Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Jackson’s mother gains custody - children to live in a hyperbaric observation bubble

Santa Cruz, California; Katherine Jackson, mother of Michael Jackson, has won custody of Whacko Jackson’s three children, Prince Michael, 12, Paris, 11, and Prince Michael II, 7, the later also known as blanket for having spent the first several years of its life covered in the woolen bed clothing in order to screen him from paparazzi, aliens, monsters, bugs, superbugs, masons, freemasons, and extended members of Bubbles the Chimp’s family.

The children will be housed in a special hyperbaric observation bubble, which will consist of several linked rooms, fully accessible for viewing by staff through two way mirrors, as well as with web cams in each room covering multiple angles. The facility will have a number of staff; nurses, guards, and wranglers, in addition to which will be psychologists on hand to deal with the numerous mental disorders that will arise from living in an environment akin to a Skinner's box.

The children will also be displayed in a large public viewing chamber for 30 minutes two or three times a day, and will constantly be tested, studied, and examined with tedious records taken of everything.

‘This facility will enable Michael’s children to contribute to the upkeep of the family,’ said a spokesman. ‘Furthermore while Michael may no longer be with us, there’s like two more Michaels just growing to maturity that you can watch 24/7 through the web for a low, low price of $US24.95 per month,’ said a spokesman.

‘The children will have a limited exposure to the world outside the boundaries of the compound except for the daily rounds of tourists, who will generally be heard but not seen. Every morning they will dress together in a big bathroom, have doses of orange juice and cod-liver oil, and then have their hair Jeri-curled. Then they will say a prayer before breakfast, a gong will sound, and they will eat breakfast in the dining room. After thirty minutes, they will have to clear the table, even if they aren’t done. There are no slackers in the Jackson family. Then, they will play in the sunroom for thirty minutes, take a fifteen minute break and at nine o'clock will be their morning inspection with a Doctor,’ he added.

According to the spokesman in the evening the children will bathe before dinner and put on their pajamas. Dinner will be served at precisely six o'clock. Then, they will go into the quiet playroom to say their evening prayers. Each child will have a color and a symbol to mark what items are theirs. Michael I will have a gold face mask, Paris will have a silver statue of Michael (from his HISTORY tour), and Michael II, aka Blanket, will have a blue – the colour of his blanket – robotic baby – a reference to that time Michael dangled a an animatronic version of him over a Berlin balcony.

It is hoped up to 6,000 people per day will visit the observation galleries and the family said that ample parking will be provided.

There will also be a souvenir shop and a concession store opposite the facility, which will be known as "Neverhisland". The souvenirs available will include spoons, cups, plates, plaques, candy bars, books, postcards, battery powered moon walking dolls, and much, much more.

There will also be stones from the Neverland ranch for sale for $0.50 that are supposed to have some magical power of fertility, as Michael was very fertile, thanks to his habit of vigorously exercising the aforementioned area of his body, and didn’t need surrogacy or fancy medical intervention to breed whatsoever.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Ear infections

I have another infection. I'd forgotten that, in addition to the unpleasant discharge and pain, another enjoyable side effect is how you can hear your heart hammer a lot more loudly when your ear is gunked and swollen.

I can remember as a kid trying to sleep with the pain of an infected ear, to the point of having to sleep with the infected ear pressed against a naked hot water bottle in an effort to try and slake some of the agony.

Stupid ear infections. Grr.

Life lessons - the shower

When purchasing a shower rack, you know to stack your shampoo and assorted other bottles on, make sure to get one that has a low backing rail in addition to a high backing rail. Because that way a nearly full bottle won't slip through the gap, fall down, down, down towards the tiles only to be intercepted by a row of toes.

Fucking hell, that hurt.

When men become women

And I don't mean when you're a boy and you think it's hilarious to run up to your parents naked with your willie tucked between your legs like Buffalo Bill (the murderer not the cowboy, though I am sure BB the cowboy did this on occasion ... wearing nothing but chaps).

I mean when you're in the shower and some fucker operates a tap somewhere that's on the same plumbing network.

Every man, no matter if they're a tenor through baritone, will be cranking out some shrieking soprano screaming when that happens.

Stop at nothing - a review

Book: Quarterly Essay Issue 34 2009 - Stop at nothing the life and adventures of Malcolm Turnbull by Annabel Crabb, RRP $16.95 (try the politics section of your local bookhop)

I just finished Annabel's Crabb's excellent Quarterly Essay on Malcolm Turnbull. Alas for Annabel, Utegate somewhat undermined some of the arguments she made about Turny (
"It's not that he makes blunders; he doesn't as a rule"). But it's a cracking good read, brilliantly written, funny and informative. Totally worth consumption (I got mine as part of my Crikey package).

Favourite bit...

(Scene setting; Annabel is at a Liberal party fundraiser in 2008, the guest of honour of which is John Howard)

Unable to bear the member for Macarthur's raw grief, I glanced surreptitiously through the showbag that I'd found on my chair. It contained a teatowel, a John Howard DVD, two energy-saver light bulbs, three Ferrero Rocher chocolates, a mini-bottle of Bundaberg Rum and a copy of Gourmet Traveller's January 2006 issue - a strikingly inappropriate collection of trinkets to commemorate the departure of public life of a man like John Howard.

