Wednesday, March 31, 2010

'Cos everyone needs good neighbours...

We live in a slightly down heel suburb. When we went looking for a house, price was a major factor. While we had a hefty deposit thanks to excellent money managing by theWife and generous family support, and a small inheritance from my awesome foster grandmother, nonetheless we had to look for something that was less than the Canberra mean.

The place we're in is small. It's anti-McMansion. But it's well laid out, and theNoo has his own room. The yard is small but neat and, thanks again to theWife and her excellent fun place design skills, it's set up as an adventure land for the noodles complete with ample shaded areas.

It even has a cubby-house.

But, like I said, It's in a slightly downheel suburb. About 20 years ago it was outskirts Canberra where working families bought new houses. Now, new suburbs ring it but many of the working families are still here. There's a fair spray of car houses - six to seven vehicles using the front lawn as a parking lot. There's a house nearby where the old alcoholic that could be seen staggering up the hill to the local club, long neck in hand, has either left or passed away and I think his house is being used as a squat. The cops keep coming around. Another family has a bunch of kids and they use their front fence-less lawn as their playground. Which means sometimes tots end up on the road.

Our street, however, is a little more gentrified. It is a cul-de-sac - there's no car families - and I believe most people are gainfully employed. But still we get the odd neighbour issues - like the disability guy who lived near us who owned attack dogs and was often so fuzzed on pain meds he couldn't hear my wife screaming when she was bailed up in the carport by his animals (fortunately he was evicted, though apart from the dogs issue, he seemed like a nice man).

But we do get the odd weird thing happen, neighbour-wise.

There's a woman, I think from our street, who hits the sauce a bit. Once, when I was on a walk, she staggered out of the dark at me and demanded a lift to Woden. I told her to take a bus and kept walking. Much later, while blotto, she knocked on the door and asked for some cigs (alas, we don't smoke).

Then, the other day, she came back. TheWife opened the door.

'Got any frozen peas,' barked drunkee. Who was, of course, drunk.

TheWife admitted we did indeed possess the aforementioned chilled legumes.

'Give us some eh?'

TheWife didn't want to just give her a packet so she hived off half a plastic Chinese take-away tub of mixed peas and corn, and gave drunkee that.

Drunkee then staggered off. We haven't seen her since.

Then, the other day, there was a knock. It was a little middle-aged Indian woman. I don't think she's from street though. She had several thinly packed shopping bags of red grapes.

'Do you have any vegetables you could exchange for these?' she asked.

I admitted we didn't grow anything. She looked into our TheNoo set up adventure land and agreed we had no active vegetable patch.

'Um I have some potatoes from Coles,' I said.

'No, no,' she said, shaking her head. 'You buy these, yes?' she said, holding up the bags.

'Er,' I said. I didn't want to, but hey if you're going door to door with sad forlorn drooping bags of red grapes then clearly you need the dosh. 'Okay, how about two bucks for a bag?'

'Okay,' she said.

I came back with the money. I had a bunch of gold and silver coins in my hand which she could see.

'Could you offer more?' she asked.

'Um ...' I said, painted into a generosity corner. 'How about three?'

'Five,' she countered.

What could I do? I was trapped. I paid out the cash and she left.

The grapes, by the way, were terrible and seed filled. Useless. They went into the compost.

Once, when we were students, we ran out of money. It was our first year in Canberra. Our flatmate called up St Vinnies and we got a food parcel. It's the only time I've ever been forced to seek outside family charity. But that food parcel tied us over until Austudy rolled back around.

But I am so lucky. I have a decent interesting job and I receive fair remuneration and enjoy excellent working conditions.

And I don't have to go door to door begging for food or selling stuff to make ends met, or because I have health issues that make it hard to manage my income.

So yeah ... my suburb may be down heel. But now and then we all struggle or have struggled. And, excuse the saying, but 'there but for the grace of god go I' has some real resonance when you actually have experienced those moments of poverty - even if it's just a glimpse or blip - forced to dip into your cheese money so named because it was a bunch of five cent coins stored in an old sandwich bag that once held cheese and still held a faint cheesy aroma.

