4) How the fuck can Bert Newton chemically sneer at celebrities for their "scandals" when his own kid was convicted of partner beating?
More crap TV from Nine. Thanks Nine. Still the one ... at producing the TV equivalent of a floater.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
So Bishop (Treasury) goes Foreign Affairs, Hockey (Finance) goes Treasury, and Coonan (Foreign Affairs) goes Finance.
Is it just me, or does this sound like some sort of sketchy shell game and Turnbull is the sidewalk hustler?
Oh and adios Nelson. Despite his flaws, he was a decent man, even if the nature of the beast he suckled turned him to the dark side. He still cared about people, to the point that he got all cherry red high forehead about it in parliament when discussing little battlers stapled to the back of a Tarago.
Don't ya bet Turny wanted Costello to stick his hand up as well? Why would Costello go anywhere? He's got a sweet job, can bark like a badly trained dog ("come here, go away") and get lots of attention and is sitting on a fat pension when he wants to access it. Plus his wife is like on 300k as a banker.
Yep. Got it sweet.
Has his bio been remaindered yet? Inquiring minds want to know.
Today K and B at work were consulting the Royal Mint website. They were looking to get something from there to stick on a plaque or such like.
'Hey,' says K. 'We could get an un-circulated wombat coin.'
Un-circulated Wombat Coin.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Kung Fu Panda. Jack Black was awesomeness. Totally didn't recog Hoffman. Animation was spectacular. Decent plot.
The Pete Serafinowicz Show. First skit was gold (the ants), and the Butterfield Diet had me in stitches ("Bonbonbonbons"). No laugh track which is nice not to hear in a sketch show.
Desperate Housewives. Great as ever.
TheWife - 'Oh baby, I didn't get you anything.'
Me - 'No, no you don't understand. I can't show it to you. You see I did a shit ... and one of the bits looked like a love heart. I thought about showing it to you then decided you probably wouldn't have wanted to see it.'
TheWife - '...'
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Guys have a penis. Which look silly when stiff and slightly less silly when flopped. Girls have a vagina - which always look good, ready or not.
Only Mikey got a stuck food attack. The honey chicken was a tad shard like and should have been well chewed. But I was as hungry as all fuck and failed to heed this should have learned by now consumption technique that is medically mandated for moi.
So I went for an Oatsie, what I call my 'may be some time' where I wander around outside coughing and gobbing up spittle and food. I started in the alley way, went up behind the petrol station, then did a circuit around to the tree near the road. I had a dozen or so micro retches - nothing really coming up. The pain and pressure of the stuck food was pretty bad.
A couple of hot girls started walking towards me. I'm ashamed to admit it but even though I don't know them and will likely never ever see them again I didn't want them to see what I was doing. So I fished out my phone and pretended to text.
Finally I reached what I thought was a reasonable level of bearable discomfort and went back. I knew eating the rest of my food was a no go but I figured I could at least hang with the lads while they finished off theirs.
I coughed. Alas the cough turned into disgorging of food down onto my Falstaffian stomach. There was a great snail trail of spittle and goo covered Asian food crested on my gut which I quickly pinched off - cat vom style - but it was highly embarrassing. The lads, bless 'em were cool. In the end I had to depart for some more retching.
On the way back to the office I had to stop every 10 minutes for retching. Still the pain was there. We finally got back to their building and I went and hogged the foyer shitter for 20 minute of quality me time. In the end I pulled out a book and read it in between attempts.
I managed to bring up what I thought was the stuck piece. Well, one of them. And felt it was okay to attempt to catch the bus.
Yeah ... not a good call. It took a lot of willpower not to get off early and go heave. Because if you have something stuck nature's spittle (you drink 2-3 litres of it in a day) builds up and eventually reaches your no no place and you have to heave. I don't know how I did it but I succeeded in making it to my building's toilets - the end stall with the kewl Jesus paddles available.
Another forty minutes went past. Still felt awful. Fortunately theWife had a day off work and was nearby. She came and got me. Wisely she grabbed the plastic ring and tube travel vom thing from the boot in case I needed it.
Yeah ... I needed it.
Alas for me the ring was fine but the tube sprung a leak. So bile vom pooled onto my pants leg. Fortunately when you have a baby man you tend to pack a serious back up arsenal for these sorts of events and it was able to be padded up. We pulled over to the side of the road so I could clean.
At that point everything came up. And thank fuck too. But I'd done some damage to the inside of me and spent another 30 minutes at home on a little red chair before the toilet and partially heaving. Suspecting I was now free of the contraction I gulped down a fat glass of blue cordial.
Which was ralphed up minutes later.
It wasn't until after another two hours I was game enough to try even sipping something.
It's all good now. But for a while there I was pretty fucking miserable. And I feel a bit bad for voiding my guts on the side of the highway and leaving my punctured travel vom kit by the side of the road. I'd like to apologise to the poor community service order fucker that has to nail on a stick that into a garbo bag.
I hate these episodes. I've largely learned to be careful. But now and then, like Bart and the electrified cupcake, I don't remember this lesson and pay the price.
ZZZZZT ... ow ... ZZZZZT ... ow ... ZZZZZT.
And so forth ...
Kids, stay in school.
PS In addition to my spare undies I will now keep a spare shirt at work. Because there was a clearly identifiable vom stain from the in cafe chuck.
When a co-worker cracks a funny the polite thing to do is kind of chortle. You know ... faux laughter. It's expected.
Today I was chatting with an over the partition co-worker M. She travels a lot for work, as does her husband. She was saying how he'd picked her up from the airport, not having seen each other for weeks, and were driving home when he got a call to go to the airport and get the first plane south to assist with his org's efforts re fire aftermath.