Me? I would have tricked that fucker out with some fake dog shit ... yes ... fake ...

Saturday, June 27, 2009

A Twilight Pure West moment

Before we start, I still cannot believe that "Fella's Gifts", the single lad store in the Tugger's Hyperdome, is selling Edward posters. Way to damage the macho brand Fellas.

A life sized stand up of that post millennial Undead Jason Priestly (kids, ask your parents), Edward, is a creature feature in my local DVD store opposite the check out counter. According to the staffers, a number of people, I suspect gay dudes and tweens through to mid 20's chicks, have pleaded to purchase it.

No sale.

Indeed, it got so ferocious the staffers worried for cardboard Edward's safety and routed him out the back until lady passions had cooled their ardour somewhat in case they did a runner* with him, presumably running out the store with Edward held under their arm like a sexy surfboard.

But he's back on deck, gazing longingly at anyone that walks by him to the Streets freezer beside, presumably to pull out a Gaytime**.

The staffers at my vid shop range in age from 10 to 20. The youngest looks like that coke bottle glasses little battler who does the Monkey in the background of one of The Wiggles music clips on Big Red Car. Recently the shop encouraged the staff to come in fancy dress. He came as the Last Samuri - his costume a bathrobe kimono. Unfortunately he didn't carry it off. Slutty schoolgirl staffer, who sometimes remains in her too tight uniform when she starts work in the late arvo, came (unsurprisingly) as Lara Croft.

Recent addition 20's staffer wasn't there on fancy dress day, but I've noticed he's gone and adopted his own element of Hollywood.

You see he's decided to style his hair the same ... as Edward from the cutout opposite him.

How he can't see that he's unconciously adopted the same sexy hair as Mr smouldering directly opposing the counter I will never know.

* I once did a runner from a Video Ezy, stealing a 3d cardboard basket with some sort of freak mutant inside (for Basketcase 2 I think). In my defence I was pissed. I also stole a Russian newspaper from the 1988 Soviet Exhibit at World Expo. Somewhat weirdly I had a Gideon's New Testament in my pocket and I spent 10 minutes prior to thieving summoning courage to go and give it to the Russian Orthodox priest that was wandering around the hall. I didn't. But it was most weird that I wanted to. Then even weirder that I impulse flogged the paper from the Ruskies and fled out the door before the KGB could get me.

** No aspersions. Despite the awkward name, and the tagline of 'It's hard to have a Gaytime on your own***', said icecream is delish and easily the best thing Streets have on offer.

*** If you're solo pleasuring yourself to a dizzying display of porn**** where the staring role matches the same sex as you I'd say that counts as a gaytime on your own.

**** Or a a pic of Edward***** - either sex.

***** Pwned.

How rude!

I got back to my car, exhausted from a rapid walk, earlier this week only to find some officious grognard had slipped a defect notice under the windscreen wiper.

I was offended! Who is he to judge the mechanical viability of my vehicle?!

The highlighted dodgy part was 1. WHEELS/TYRES. No hints as to exactly what was wrong with them. Just that the thing that was wrong was somewhere on one or more of the wheels and or tyres*.

I told theWife about it and she said it was probably that a couple of the tyres were bald. I hadn't even noticed.

I also had no idea that RTA types would Cowboy X carparks in search of early model vehicles like mine only to denigrate them with a brief snippet of do it or else demands with even less information than that found in a fucking Haiku.

So I have until early July to rectify this. Then what? Do I call them up and say 'it's fixed'. How do they know I have complied?

Inquiring minds want to know.

PS I remember in Northern Exposure how a visiting Dentist to the town mentioned that his profession had high suicide rates because people associated them with pain and weren't too warm to them on the social interaction front. What's the bet parking inspector times likewise have a hard time of it at parties when they respond with accuracy to the 'so ... what do you do?!' question.

PPS Suck shit.

*UPDATE: I re-read the defect notice. It did actually say what was wrong with the wheels/tyres. It was down the bottom of the docket. I stand corrected.

Feh on fat

Ever since my double pies incident where, despite exercise but admittedly lame eating controls I'd put on weight, I've been trying to be better about what I cram in my gob and I dialed the exercise up a notch.

So I went to the doc on an unrelated matter and, feeling saucy, decided to weigh myself.

I'd dropped a tiny amount of weight.

Grr. All that fucking effort seemingly for nought. Or is it? Is weight alone a stupid measure? I feel better - my clothes fit better and my fitness is still improving. And fitness is the big ticket health item yes? I mean you can be fat but if you're fittish then that's not all bad news yes?

I know the way men endure their excess weight, the apple gut, is apparently worse health wise for lifestyle related conditions, but I'm not sure exactly why. I guess I will need to go to that Nanny state website the teev keeps flashing at me while that dude ages and stacks on the weight as he chases his kid around.

It sucks you know. I feel like sisyphus with trying to lose weight. Rolling that big arse boulder up the hill then, watching it roll back and having to do it all over again. And I have to admit I feel the universe is unfair in that I am fat when I don't go that nuts with food and (now) at least I exercise.

But then ... look at me whining about being too fat and half the population on the planet can't get a decent feed each day.