So if drunkee comes back to bludge more veg, or lovely Indian grape seller trots by with a new offer, I dare say we will pony up again. Because that could have been us had we been unlucky enough.

To a man with a hammer everything looks like a nail

A couple of years ago I got a an address label maker for my work desk. I send out a fair chunk of mail and my handwriting is terrible. Awful. And I can type faster than I can hand write.

It took seven months to get it. I shit you not. I think about 30 emails all up were sent as part of my quest to obtain the label maker.

It proved a boon.

In government departments you have to share a printer. And, like the toilets, inevitably the printer is a fair distance from my desk.

So if I have to write notes that need to be hand read (no, not braille, I mean someone physically has to read them on a printed surface as opposed to screen), then I will print it, often font 4 to fit it in, on a label and stick the label to a post-it note and stick that to the item they need to read - which is often a form needing a sig.

The other thing I naturally did with my label maker was, like Bart in the Timmy O'Toole down the well episode where he got a label maker, was label pretty much everything that could justify having a label applied to it.

Today we had an arvo tea. I brought fantales. Given my girth my pockets tend to be comfortably roomy. Not only can I fit a 1.25 L bottle of coke in a pants pocket, I can fit a CD in a shirt pocket. So I put my fantales packet in my pocket as I was soon to be headed to the gathering.

They got a little warm in there. Not gooey warm but definitely softer than the standard fantale consistency. Which frankly is a good thing because fantales are often a little too chewy hard for my liking.

I felt however I should warn people I had the packet in my pocket.

So I printed a label.

Thigh Pocket warmed by Mikey(tm)

I stuck it to the packet.

Sadly, it meant people's uptake of my warming status identified labeled fantales was lessened.

That's being honest for you.

How to amusingly annoy your partner

A) Wait for said partner to appear wearing cute underwear.
B) Say in a cute voice 'hello, hello, hello' repeatedly.
C) Pretend it was the underwear talking and have a conversation with it.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010


When the iPod came out some users complained the Random shuffle wasn't random enough. They claimed that often a wedge of songs would be by the same artist or in the same style.

Apple naturally took this on board and redeveloped the software ... to make it less random.

You see clusters happen in nature.

When I was in 3rd year I lived in a group house. I had the only computer - a MacSE. It had a massive 20 meg hard disk. Yes, 20 meg. In addition to RISK the only other game it had on it was Solitaire. Being an arts student, and thus a procrastinator of the worst water, I'd play it a lot.

One night I failed to win 47 games in a row. I shook my fist at the gods and cursed them for my ill luck. I really did. Actually shook my fist. I think I even cried.

Just then I went through about 28 matches before I successfully lit one. The red fire agent either shredded off on the side of the box or the match head snapped off.

Clusters happen indeed. Cluster fucks that is. A big line of successive failures where you can't but help think you're cursed in some way because of the regularity of your failure.

But I have to remember. I get knocked down. I get up again. You ain't never going to keep me down.


Thursday, March 25, 2010

A weird twin set

This isn't about pearls, or indeed some sort of creepy 'come play with me' Shining-esq doll collection, this is about two different kinds of pain messages that can be experienced at the same time, messages that are inherently paradoxical.

I'm talkin' 'bout my guts, y'all.

I have IBS of the stuffed up kind. It's a rarer one, and not for me the embarrassment of never being able to fart in case it turns into a shart as per those poor runny IBS types. However, while I have avoided that particularly awkward fecal faux pas, the standard symptom for me is constipation pain.

It's akin I suppose to the female period. In that you suffer swelling, bloating, abdominal pain, and a hair-trigger temper on some occasions. Plus with IBS you also have gas - and lots of it. So much so that around our house we have cans of fragrance we can leap for when I 'thar he blows'. Much like a paranoid drug dealer may have various weapons stowed around his pad in case a client thinks to rip him off.

So there's that.

When you feel this way, you don't feel like eating much. Because the idea of dropping a bunch of matter that joins the rest like three lanes of cars scissoring to one scares you into avoiding doing so.

Trouble is ... you get hunger pains.

Yes, hunger pains. You can be stoppered up like the sink in a hairdressers yet still get the snarling gurgle of an empty tum - the pain messages from that reporting for duty from the body just above where the massive stodge of un-passed stool is currently slowly circulating through the body.

