Sunday, August 30, 2009


I was at the photocopier copying some nerd stuff when for some reason the display changed from normal sized instructions to giant font for old people with weak eyes. I had no idea how it happened!

Then I realised. As I'd lent over my gut had pressed the button to enable big font.

Stupid overhang...

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Biggles goes to the Dentist

Actually, not Biggles, me.

The other day, whilst enjoying a reasonably delish Sweet and Sour Pork, I found a shard of what I assumed was bone in it. Tisk-tisking at the error, I wiped the shard off on my chair and kept eating.

A few seconds later I discovered that a section of tooth was missing.

Yes, the shard was mine. A slice of enamel had come away from my tooth and left a near nerve touching divot in said tooth.

It was most uncomfortable and unsettling.

So the next day I went to a Dentist. Luckily for me in walking distance of work.

Me (within a minute)

'Do you guys ever have to deal with people with really bad breath? If so you should wipe vix under your nose. That's what FBI agents do when they look at corpses.'

The double team of attractive young female dentists kind of paused at that revelation until I mumbled '... I saw that in Silence of the Lambs.'

So that's me ... bringing up a Serial Killer movie.

They had a POV forest canopy photo on the ceiling for the comfort of those looming up and so I muttered 'hey, that's like Soylent Green.'

They were young and their pop culture reference didn't extend that far.

'What's that?'

'Oh,' I said, gearing up to tell them the plot which ends with the infamous line "Soylent Green ... is people!". I faltered at that point in the telling and then ended with 'oh, just a movie.'

Finally we did talk movies and I asked if they ever got the shits with bad dentistry in movies. They said oddly that Finding Nemo was the most dentistry realistic movie they'd seen.

As we were finishing up I said they should wiki Marathon Man, which has "movies' most evil dentist in it."

Yes, a three-fer.

How they continued serving me and not ask me to leave as an el-creepy I will never know.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Pass fox pos

My pass was starting to look like an unearthed mosaic so I went and got a new one. Sometimes they just print it with the current photo but this time they let me update it.


'Man I'm glad I'm getting a new photo. The current one makes me look like a Bulgarian assassin who could crush your face with his thighs.'

WTF? Who'd let me get close enough to take them out with a between my legs head squeeze? ... I'd have to lurk Ninja style starfishing above a doorway and drop down on them ... and I simply don't have the upper body strength for that.

M. Night Shyamalan's The Last Airbender


The twist? ... it's farts.

Reviews - District 9 and G.I. Joe

District 9 - Simply stunning with intricate plotting, meticulously delivered and with top notch CGI. The use of a doco interspersed with the action combined with unlikely protagonists left me with no idea where it was headed. If it was an item of jewelery it would be the craft equivalent of a Fabergé egg.

G.I. Joe - A total cock-spank.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Hard p0rn no fun without fireworks

The territories in Australia are fucked in the arse. Why? Because, while we may get a disproportionate amount of federal funding on a per capita basis, we don't get the same benefits as a state.

For example the Feds can override our laws - which Kevin "Won't someone please think of those undergoing palliative care" Andrews did when he led the charge against the NT's euthanasia laws and when Ruddock crueled the hopes of the gay community to have a ceremony that was akin to marriage when they joined with the person they were in love with. We also get diddled on the number of Senators. Tell me how its fair that erudite, educated Canberra gets two, and backwoods mountain folk Tasmania gets 12?

One of the minor pros in the one sided pros Vs cons list was that in the ACT, A) we could get ourselves some legal hard p0rn and B) we were trusted to use fireworks in a safe and entertaining manner.

Now it's just A). And it's a Clayton's fucking A since hard p0rn can be accessed in so many other ways nowadays.

Yes, fireworks have finally been banned in the ACT. Gone are the dizzying days of odd little temporary stalls spouting like weeds in abandoned shopfronts to offer for a limited time only bags of rocketeering fun that were made in factories in the third world with appalling safety standards.

I had to grit my teeth when the triumphant presumed God bothering animal lovers came onto the radio and trilled like a polly parrot that today was a good day for animals who got a bit PTSD when the bang bangs went off one to two times a year.