Damn this Chateau Lafite.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Jackson funeral plans announced

Freshly dead crazed celeb Michael Jackson will be interred in a miniature Neverland, sources for Jackson's agent said.

'Michael loved his Neverland,' said the source. 'It was where all the good things in his life happened. Climbing trees, riding a carousel, water balloon fights and ... er ... miscellaneous other.'

But, that's not all. Continuing in his obsession with all things epic, inside the ranch shaped mausoleum Jackson will be placed inside one of the many sarcophagi he purchased over the last few years.

'Jackson loved Ancient Egypt, which makes sense given, like the Pharoahs, he was a living god,' said the source.

But, the mummification process will not literally be applied to the singer since his nose won't allow ready access to the scraping hooks to penetrate his brain cavity and scrape out said organ.

Instead Jackson, who was reported to have been a big fan of the original StarWars series, has elected other means to wrap up his corpse.

'Michael loved that scene where Han cut open the tonton and shoved Luke inside it, the heat from the carcass' innards keeping the proto-Jedi safe in a cocoon of steaming organs. To that end he elected to be returned, womb like, to the bosom of the fat suit he wore as a practicing Jehovah's Witness when he prosthelytized in accordance with the strictures of his faith, and wore the suit to prevent himself being recognised on his door knocks,' said the source.

Jackson will also be marinated inside the suit in Jesus juice to ensure his pickled corpse remains intact for the coming centuries.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Speaking of manners

When someone says 'Oh man, that was expensive, guess how much?!' the social compact we all enter into is to guess a low number so the teller of the tale of economic woe can get a buzz of importance from revealing a suitably high number.

Guessing a price higher than the item cost takes the gloss off the moment.

You know who you are.

PS $5 for 300 grams of seedless grapes?! What. The fuck?!

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Now that's manners

I was headed into a stall to do a one (with the determination if a following two was to also be enjoyed) when a plumber in the toilets stopped me. He wanted to check if the lav I was headed into was the broken one he'd come to fix. It wasn't. It was the one next to it.

So into the stall I went and flipped up the lid while the plumber got to work next to me in the other cubicle.

Then ... he started courtesy crooning! Yes, humming loudly to block the noise of my ablutions.

What a nice young man.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

The Hamlet of pastries

The Lattice Danish. Delish going in, not so good going down into the gut. Still when I barfed it up I did get a yummy jammy taste from the innards coating my throat on the way back out.

Oh food. I hate/love/hate/love you so.

Monday, June 22, 2009


A different type of protest is taking place on Tehran's rooftops as night falls.

Out of sight of the cameras and Iran's baton-wielding pro-government Basiji militia, a chorus of "Allahu Akbar" (God is great) rings out from residents as dark cloaks the city.

It is the action of a people who are adamant that if their vote has not been counted, their voices will still be heard from the rooftops.

Incredible stuff.

Hamper boy



... it happened again ...

Stupid bleeding foot. Now it looks like stigmata from a Sasquatch.

I've got a back brief you can't lose it

Today we were having a back brief, which seems to be a management spawned term for a meeting participant giving a synopsis of a meeting to people who were not there.

Just as the boss was firing up the BB, P saw my new pants. She remarked on them.

P - 'Are those new pants?'

Me - 'Why yes, aren't they spiffy? I feel like one of those man models that cruises around with a jacket hanging off the crook of a finger.

Then ... I stood up and kind of swished my hips side to side while lifting bending my knee slightly opposite to the swivel.

For some reason I kept going ... and the BB people kept watching me ... more swiveling and knee pronating ... more watching.

Eventually the boss, who had taken in breath prior to starting the BB, expelled an '... errr ... maybe we should start.'

I have no idea how long I was swishing my new pants covered legs around for but it must have been a good while.

I blame my previous record of having no one interested in what I was wearing unless A) it was funny looking or B) I was wearing that all brown outfit of mine that made me look like an animatronic poo ... which let's face it, is still pretty much A).

How to weird out colleagues

Come around the corner with just printed docs and rub them against your neck whilst moaning "mmmmm printer fresh".

That. Happened.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Nothing to see here, move along

Dear alien archaeologists. If you're reading this I presume the human civilisation is long gone and you're trying to make head and tail of the human race. By the way the head is where the sensory organs and brain are and the tail - well - we don't have one.

Anyway, if you are reading this there's a slim chance this is all that is left of said human race and you're going to attempt to map an entire civilisation around it.

You poor sorry silly fucks.

I am an aberrant human example. I am shorter, hairier, and fatter than typical, and live in one of the wealthiest most resource rich countries on the planet. The average human does not live as well as me - or rather have access to better resources. Indeed, if all humans had the same level of resource access as me the planet would have been much more well fucked well earlier than it was.

Which given the recent issue of The Monthly is soon for us. Eeep. Who would have thought that we could advance so quickly in so short a time and fuck everything up so much during the process? Stupid karma.

Back to business.

It must suck balls, or whatever you store your genetic material in to mix and match to another member of your species assuming, of course, you're not asexual which, let's face it, you aliens all seem to be judging from the reports of mountain folk who got taken up with perversions performed on their anuses, that I am the only record of humanity at large apart from assorted space junk. Based on me you're probably wondering why we had such a fascination with going to the toilet? What's was the deal with that foot picking thing? How is it we managed to create a complex cultural environment if we kept opening our mouths and saying stupid offensive things?