Me - 'Far out, that sucks. They should have conjugal cubicles at the Qantas lounge.'
M - 'What, and join the hundred metre club?'
Now the unit of measurement pegged at a 100 is a little weird but for an off the cuff witticism to the cubicle thing, it was pure west.
Full credit to M. She scored a full Mikey belly bellow.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Holy fucking shit this is fucked up. Those poor, poor fucking people - esp the oldsters who lost not only all their stuff but were not insured.
I can't think or understand what it would be like to be consumed by this tragedy. All of Oz's thoughts are with you.
Follow Grods' example and ping some cash to Red Cross. If you do it online via credit card they spit you a receipt for tax within seconds. Very handy.
Good luck to everyone.
They said yes. So I fannied about with an idea, sourced some light card stock and managed to slay the beast that is determing the manual feeder tray for the combo photocopier and printer and get it done.
I signed my handiwork as it went around - typically I choose a cryptic message that is beyond the norms of 'get well' (with thanks for that idea to Phil B who in school selected his year 12 yearbook comment from a snatch of random text from a maths textbook) - and I thought nothing more of it.
Later my boss sent around a group email saying L had received the card + hamper and loved it all. Then my boss went out of his way to ping me to say the card thing was a classic.
It's been so, so long since I've had positive feedback from a manager than it's like he's speaking a different language. I feel like a grimy urchin child given bread by a well meaning Christian stranger and I'm gobbing it as fast as I can before he turns out to be yet another slum dweller abusing turd.
Except he's not. He seems to be a genuinely nice boss, whose not afraid to give constructive criticism (as opposed to nothing to your face but white anting behind your back), and praising where he feels it's needed.
It's a hell of a nice change that's for sure.
As a result I did not see the monstrously over-sized "no reason for it unless a primary producer of some kind" four wheeled land cruiser roar around the corner and pass me just as I reached the curb.
The speaker currently gracing parliamentary radio was the Vulcan she bee herself, Julie Bishop, trying in vain to express her compassion for the victims of the fires and saying that as her dad was a volunteer fiery that somehow that gave her understanding of it.
Imagine that? Imagine if the last voice I'd heard on earth was Julie fucking Bishop. I think Saint Pete himself probably would have elected to wave me back into a new bod on the strength of it.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Fuck, I heard it was bad yesterday but Jesus wept, it's a fucking Nostradamus esq fire storm.
Good luck to all those going through it. Remember, you're the most important thing. Not your stuff.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
I know I do.
I was sitting there, convinced my forgotten idea was utterly world shaking profound. Like nailed to a cross profound. A bubble of excitement rose through my pudgy bod as I neared the cusp of recollection ... and then it hit me.
My idea ... was ... to put a piece of sticky tape over the 'if lost please return' contact details sticky label I'd Cowboy X'ed across my assorted pocket carried e-devices. Because that way the label ink wouldn't rub off like it had the previous four labellings.
Yep, fucking world shaking alright. Needless to say, it was a bit of a let down on the recollection front.
Who is this Cowboy X I constantly refer to?
Why, thank you YouTube.
As you may recall I had a somewhat grabby temp supervisor last year - who at one point belly jiggled me. Yes, that's right. Belly jiggled.
As I am in a new area I needed my old 'what I did in my holidays' signed off. So I made a time with man hands.
Somewhat creepily we met in an empty wing of offices - yet to be settled by incoming staff. Just me and him. He was on the phone when he waved me to take a seat. During waiting for him to finish his mobile call, I yawned because I was tired - and a little bored I admit.
What did man hands do?
He reached out and patted my knee.
What. The. Fuck?
Unless he's been in a Pavlovian Clockwork Orange esq experiment where he was forced to watch men yawning and patted a mannikin's knee lest he suffer a mild shocking I cannot fathom how my yawning engendered a knee pat.
Anyway, all signed off. Before the meeting he said 'no worries mate, I'll tick you the highest one.'
Did he? No, second highest. There's no difference - I still get my pay raise - but still. That was weird. Why be enthused about giving me top dollar then ping me a silver instead of gold?
Bah, who am I to fathom the mind of man hands?
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The chance the cat could drop its dried fur locked dung
Or pray in its next movement it will push it out
In the end I hated the idea he'd drop that little turdlet somewhere, like the bed, so I grabbed him around the waist and with a tissue tried to pinch the turd out of his arse fur. I'm not sure if the turd was actually sphincter locked or rimmed, but either way it wasn't a pleasant task to remove.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
It went like this.
'Oh I've got a mind blank. Steve Hancock? ...Steve Hand? ...Steve Kent? ...Steve Cunt?'
I shit you not. She said Steve Cunt.
There was this horrid void of a silence as the full impact of the Steve Cunt settled on the office like the ash from a pyroclastic surge.
'Um ... ' said K. 'Clearly it's not that.'
'Indeed,' said older colleague. 'I should think not.'
I did have a minor MM of my own in the new office. I was chatting with B over the partition. He runs a generic email address where people send in queries - which I used to do in my old area.
B - 'Yeah, mostly it fills up with spam.'
Me - 'Mine too. If I'd accepted them all I'd be a triillionaire and my penis would stretch to the airport.'
I don't know why I giddily referred to my nob having taken on a characteristic one would associate with the elongation of a Mr Tickle arm. I suppose because it seemed a natural fit for the coda to that conversation.
A few seconds later, softer, I confessed I wish I'd not just raised my penis in the work area.
More. Pure. West.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Get a new toothbrush. Seriously. Sharp new bristles magically whisking away grot and mouth filth not only leaves your breath fresher, your teeth cleaner - It makes you a tiny bit happier. Like when you start a new bar of soap and you don't have to risk poor sliver control when soaping your pelvic stink sink.
Or just maybe I'm easily joyful