It seems that the ACT govt decided that Johnny Lunchpail, aka Mr John Q Public or Citizen depending on the ad graphic, was being watched for signs of sensible improvement lo these many years in regards to the handling and appropriate date use of said fireworks, and was found wanting.

Now ... just the NT is blessed with the ability to let off bangers in one's own yard.

On my first year in Canberra for a Queen's Birthday I got drunk and let off our store of fireworks whilst still holding them in my hand - and drunkenly laughed as the parachutes flamed onto my neighbour's fortunately tiled roof. And my being in a slightly downheel suburb means enduring window pane rattling kerthumps late at night for weeks after the firework sales as yobbo fucksticks, who presumably don't have young children who have issues with explosions going off, light off their dwindling supply in a nearby park.

So ... I may have started this rant seemingly on the side of liberty and roman candles for all, but I am not. Fireworks as used by punters are annoying, they're unsafe, and yes, Johnny Lunchpail is a massive fucking twat for his inconsiderate continued use after the designated periods and frankly I am glad to see the back end of them.

Case closed.

PS I will however miss having a firework fountain showering my lawn as I enjoy seeing pics of a different kind of shower, but hey, them's the breaks...

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Exercise equipment

It's mostly a con. Sure, some dedicated types will get use out of it, but, let's face it, most of us will peter out at some point and its use becomes non.

Then ... then it becomes unusable furniture. Wait, that's not true. They do retain some usability.

They're great places to hang clothes on to dry.

We had an exercise bike that for five years sat in the dining room as a misshapen clothes horse.

Eventually we arsed it to the garage and I think we flogged it off to a relative.

One year for my birthday, as a joke, theWife got me one of those pole mounted boxing balls. It looks like an erect chupa chup. It moved house with us and sits in the end room by the window.

I have a pair of giant, Jared-esq before pants that I still wear, because I don't have many clothes and because they still fit with a belt. But, of all my clothes, it is the only thing that cannot be dried in a drier because if you do it comes out all wrinkly.

My solution?

I drape it on my boxing ball to dry*.

Oh, here is Jared news I reported earlier. And here too.

*And it still dries wrinkly. Stupid giant, Jared-esq before pants.


When I was a kid on the weekends my Dad was always off doing some sort of hands on stuff around the house. Making stuff, repairing stuff, maintaining stuff and so forth. Or gardening. Or similar pursuits.

Me? I'd watch morning teev, loved Lost in Space, then while away the hours playing with toys in the attic above the garage or reading or playing solo D&D in my room.

Now ... I'm a dad. And I realised that I am desperately unmanly.

I can barely drive a manual (as in I could in an emergency, but I'd get a mechanic to check it afterward). I know not the mystery of tools (theWife does all that stuff), I suspect I have the upper body strength of a 12 year old, and I am crippled with various other unmanly attributes.

And I stand to pass this on to him.

So ... what do I do here? Do I hire some sort of surrogate father to come in and show him tools and shit? Does it matter? Why can't he Dial a Hubby when he's older to get a light bulb changed or kill that spider that's squatting over the drain hole?

Well for one his learned unmanly behaviour will make him less attractive to his chosen preference.

I am almost crippled by my unmanliness - I shouldn't visit the same horror on him. Maybe I should go and do a Tafe course on 'Introduction to a hammer; for hitting and pulling out nails'? Or attend one of those weekend self development wildman courses where you howl at the moon and bang drums and shit ("I like Sally Field").

Anyway, I'm unmanly, and so may be my son.

Poor little bastard.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Got the Mr Whiffys

No, that's not a clever p0rn title that is a lose reference to an existing product or entertainment release (tee hee). That's my short hand for I am a tad gassy.

As regular visitors to my patch of blogspot paradise know, I suffer from IBS - Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Which is a kind of lose catch-all applied to people who crap poorly and suffer pain from gurglings and spasming of the loopy bits that always seem to be so graphically described as spilling to the ground in fantasy novels.