Again, I have to rienforce that I am not the usual human. Oh I don't have super powers. Though I do have double jointed little fingers which the ladies like (they don't). But you can't base an idea of (wo)man around my experiences, my live, my loves, my hates.

But that's the thing isn't it? There's no such thing as a typical human. We're all different - even beyond the basic genetic thing. Different - but on broad strokes the same with the same basic needs and wants. Macro same, micro notsame.

Anyway, keep digging. Find some other record to base humanity on. I am not the one. But if I am the one, and you try and create a picture of what I looked like, my penis was like super huge. It looked like a fucking doorsnake.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Mostly Harmless

Recently I had my mid match review. In the public service, indeed any white collar org I suspect, you have performance agreements in play. Every few months, typically six, you sit down with your boss and check your agreement. You then get given a grade and the grade given determines if you get a performance pay boost.

I hate this process. I can fully see its need, I just dislike having the spotty turned on me and a discussion about how I've gone

My boss is a proper boss. As in he gives a shit about what I do and more importantly how I go about doing it. It's a nice change - but it means I can't be coasting along in my job. Which, again is how it should be.

But the mid match review is an optional thing. It's basically half way to see how I am tracking.

I have never had one of those before. Yes, my boss cares enough to see half way how I am going.

Well ... okay is how I am going. I dropped the ball a couple of times of late and because I am a soft cock who dislikes confrontations I've let people miss deadlines to my (our) disadvantage. The boss, bless him, said it was because I was a good citizen but noted the need for me to toughen up and have clear 'too bad, bad luck, so sad' milestones that, when past, meant people missed out.

Again, he's right.

Finally, after this constructive do better advice, he said he appreciated my "quirky" humour and said he was really happy with my mucking in with social activities.

In short - it went well - even if it was constructive criticism. And I got a quirky out of it - which is the Mostly Harmless.

The other thing is unlike bosses of the past he's willing to play bad cop to my good cop when it comes to telling people off which is just awesome.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Adios Cossie

Oh yeah, I forgot. P.C, aka Petie, aka the man who never was, has announced he's going at the next election.

Can't say I loved him or anything - but you know what I would have preferred him to Howard, Costello's economic liberal rationalism and all.

It's a shame he didn't have the numbers to challenge all those years.

Lifty Shenanigans

I've been driving the old car to work because it means I don't have to get up at sparrows to catch the bus. TheWife, ever knowing of such things, bought some oil to top it up since the old engine tends to chew through it.

This morning, after five minutes trying to find the catch the the bonnet and seriously contemplating going to the interweb and looking up my car model to see if someone could tell me where the fuck it was, I indeed topped up the oil after checking the dipstick.

Without thinking I put the piece of kitchen towel I used to clean the dipstick in my jumper pocket.

Later, S and I set out on a work mission. We were in the lift. S is a young muscular guy. He's pretty good looking as well. He's also cool and funny and I don't feel the need ... to destroy him.

Anyway I went to blow my nose as the lift descended and I pulled forth from my pocket the oil stained kitchen towel. It was to hand so I blew my nose, taking in a big oily whiff as I did so.

I'm not a macho man in any shape way or form. I eat Haloumi and can't drive a manual. I enjoy rom coms. I value ladies for their opinions and so forth.

So I told S about my oily double dipped snot rag and how oil was a manly odor - because you associate it with blue collar hands on fixing stuff and whatnot.

Then ... just as the doors opened and S walked out ... I added 'so ... I guess that's what a real man smells like.'

Yeah ... there was someone waiting for the lift as we strode out.


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Wednesday, June 17, 2009

I wish I had asked why

I'm trying to deal with members of the triumvirate with politeness if I encounter them. It's hard work considering all the fucked things they did to me in a previous work life.

Today I encountered Buckwheat. We had a mutual exchange of pleasantries.

As I passed her by I then realised for some reason she had, what on first glance, appeared to be a fluoro pink toy stethoscope around her neck.

What. The Fuck?!

I could go mad trying to delve into that fetid mind swamp so it's probably good that I didn't.

Well no mistaking my slippers

Recently we upgraded our slopping round the house footwear and we tooled up with new slippers. I kept forgetting which pair was mine.

That's the first part of the info you needed to know.

Also, I have an incredibly fucked habit of ripping skin off my feet. It used to be the left one only but I broke ground on old righty about a year back and now I am ripping at both of them.

Part two.

The other day I ripped a big slip of skin off the side of ole dirty righty bastard. I bled. That happens when you pick at your feet.

Without thinking I jammed my bleeding foot in the slipper.

Yeah ... it looked like a sideways stigmata had fountained off or someone had shaken up a squeezy sauce bottle then given a squirt up it.

Still ... silver lining ... I can always tell which slippers are mine. Since mine's the pair with the fucking great bloodstain in the right one.

Maybe when Cluedo updates they could consider beating Mr Body to death with my bloody slipper?

That would be something.

UPDATE: This would also be a way kewl new Cluedo weapon... only to do it justice they'd have to expand the location cards to include the secret passage...

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Why lifts, why?!

I have a poor body image. I pretty much have had since I ballooned out to super fat like (as irony would have it) one of those poor bloated third world famine starved kids (nice one evolution to make a malnutritioned child appear bizarrely obese in that way).

I don't like mirrors as a result. My mental pic of me, kind of like a second life avatar I guess, is of someone with a normal build. But I is heavyset there's no doubt - and this is stamped home when I see myself in a mirror.

I typically take lifts when they're available - even if heading up one floor - because even though I walk 20 to 40 minutes everyday I have weak knees and a rubbery back and walking up stairs hurts.

But the flipside of this avoiding of physical discomfort is the fucking wall sized mirrors that seem to be installed in every fucking lift I go in.

What is the fucking point of the fucking mirror in the fucking lift?! Is it so people can scope out their appearance before they launch themselves into the work world? What about those people, like me, that don't want that?! Why can't I just drift through life without having to suffer what others do?!

It does not make sense. It's the fucking chewbacca defence of interior decoration.

I say yar boo sucks to lift mirrors. Cram it with walnuts Otis, Schindler and Kone.

Online training blows goats - I have proof

In the land of the public service, more and more training is delivered online. Makes sense. It's a lot cheaper and punters can do it at their work station. They can also go at their own pace, and pause it to fit in work. More and more there's mandatory training. Equity, OH&S, security etc and so forth and so on.

Today I had to do a chunk of online stuff. The time line was fairly spot on for the self paced modules, and I have to say well presented.

Then came the online assessment. You had to get five out of six right to pass the course.

It took me 36 fucking minutes to get the last question I needed to get five out of six. In the end I had to process of elimination to get the answer (multiple applicable responses and you had to match exactly the right one(s) ticked). I was yelling at the computer, calling it a fucking arsehole (in the middle of a work day) and basically having an adult tanty. Finally, I had to walk away, get some lunch, and have another crack at it. I even went into my boss to whinge about how fucked it was with the faint hope he'd just give me the answer.

He didn't. But he did give me some hints. Trouble was I was reading a whole bunch of 'well this could happen' into the answers instead of answering based just on the information given. So really I have myself to blame.

At one stage I was waving my fist ... at the monitor. That's like threatening the dummy in a ventriloquist act.

So fellow white collar types. If you have a choice between simply turning up for an hour and being marked trained by mere appearance or going the online at your desk ... just turn up.

At least you're getting out of the office.

What a beach pounder of a day.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Shut it down

I am big on non confrontations. I dislike arguments, find disagreements objectionable, and am otherwise Mr Passivity. I'd much rather turn a match up into a figure out - where both parties feel like they got something. My old librarian - the one with the moustache and respiratory issues - once called me a manipulator. I suppose she's right - I am. In the sense that I try to manipulate disagreements to take the sting out of them.

As you maybe aware, Backy McStab, the person who killed dead my chosen career stream by a malicious and evil spirited referee's report, has moved to near my door at work. I have to take a long way around to avoid seeing them. I am terrified if they engage me in conversation I will unload on them a stream of vitriol for their incredibly fucked action lo so many years past. And I admit I've had fantasy conversations where I did exactly that.

But ... what would that give me? Seriously? Momentary righteous pride ... then guilt and fear and my having to avoid that section of the building even more carefully.

Today Backy queued up behind my turn at the microwave. I saw them waiting for their turn when I returned from the lav. I admit I waited a good 20 feet away, hoping they'd walk off before the oven bipped. Luckily they did - going to the microwave on the other side. My heart was pounding at the near encounter.

I got back to my desk and as it so happened A had emailed me to ask about Backy. I got to talking about the "crime" and all that guff when A said something that was pretty spot on common sense.

'You have to let these things go or they eat at you.'

They do eat at you. I hold grudges for a long time. The bus bully that became a junkie for example - still hate him and I laughed when I found out his life went to shit.

But this doesn't accomplish much, does it? I could rage, rage against the fucked. But that would just make me angry, hot, and sad in the end.

Besides, the adage that the best revenge is living well is pretty much true. They wrote I should never be promoted - I was - without going to interview. They said I was bad at my job - but I got promoted a rank and stayed in the same job because I rawk its tasty socks off. They said I showed poor judgement - but my new boss has emailed my big boss and told him how glad he is with me being here.

So in the words of Liz Lemon when the crab started to get it off with the worm, I'm shutting this down. Backy McStab may be a piece of shit - but I am a better person than them and they were utterly wrong in what they said.

When I see them, I will be polite, maybe even smile. But that's it - because I am letting this go so it doesn't eat at me.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Aw thanks...

Hey a big thanks to those who helped me celebrate my walkiversary with some kind words, emails and the like. Meant a lot to me.

It's hard when you're a heavy set person for all your adult life then trying to change the circumstances that influence that. It's like trying to quit smoking you know. You have a few cracks at it before you get it right. Actually it's more like trying to change course of a super tanker (no pun intended). Lots of effort for seemingly imperceptible results.

Some days I fail miserably. Some days I succeed. But as long as I keep the walking up at the very least I can point to that and say 'yes, I am trying to do something.'

Nothing to see here, carry on.

But again ... thanks.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Game, set, match

For some reason I've ended up as a social function organiser. Three times now I've launched and successfully moderated gatherings in my workplace. They've been fun - annoying with putting in effort and so forth - but fun nonetheless.