There are two main types of IBS victims - the squirters and the blockies. I am a blocky - in that my pain is generally constipation linked.

I take IBS support pills (purchased from a weird mini-fridge at the local chemist that has a glass door - like it's from Wonder Woman's bar), fibre supplements, and eat fibrous cereals (or porridge). It helps a bit.

But on occasion, in addition to mild to severe stomach cramping, I get crippling pain attacks that can last up to a minute. Today I have experienced three such attacks. I think it's best described as if Mola Ram missed on the heart strike and stuck his claw in your abdomen instead, spending a good while trying to pull his hand out because it got snagged on your colon.

It is breathtaking, almost literally, as you can struggle to breathe when you go through it.

If you're lucky, after that, you can pass wind and relieve some of the pain.

Lucky for you ... unlucky for the world. Because that pain wind is some of the foulest horror that can creep from the bowels ... of the damned. It's seriously eye-watering stuff. So much so that when theWife passed through a cloud I prepared earlier she actually closed her eyes to prevent tearing up.

So, here I am, high on painkillers, farting it out in tiny puffs of hell wind. And the room I am exiled to, the delish end room with its broadband computer and DVD set up Teev, heater, and lovely bookshelf to store my footskin on, is beset by the fetid foulness that is my IBS farting fury.

Geez, that sounds like a Golden era Marvel WW2 Comic series.

Anyway, theWife, bless her, came into say goodnight. As she did so, she very politely, and kindly, offered me 'a courtesy spray' of some air freshener to lessen the impact of my windy tum.

Isn't that nice? And to her credit she didn't apply wasp nest tactics where after you hose down a hive with with insect killer chemicals you run full pelt for door and slam it shut behind you.

A p0rny fox po

I am blessed to work in close conjunction with kewl people. Not only is my desk buddy a pop culture meets braniac kewl person, she plays D&D in an all girl group. Attention people that don't play, the ratio of innies to outies in D&D land is like 1:80. The fact she has a girly group is, well, statistically aberant.

Our across the way other kewl person is S. He's young and already my rank (and I've been in a while). It says a lot about his capabilities. He's also easy on the eye, and I don't mind saying, it's been noticed given the 'tee hee hee' reactions he enjoys from da ladies.

S is a legend as well. Great sense of humour, always up to Noodles Nogoods. Love him to pieces. His lates shtick is changing the auto-sig on his partner's iPhone when she's not looking so her emails have some random out of left field non-sequitur at the end.

I digress. Today I had a painful meeting. It was painful as I had experienced crap sleep. S and I had an outer involvement with the issue discussed, so we had whispered asides to each other that kept us amused and awake throughout.

Later, I had beef Rendang for lunch. Naturally, I spilled splotches on my top.

Me - to S

'It looks like I've been sprayed by a brown money shot.'

And he laughed. It was disgusting, rude, and required certain knowledge of p0rn lingus to understand.

I love working with these guys. They get me. And they make being at work fun.

That's totally random

Inner monologue

Hmmm ... that sock next to my laundry hamper. Did that just fall from the basket of clean washing? Better pick it up and give it an exploratory sniff ...

Outer monologue



The other day S was walking back from the printer. She saw me, smiled, then rubbed the paper in her hand against her neck. 'Mmmm,' she said. 'Printer fresh.'

That was my line! I'm having an effect!


This is fucking genius, and why no one has thought of this before is beyond me.

Perfumed printer toner. Why, when ink is "cooked", does it have to smell so ... so ... tonery? Why not fucking Jasmine, Lilac, or Roses?! Come on printer ink companies. Make the workplace better smelled and squirt a hint of flowery niceness into your wares.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Stupid time magazine

I read an article in Time where they said exercise does sweet fuck all for weight loss. It's all about the eating less and eating the less bad stuff.

Yeah, I knew it already. But walking is pretty much the only thing I am doing actively to get healthier.

Well, that's not entirely true. I am not gaining weight, I don't think (having chucked the scales as a mood killer), and am not binge eating anymore.

But having two fun sized* packs of M&Ms and a cafe donut in one day probably isn't helping matters.