At the last one I'd bought a block of Coles Tasty Cheese. It didn't get opened. So I emailed da work on the group email to inform them we had one (1) block of communal cheese that people could slice into if they needed - since, after-all, social club funds had been used to purchase it.

People did not take me up on the offer. But while that didn't happen - now people knew there was one (1) cheese in the fridge that was communal in nature.

Then, yesterday, a reminder email went out. 'Hey lads, we're on again for pay day Friday arvos. I'll even bring out the cheese.'

Again, the spectre of cheese had reared itself in the minds of the gathering.

Finally, it was time. Time to launch the joke to which I'd set up with husbanding a cheese, then telling people about said cheese. It was less than 10 minutes to go until the agreed kick off and I needed to set up.

So I stood up, surveyed the work station surrounds. Looked at my colleagues, heads down, bottoms up as they beavered on behalf of the public in their activities.

'Right then,' I said loudly. Loud enough to carry my voice over two cubicle farms in either direction.

'I'm off to cut the cheese.'

I rule intensive care.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Area wolf whistler mis-whistles

They just had the footage of the state funeral for Prof O'Brien coda the Channel 10 late news.

He was a good man according to what I have read. And to face death with such peace, resignation, and dignity is frankly incredible.

But ... I noticed, or rather heard, that under the Channel 10 fade out of the news theme some of the crowd outside noise as the coffin made its way down the steps of the church then into the hearse.

Yes ... someone wolf-whistled. Now I am anti wolf whistle at the best of times. I think it's annoying. It's especially annoying if you're standing right next to the whistler. Frankly, I think some of it is induced not from the whistler's belief in supporting the object being whistled at but rather it's a demonstration of 'hey, check this out, I can whistle.' Like they're a fucking Peacock showing their arse-feathers for the ladies.

The other means of the whistle is to indicate to the object that you in fact want to fuck them.

So ... wolf whistler at Professor O'Brien's funeral ... you clearly have some issues you need to work through.


I am a white collar worker in the traditional sense of the word. Though I don't wear a business shirt plus tie. I generally wear smart casual. Why no tie? I have a fat neck - but even if I was a skinny minny in the torso meets head department I'd still John West the tie because ties are fucking stupid and basically useless.

I do have a suit - that I bought for a formal function and I've worn maybe three times (the function, two job interviews). So given that ,I've been almost completely suitless for my working life.

The other day I was at the airport. I noticed that most of the menfolk there - it being midweek - were suit wearers. The same black suit, white shirt, tie combo. They looked like undertakers trying to be Reservoir Dogs.

I felt for them. This expectation inbuilt in their career path that they had to wear these uncomfortable clothes and have a constricted airway from the mandatory tie.

You poor dumb tie wearing bastards.

When I die, and I assuming that my lifelong dream of being snap frozen next to Walt to return as some sort of cyborg is denied, I hope that I don't get bunged in a suit.

No, PJ pants I think (girls), and maybe Stainy McStain my favourite bedwear T shirt. And perhaps my uggies on my feet. Yeah, that's the way to go!

After-all, if I'm on the big never wake up sleep, I should be dressed for the occasion.

A steamer

I was out on my vigorous constitutional in the cold, cold Canberra air and needed to go. So I ducked into a public place that was blessed with a urinal and went.

My wee steamed. I have never seen that happen before in the indoors.

How about that? A yellow steamer. Take that Cleveland!

More clothing advice

If you're heavyset, don't be wearing clothes that are too tight. About 4 pm I risked an at desk upper half change from my too tight buttoned shirt to a dodgy no collar T because of how uncomfortable I was. I don't know what was going through my head when I dressed this morning.

I hate clothes. And they hate me.

A close encounter of the shudder kind

I was power walking to the kitchen when I rounded the corner and came within two inches from bouncing off Man Hand's chest.

Given our match up in height I nearly performed a through cloth suckling.

Shudder indeed.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Took less than an hour...

Google search for HM's word of the week.

Don't try this at home...

When cleaning your teeth and your partner comes in to clean theirs shout "Let's re-enact Ghost!", step behind them then bring your toothbrush up and stick it in their mouth all the while singing Unchained Melody.

Yeah ... the ladies don't like that.

Meh, middle toes, who needs 'em?

My mum had a middle toe snickered off the other day. It'd been getting infected a lot and the docs finally acceded to her wish to excise it. Not that she needs it for balance or anything since she doesn't walk - and it means she's reduced her chances of future infections because that toe had issues with healing. Given her frequency of infection or blood poisoning she's a prime candidate to get the super bug while in hospital, so she has to be super careful.

But so far this year extra things seem to happen when she goes to hospital. She went in with a mild delirium ... and while there broke her leg. She came out. She went into hospital with an infection ... and while there lost a toe. She came out.

What's next? She go in for a headache and she gets wheeled out as a head in a jar ala Futurama?

I was going to send her a very small condolence card for her loss ... but it's probably toe soon.

Ah ha ha ha.

It's like a Turducken

Ashmarkatsen - A Mary Kate shoved inside an Ashley. Thus forming ... a whole Olsen!

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

Dead like me back - in telemovie form

If you enjoyed the short lived TV series Dead Like Me (I did - excellent show) - then you'll be pleased to know the tele-movie (warning: link has plot spoilers) made last year (I think) and out in the DVD renting places is excellent - totally worth seeing.