Stupid food. What I need is that condition Patty or Selma have where they can't taste or smell anything. Then, well, you could eat dodgy protein bars and you wouldn't give a tinkers about the taste.

Still texture would probably still be a sensation you could enjoy.

Lately I have been enjoying that old standard porridge - the food, not the show starring the ampled Ronnie.

When I was a kid, during Winter, we'd have porridge most days. My parents would put oats into a slow cooker and, come morning, ready for the eating. I'd drown the fucker in milk and brown sugar - though weirdly my dad went with Golden Syrup. Apparently some Scottish types add salt - which is a WTF from me.

Uncle Toby's puts out boxes with sachets already loaded to the correct amount. All you have to do is add 1/2 a cup of milk and nuke for 90 seconds. So that's good value. Though I feel guilty for the extra packaging and so forth - it's hardly g of me is it.

Anyway, Time magazine. Thanks for once again ruining my month with your stupid facts. Why can't you do truthiness, like righties seem to enjoy, what with their 'it's a cookbook' style mob panic over the specter of public health coverage for those without private health insurance like that's available to every other person in a developed country.

Boggles the fucking mind. Dickbrains.

*Marketing genius calling a teeny serve fun sized. It's an almost Orwellian reversal.

UPDATE: Grendel has rightly pointed out that the article didn't say exercise didn't do anything. It just said that it didn't do much for most people as most people massively misjudge the exercise just performed against the delish bad food they are "entitled" to eat. Thus not only eat back the energy lost, but then some.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

You probably had to be there...

Recently had another dabble of post apocalyptic goodness D20 (Darwin's World). My character, Vagina Monologues, is a self trained doctor and surgeon.

Tonight a character returned to the party. His name? Ensign Ricky. Ricky had been left on a gurney (as his player was absent) unconscious. We returned to the outside world to claim him.

He needed a medical check up as we'd encountered infectious zombies previously and there was a concern he'd been infected while out for the count. My character decided to also give him a prostate check while at it.

Afterwards, my character sniffed his fingers.

"Turns out," said Vagina Monologues to the rest of the party. "Ensign Ricky smells good ... outside and in."

Fortunately Ensign Ricky's player didn't hear that.

Later, my character was forced to use parts of giant mutant cockroaches to patch up wounded party members during post combat surgery - the parts giving me a small modifier boost to success. Did they thank me for saving their lives with bits of bugs? They did not.


Friday, August 14, 2009

How rude!

Some blog robot came through and Cowboy X'ed my comments boxes with an ad for internet marketing.

I wonder how they did that given I have every protection on here - such as requiring a blogger account - except for word veri - which is a pain, especially given moi's fat fingers.

Cos' I admit I like getting comments. Call it validation, call it vanity, but I feel like a twat when one of the few comments I get is from a fucking blog robot.

Twice in two days

I hate being told off. I get a horrible sick in trouble feeling in my gut. It's a bad feeling to have.

Case example 1) S and I were having a loud lunchtime conversation between our desks. A colleague asked as to keep it quiet. I responded with a 'it's lunchtime' rejoinder, to which they countered with 'there's a break out area, go have it there.' The tone of the pleasantly masked anger I think was the trigger for the bad feelings that both S and I got. We then of course had a subsequent bitch by email about it.

Case example 2) I authorised someone in another office to do something in advance of clearance since I figured it would happen anyway. I told my boss. He flipped. 'No, no, NO' and proceeded to semi-tear me a new one. He too was very restrained - apart from the initial WTF?! - and what makes it worse is I actually like him as a boss. He cares about outputs and he cares how's it done. I have to admit taking the long way around to my desk so I don't pass his office cos I am worried he thinks I am shit.

Anyway, the horrid feelings of being in trouble. Twice in two days. That's fucked.

Recent FPs

I was at the local cafe and I saw the large bald goatee clad owner was cutting into a fresh tray of lasange.


'How many boyfriends have you got?'

Because ... his knife touched the bottom of the pan ... you know, as with a birthday cake...

Fortunately, he didn't hear me.