I only wish it was enough to resurrect the series. Anyway, keep an eye out for it. Great teev.

Advice for the sleepwear inclined

There was for a moment in recent sartorial history where the wearing of PJs as outer in the street wear was briefly popular. Not sure where I read it, but I can get why people do it (or did it). PJs are very comfie to wear.

I have a pair of recent additions to the PJ lower half stable - girl's PJ bottoms of course due to the absence of the dreaded cock hole - that are neutral in appearance. No cute teddies, no roses, no girly cartoon characters of polite chaste kissing and so forth. Plain grey - though there are little ribbons on the ankles.

The other day theWife bought forth from the freezer lemon cake-letes. As in tiny one serve cakes. Cute, and delish. But - they need ice-cream to make them super even more delish to eat. I was charged with procuring the ice-cream.

I had on the grey PJs (with undies underneath) so I figured that with a jumper to provide pockets and ward against the chill that would be protection enough. On went the uggs, out I went to Coles in my subtle girlie pants.

Yeah ... the advice. Always, always, always make sure your chosen PJ pants elastic is a snug fit. Because if you're cruising out and about and your chosen PJ pants lack the support of the drawstring, then there is the danger of the accidental nude-ing if the fit is not snug.

Fortunately, it didn't happen. But I had to keep a steady hand on the waistband keeping them at the harry high point, lest they reach the self-daking event horizon.

Monday, June 08, 2009

Junk food ads - unclean!


He's walking along and with a carefree motion rips open the easy to rip open cardboard wrapper of his toasted wrap. Next shot he's biting into the wrap - and no sign of the easy to rip off top. Inference? He chucked the top of the wrapper on the ground.


They're advertising their weird arse salad and pasta menu. They have some himbo running his hands through the sexy ingredients. Problem? No gloves hopalong.

Nice one junk food places. Littering and unhygienic preparation of food.

Saturday, June 06, 2009

It's my walkiversary

A full year of having a walk of between 20 to 40 minutes a day. I think a Q&A is called for.

Why not? Seriously, tired of being fat. People that you meet when you're waddling down the street don't see you as you. They see a caricature of you. As I've noted before, the fat are the last frontier of mockery. Doesn't matter if your fatness is genetic or lifestyle, they assume the worst. That you're weak willed. That you crave food. That you are lesser. I'm fucking tired of people seeing me that way. In the fringe dwellers camp of high school where I dwelt, along with the computer geek who wore all denim to his birthday party and that beanpole with coke glasses who leaped out from behind pillars to shout complex chemical equations at the science teacher before running arms akimbo and hooting down the corridor, I was the weird fatty rep. Girls thought I was a fuckhead - a fat fuckhead - and you could see it in their eyes - when they weren't vocalising it openly that is. The disdain for the fat. Sure, that's high school, that's a country 20 years ago. But fuck me if I don't still see it now in some people.

Any easier?
A little. I have bad knees, flat feet, and an apple gut - all of which doesn't help the walking process. Indeed my girlhood dreams of being a Ninja were denied to me because I have weird clicking bones that ring out as I foddle along. But ... yes ... easier now. My legs don't rub together as much and I can scoot up the steep bits without searing pain ripping up my body. And if I cork my back I recover a lot quicker.

Ever getting a walking high?
It's like asking a girl if she's ever had an orgasm where she says 'I think so' - which clearly means no. So in this case 'not sure'. I thought I had one once, but I think it was A) relief it was over meets B) pain killers that made the experience less painful and therefore more euphoric.

Favourite pavement crack?
The one that looks like the bottom of Victoria with a Tassie that got pushed up like it was a fighter model on a World War II strategic map display.

Favourite graffiti?
On a substation. Someone had written 'Mad cunt 4 life'. Beneath that the rejoinder was simply 'Fuckhead'.

Weirdest thing seen?
I was walking past a tennis centre. These two guys were out with the giant brushes presumably brushing up sand and leaf litter. They were dressed like waiters but with red bow ties and frilled aprons. I figured it was either a dare or they were a lovely older gay couple.

Oddest dumped rubbish?
Two bronze coloured old style oil heaters ... only the electric cords had been cut off.

Ever feel scared walking at night?
Not really. I live in a slightly down heel suburb - the sort of place where car families congregate and fuckheads ride mini bikes or dirt bikes up and down the bike path. But even walking late at night, or even early hours of the morning, I've never been scared I'd get jumped or anything.

Do you feel better for it?
Yes. Yes, I do. I feel like I'm trying to do something, even if it's just one half of the fucking Special K challenge (here's a hint ladies, don't have the Special K). But I have to say I don't enjoy doing it. It hurts much of the time.

What makes it easier?
Having something to listen to. But make sure you have a unit that has a big capacity and an FM radio so you don't get bored with one medium. Make sure you charge it up. And try and get a unit whose display can be read outside because it's extremely irritating trying to angle the player out of the sun so you can read it and keep walking.

What shits you the most?
Traffic. Every single time I plan to cross a road it seems there's a fucking car driving the fuck along. And often behind that another fucking car that's just close enough that you can't risk a speedy cross. Grrrr, that shits me so much! Fucking traffic! I hates you! (shakes fist).