S rides a motorbike. On the ride home he was considering wearing his bike jeans over his business trousers and did an experimental donning of them at his desk.

Me, concerned at his ability to walk with two pairs of pants on...

'You won't be able to move. You'll be super stiff in the crotch.'

And yes, there was no entendre intended.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Ah nuts

Recently I had a report printed (many thousands of copies) that had been proofed by at least six people.

There was a word in it that was spelled correctly, but incorrectly used.

It should have been the word public...

Stupid spell-checker...

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

The new wanker

A while back I was watching one of those excellent Oxfam Comedy gala things. One of the stand ups asked who in the audience didn't have a mobile phone.

A few hands went up.

'You,' he said. 'Are the new wankers.'

Yes, people who think so highly of themselves they don't want to be contactable at all times. I can see that. I only really got a mobile phone once theWife got preggers (as is my recollection). I didn't really have one before. But now as a parent I guess I want to be in reach in case I am needed. Not that I can do anything, though I suppose I can be there for comfort purposes and make decision if need be.

Anyway, I (as ever) digress.

I think I am a new wanker. Why? Because I am not on Facebook.

I'm not sure what the motivation is. Maybe it's because it's yet another pressure on my time and I don't want to get sucked in. I suppose the other thing is I'd rather people come here because this is established and it's more about me as what I think than pithy updates on my domestic minutia.

Don't get me wrong. I can see the value in Facebook. For those people for whom social networking is a part of them it's a fucking boon. That and kewl mini games you can play - when Scrabble was on I can totally see how fun that was.

But ... it also encourages people from your past to crawl out into the light - like those weird bugs you find under rocks. Again, not meant to be a sledge, but we live our lives in periods of time or activity. There's Uni Mikey, School Mikey, Work Mikey, Nerd Mikey, Parent Mikey and so forth. Facebook crams these all together. It's like This is your fucking Life with the red book and smiling gimboid saying 'do you remember this voice?'. Or it's like a Pot Luck casserole.

I admit I have bad thoughts about me. Perhaps part of this rejection of social networking is because I fundamentally dislike large chunks of moi and suspect even if I did Facebook (or MySpace) that not many people would show up wanting to even bother to network with me. So maybe it is sour grapes to a certain extent.

But weirdly I love doing this. I love spewing thoughts, stupid stuff, angry rants, teary moments, dark pauses, life sparkles - all that crap - into cyberspace through here. Maybe I don't need Facebook because I prefer this semi-covert e-life where I am Blog Mikey and all those people from my other life segments can go and get well fucked if they don't know about this, or don't read it if they do. Even if it does mean only six people and a blind dachaund using speak-aloud software actually encounter it.

Anyway, in short, yes, I am the new wanker because I am not on Facebook. But, for those of you who are, if it makes you happy, gives you a joy burst, and otherwise lightens the grey of your ever diminishing life, then you go nuts girl. You take that Facebook buzz and you drive it to the next hospital, Broadway style.

Me? I'll just snipe from the sidelines and remain in the steadily sinking ship that is the blogosphere.

PS I'm not even going dignify Facebook with its own tag. Ha! Take that you kids ... and your music.

PPS I dislike how journalists strip mine people's MySpace and Facebook when they die in a newsie manner. 'Blah Blah loved his kids, music, and recently booked tickets to an exotic locale.' Hoo-fucking-ray for that. You managed to drill out another para of text without actually having to talk to anyone who knew them.

PPPS I love my blog friends. I don't know them in real life but they feel as real to me as people I do know. Does that make me a sad no talent arse-clown? Perhaps. But I wear that red nose with pride baby. Blogging rocks my tasty groove.

Arse update

It still hurts. I am sitting weird. If this keeps up I will have to get one of those inflatable rubber ring donuts people with bum grapes use.

Apparently it takes ages to heal. So I got that going for me.

After the sore arse thing happened someone gave a litany of my woe; sads, ear pain, IBS (abdominal pain), and now arse pain.

It's quite the fucking list, isn't it?

So much for trying to be healthier.

Maybe I can get a transplant like Arnie got after he got double pneumonia of the arse?

Do you come with the car?

Service industry people have to deal with customers. Even in an age of robotic or outsourced (Indian) phone labour, there's still people whose job means face to face contact.

Contact means conversation. And, since they're serving you, it means they have to laugh at your dumb arsed lame attempts at humour.

It's like a rule. I've never gone through customer service training, but I bet that rule is on a powerpoint slide somewhere in the induction package.

I had my hair cut recently. It had been a while. And I am one of those people who try to spew forth semi-amusing commentary about, well, anything.

In this case it was topical - my hair. I have a bald patch and back hair. It's a horrid combo.

My (witty) observation?

'My hair's migrating south. By the time I'm ninety it will puddle around my feet like a Hobbit'

Cue obligatory laugh from attractive short (but well styled) chemical blonde haired hairdresser.

I don't blame her for (presumed) fake laughing. I know she has to do it.

Otherwise ... well ...
cough cough tumbleweed...

Monday, August 10, 2009

Pants tuck

As a man who owns a lot of large sized shirt I tend to let them all hang out. I don't like going the tuck. Though it kind of looks like Sharon's netball skirt over trackie daks (from Kath and Kim).

Today I went the tuck in. Not sure why. Maybe my pants and belt are conducive to wearing it tucked in.

Two things I noticed.

One - I was paranoid I'd spotted the front of my pants after going the wee and didn't have the benefit of my dust ruffle to prevent that being seen.

Two - I was constantly checking my fly was done up properly.

I don't like the tuck. Back to untucked I think.

Sunday, August 09, 2009

DIY Champagne Fountain

Your partner is busy getting their stuff out of a drier. So run in with your own basket and jam it under theirs but partially staggered outwards. That way you catch clothing that would ordinarily spill onto the dirty tiles of your laundry.

Though don't sing (constantly) "champagne fountain ... champagne fountain ... champagne fountain" or that might give them the shits.

Things not to volunteer when full of salt and sugar

At my work we've instituted BYO afternoon tea for post payday Thursday (when all us commo PS'ers attach ourselves to the public's teat for a suckle).

I tend to get a tad excited at these things. There's a crowd, I'm high on foods I don't ordinarily eat, and my mouth tends to get carried away before my brain says "nay".

Case example.

"Question. If you blow your nose in a tissue and drop the tissue in the foot well of your car where the tissue hardens. Is it wrong a week later to fish around in the foot well, grab the tissue, and re-use it to blow your nose?"

Clearly what was wrong was my positing that complete non hypothetical in the first place ... it being a non hypothetical since I then readily admitted that I do that and, given there's several tissues, I simply rotate my way through them, judging which tissue gets the nose treatment based on its stiffness.


Yeah ... still watching, daddy

Recently theNoo turned two. I know, it staggers me that it's been two years.

He received as his core mum'n'dad pressie a wooden toy parking garage from Aldi that theWife had to re-sculpt with a screwdriver chisel in order to complete its construction.

He was happily playing with it and no longer seemed to be paying attention to the playschool ep I'd stuck on for him.

So I pressed stop so I could watch Insiders.

Cue howl of toddler equiv of WTF?! from across the room where theNoo was apparently not distracted.

Yep ... he's worked out he can multi-task his entertainment inputs.

Damn it.

Heh heh, Nantucket

I've lived a mostly sheltered life. I've been overseas once and before I went to a state school I'd sworn a total of nine times in my life. Indeed on my second day I got called a "prick" and was severely offended.

Now, I lay down cursin' tracks with the best of them and am a frequent dropper of the C-word. I don't blame state schools for that, but it did help being exposed to a set of peers that used swear words like other people used "and" and "the".

For years I've been aware of "the man from Nantucket", which apparently was from the 1st line of many a dirty Limerick. But I have to confess I've never heard the whole thing.

So on a whim this morning, and trusting my old pal Wiki wouldn't let me down, I went to look it up.

I wasn't disappointed.

The rude version (note - it started off clean in the popular press and soon morlock-esq degenerates degenerated it) is actually pretty hilarious.