Do you have to have special clobber?
No. Just walk. Seriously. I wear smart casual to work and I tend to walk after work. I don't bother changing my clothes and I wear sneakers anyway. If you're lucky enough to work in an area where you can multi-task your clothing then do it. Changing clothes is a pain. It's a break in the desire chain. If you put impedements between you and walking you will find it harder to get out there.

So a whole year eh? Ever do it when you were sick and you so just didn't want to fucking do it?
That's about 10-20% of the time I think. But, rain, cold, sore feet, twinged back, headache, blisters, all of that. So far, hasn't stopped me.

Want a medal or a chest to pin it on?
Get fucked arsehole. Don't take this one fucking accomplishment away from me. It may be a micro-achievement in the grand scheme of things but so far I haven't faltered, even when I've been in fucking agony. So take that sarcasm and stick it up your ass. I'm trying to watch my figure.

A small cherries jubilee, that's it.

Friday, June 05, 2009

In retrospect not the most sensitive text to send a preggers friend who is being induced...

"Is there any movement at your lady station?"

--- PS good luck C ---

How apt

I was cruising past the Horror section at the DVD shop when I noticed a movie that had technically been misfiled.

It was ... An Inconvenient Truth...

Thursday, June 04, 2009

To the householder

If I've been "specially selected" how is it you don't even know my name or address?

That's going into the bin unopened you direct mail fuckwad.

A dessert fox po

We had a farewell recently. They were handing around slices of cake. One of the handlers used the term "man piece" when proffering it, I think because the two girls she'd tried to foist it on had said it was too big.

Me - 'That's a bit sexist.'

Her - 'Alright then, who wants a fat piece?'

Me - 'Now that just sounds wrong. What's next? An engorged piece? A pulsating piece?'

Her - '...'

All good fun. I'm glad I work with kewl people.

Things I never suspected would be hard to do

For example, trying to push a stroller in the rain while holding an umbrella. In the end I had to kind of balance it on the handle of the stroller at a slant like a lance and twizzle the brolly so the streams of rain that were sheeting off it went either side of theNoo's legs.

It was most difficult. A right pain in the tucus. Some sort of brolly mounting clip on thing for prams and strollers is needed I think. Do they already exist?

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

It just ... sounds wrong

The Channel Seven weatherman is a stinking liar!

I was watching Seven last night and they had one of those mid-match style between ad weather reports that help make up their 55% minimum Australian content.

'Nice to see you,' he happily burbled.

Really? I don't recall you being in my fucking loungeroom, arse-hat. Unless you can actually see me, insert your TV induced faux pleasantry fair up your clacker.

Yee-ha, ride 'em cowboy

Kate McCulloch, the Lioness of Camden who almost single handedly thwarted an invasion of scholastic muzzies in her fair demesne, has taken the next almost Vulcian logical step and not only joined One Nation (they still exist?!), but she's going to stand as a candidate.

See the smh story here.

Kate is a stalwart stoic type who knows that she must suffer the slings and arrows of the nasty media and latte sipping elitists for her proud stance against reason.

"I have a feeling how the media are going to portray me as xenophobic and racist," she said.

"They will sensationalise. You have to cop it sweet.

"It doesn't worry me what they call me. I've got six kids. I know I stand for good values."

... as evidenced by her presenting an inability to understand basic contraception as a value. Perhaps she will enlighten us next time the election rolls round?

UPDATE: Maybe that retired landscape painting bald Victorian dwelling rightist occasional commentator Pasqo-whats it will try for a take two and go become her adviser?! That would be sweet.

Unfortunate encounter

I was running late for work. Bundled up against the cold, with the MP3 blaring music through firmly clamped headphones, I cruised into the break out area (where the kitchenette and tables + chairs are) to slot my diet cokes in the fridge.

Eeep. The triumvirate, who by rights should be located in the same hollowed out top half of Darth Vader's helmet the league of evil has, had conquered the area and was having some sort of meeting.

I caught a momentary glimpse of their dead and lustful eyes fall upon me before I managed to stare off to the side, jam my cokes in the fridge, then flee as fast as my fatty flat feet could take me.

Shudder. Seriously, what are the odds that the three dodgiest people I have ever worked with A) now all work in the one section and B) are geographically located within almost easy reach to me? Thank the lord there's a locked door between me and them.

What's the deal with airline peanuts?

When you live with a long haired type, on occasion, whilst soaping your groin, you will pull out a long hair from your swirling mass of soaped pubes that will keep going, and going, and going - tracting out like a magician's hankie.

How the fuck does it get down there?

I think I found a delivery system for it. On the shower rack off the shower head as I was grabbing the rope, my hand encountered a single long hair limply draped over the plastic wire of the rack like a Dali-esq melting clock. The hair clung to my hand as I bought my hand down to the soap dish to retrieve the soap. Without thinking this combo of single slender elongated strand meets soap was then introduced to the pubic hair department.

Seconds later I could feel this rogue hair between scrotum and leg and I pulled it out. And yea did it keep coming and coming and coming. The hair I mean.

So there you have it lads who live with the long haired. Mysterious long hair keeps popping its wormy head up in your lower hirsuteness? It probably came from the shower rack.