So do your Sunday a favour and check it out.

Saturday, August 08, 2009


Lately theBoy has learned the art of saying 'Ow'. As in when he has one. He will come to one of us, most often theWife (and rightly so), and say 'Ow', then indicate the offending hurty part for a soothing kiss.

It's most cute. As indeed is almost everything he does.

I too have an Owie, though I don't want anyone to have to go through kissing it better.

I bruised my Coccyx.

It's my own fault I suppose. I went down a two story plastic slide. Only it was segmented and the joins of the slide were not completely flush. As my generously ampled arse slid down I managed to bump into the trench of this non flush segment and said owie was inficted.

Fuck me it hurts. I'm taking nurofen for it and sitting weird. I did go down the slide again, but I went on my side. Which meant I lacked control for the descent and kind of whipped around like a luge artist who fell in front of the bobsled. I didn't go again.

I wonder how long it takes for a bruised butt bone to de-bruise? I assume it's only bruised. God I hope so.

After-all, how do you plaster cast an arse?

Ha! Take that "the rain in spain". Plaster cast an arse is a much dandier line.

Thursday, August 06, 2009

He's having a go at the flowers now

I have a big dictionary. No, that's not a subtle way of adding the letters "tionary" to phonetically subconsciously tell all that I am packing a wedge of man meat (I'm not). I do actually have a big dictionary. It's "the big one that everyone left open to the page with cunt* on it" school library big.

Well, I don't own it. It's work's. But it's been with me for around eight years. On occasion, when doesn't want to play or the interweb is slow, it gets pulled out for a reference.

I forget the word we looked up but my stream of consciousness about the size of my reference tome (bignob) went something like this.

'My dictionary is so big you could kill a man with it ... or indeed a woman ... and for transgenders I'd just slam whatever dangling bits they had left over between the pages.'

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

And a big shout out to my transgender sisterbrothers. Rock on my yet-to-be-determined-identity compadres.

*At our school** we soon developed "cunning kick" as shorthand for cunt since CK was the word above CT in said oversized book.

**We also took great delight in reading out loud the entries to "Dolly Doctor" in the libary's Dolly magazines. Our librarian resolved this fun by excising said advice column before she put the mags out. What a censorious mole.

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Which is a worse look?

Naked except for shower cap or naked except for socks.

Well ... the nakedness and shower cap sock combo I expect.

Best name for a character ever

Tonight we fired up some pen and paper goodness, playing post apocalyptic D20 Modern rules. It was most fun.

I needed a name. It came to me in a flash.

Vagina Monologues.

Gold, Jerry. Gold.

Naturally of course all the other players called my character Cunt instead.

Fuckers the lot of them.

Monday, August 03, 2009

Entertainment Tonight - they ask the hard questions

This is serious. They have a report where they try to determine who died first - Michael Jackson or Farrah Fawcett.

What a pack of ghoulish chunts.

You can trust me, I'm a doctor

There's an ad on TV at the moment with an earnest cardiologist slagging off buttery goodness and claiming that only spreadables that are plant based - like canola - are the shizzle and if you do have butter you are killing your fat child.

He's a doctor. Oh, you don't have to just take his word that he is one.

You see. He also has a stethoscope.

Nice one, fucktard.

UPDATE: Oh, I see. Twinned with the above is a separate ad for ... Meadowlea, that just so happens to be the canola spread with the 65% less fat Mr I have a Stethoscope was saying you should have. Nice work Meadowlea. Thanks for saving me from the fat child that had to be buried in a piano case.

We're back!

Well that was fun, in the end. The day back was pretty much just packing up to go. TheNoo was a lot better this time around, though still didn't like being on a plane much. Thank gawd theWife was there to wrangle.

There was another delay but only 10 minutes this time.

So we made it back okay and alls well that ends well. Back to work shortly and back with el-noso against el-grindo.

And so it goes.

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Day two was fun

Yesterday is now a horrid nightmare. I have occasional flashes on the awfulness it was. But that's something for Past Mikey to endure. Present Mikey is moving on (though lessons learned for next time).

Today was most fun.

We're on a mini-break - the family spending a couple of days interstate. We have a hire car so we went to see some sights. There's a big lookout on a hill near the town we're at. So we drove up to have a squizz.

The absolute best thing we saw however was an old mate power cyclist, complete in all the Italian coffee sprayed on clobber that shows a man's moose knuckles alive and well, pumping his way up the hill.

Well done for being fifty-ish and fit. All power to him. But he had the worst plumber's crack I have ever seen. We could practically see his freckle.

Then off to the local street markets. Best street markets I have ever been too. Lots of book stalls, lots of kewl knick knacks, lots of overly colourful hucksters.

One dude had crafted robot sculptures out of wood and discarded toy parts. I innocently said 'look honey, the robots who will rule us all.' Or something along those lines.

The proprietor, who was 40ish and wearing an electric blue fake fur fez, who had a beard with downward pointing horns, then proceeded to ramble out a string of semi logical prose about robots, how they do in fact rule us, and the best way to escape one is to give it a group hug which will disrupt its image seeking software and, as it's struggling to compute, everyone legs it in separate directions. All throughout his robot manifesto, he was steadily ripping pages out of a defenceless book in a most OCD fashion.

We stopped to get fudge. It was from one of those semi pro efforts complete with a monotype corsivo font and oddly shaped cardboard tubes.

The couple who ran it, in their 30's I think, were bizarrely photogenic. She looked like a younger Catherine Keener. He looked like a brunette Shaving Ken.

Yes, a pair of bizarrely photogenic fudge purveyors.

Now, that's an album title.

I also managed to pick up the original Belgariad series for $30.

This may be fantasy literature heresy, but these books to me were better than the LOTR + others. They made me punch the air in cool bits, which saddly makes me sound even more like Bastian from Neverending Story (wo-o-ah, wo-o-ah, wo-o-ah). Alas David Eddings died recently, which is a shit because he was an awesome writer that made worlds that were to me, at the time I read them, not only believable but more appealing than the one I was in.

I think Twain said books are for people that wished they were somewhere else. I think there's a lot in that ... cough (worldofwarcraft) cough.

We also had a fridgid lunch at a nice but reasonably priced selling of food cafe, entertained by the extremely loud stylings of a South American woodwind and drum band. So loud in fact I believe their amp was turned up to 11.

Then back to the room where we chilled for theNoo's attempted sleep (FAIL!), and when that had been given up on we snuck out to maccas for a happy meal and a tilt at the local playland. I got to have my vigorous constitutional in a freezing windblown but interesting cityscape walk back.

As theNoo went sleepy land we watched War Inc.

We used to be regular movie goers and hirers of DVDs. But when theBoy came along that withered on the vine. Seeing movies and the whole sitter thing is a blue moon style operation and generally we tape teev and watch it on the weekend - or watch TV series in blocks - instead of movies. So we'd not heard of it. We bought it on impulse (since hiring was problematic).

Wow. What an awesome movie. A biting satire aping the corporate soaked occupation of Iraq. It helped to know a bit about how that shit sandwich went down to get some of the in jokes, but you need not be a war swot like me to enjoy it. Great stuff - a must see.

So here I am now. Blogging this from the top of a washer drier in the bathroom of our serviced apartment, using wifi we purchased for a buck an hour. Pretty cool stuff. No, I am not a Howard Hughes with tissue boxes on my feet. The apartment is an open room effort with a corridor kitchen joining the two halves, so I am in here trying to avoid waking people with my click clatter. I'm a loud typer - and have been abused by others for as long as I've been Hitchcock Bird pecking at a keyboard. So I am better off in here. Though I have to say laptop keyboards take some getting used to and I think when we go away next I will take along the spare keyboard and mouse for ease of use.

Back home tomorrow. With theWife here to noo wrangle, and the odds of a fuck up like yesterday's delay remote, I am sure it will be relatively smooth. It had better fucking be or the next time Branson chucks a skinny blonde in a place of water, he'll look up and see me there giving him DeNiro eye fingers.

Mikey out.