It's a weirdly uncomfortable feeling of GROWL-GURGLE-bleh-bleh-GROWL-plople etc. Hollow just above, full just below.

It's particularly awesome when this causes you to A) not sleep at night or B) wakes you at six in the morning.

I hate it. Loathe it.

And in a few weeks I have to get the snake again. And not the good Las Vegas Oral kind.

Monday, March 22, 2010

My White Whale

Moby Dick is practically unreadable. Sez me who tried to read it just the once. But you'd think it was scribed on stone and brought down from on high by some in the literary world. I guess I just don't get it.

The white whale has become a standard trope; a metaphor for that which is sought with futility. At least that's my reading of it.

I have a White Whale. Well ... a brown arse whale. In that being the bunged up IBS kind, my frequency of actually performing a bog standard (ho, ho) bowel movement is rare indeed. The last super great one was on Halloween.

Ooooo scary. Actually it was. I was at a friend's place, not feeling great, when suddenly I doubled over with a pain spasm. Recognising that my rectal system had done the equivalent of breaking my waters I staggered for the lav where upon I managed to pass what was ailing me. It looked like a normal person's movement save that someone had clicked on a diagonal corner and swept the mouse cursor upward until it had made said movement 1.9 times the size of the typical browny fare.

Then, less than a week later, I was in casualty screaming to high heaven when my back passage was digitally examined.

Today I awoke with an urgency. Feeling if I went it may be productive, I did indeed drop PJ trou ... and laid a Cleveland Steamer in the porcelain lunch box.

It made Halloween's effort look like that poor fucking midget that recently died after being hospitalised following a TV appearance.

Not literally. That would be gross. Like I'd birthed some sort of Easter chocolate dwarf. I mean size-wise ... as in smaller than today's.

I then spent most of the day with the best darn PAG I have had this millennium. I was pain free. I even managed to go later again this afternoon.

Of course the familiar gut ache has returned - not as bad - but still ... today I not only met and defeated my White Whale ... I fucked its blow hole.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

TheNoo says yes to body art

Lately I've been asking theNoo for a kiss ("NO") then a Cuddle ("NO") then a series of fives from different directions (eg High, Low, Side, 3/4 etc), which typically receive a NO!

And so it was in the car when we were coming back from the shops.

'When we get home ... can I have a kiss?'


'A cuddle?'


'A high five?'


'How about a tattoo?'

'... yeah ... let's doo dat!'


He's in a big boy bed now. We heard a squawk of dismay coming from his room so we went to check.

Yes ... he'd manage to squeeze himself between the headboard and the wall... he was standing looking at us when we walked in...

Mikey has an off-site meeting

My boss is training me with some 'holy shit, I NEVER knew about that?!' software capabilities. She said I was her grasshopper.

I mentioned this at an off-site meeting to attendees ... people who met my boss for the first time that day.


'Yeah ... my boss is training me to know more about this stuff ... I'm Darth Grasshopper ... Hey that sounds like a DJ name ... DJ Darth Grasshopper ... yeah ... sorry ... random firing neurones ... which ... incidentally was an 80's cover band I was in .... I just played tambourine .... I was the sexy bit of totty that stood at the side.'

What. The fuck?!

At that point new boss mercifully intervened with a semi-nervous laugh and said next meeting she'd bring along a gag.

Naturally I said 'Ball gag?'

Area man waist deep in hole digs another hole...

Monday, March 15, 2010

Well I didn't blub

I had the sit down today with the old boss and the new to discuss moi and my many health failings. It was a positive discussion and at the end of the day it was more about 'what can we do to help' rather than 'Mikey sucks'.

Still I dislike talking about myself and I had to cop to being on anti depressants for pain management. It made me feel like I was weak or something. Which is a dopey way to think. I guess in part because the last time I was openly candid in the workplace about health failings it cost me a job in a kewl area.

So now the new boss is officially my new boss. And to her credit she has a keen interest in how I do my job and knows more about the kind of work that I do than anyone who has ever been my boss ever. It may be interesting times; Chinese style and it should be noted that in crisis is opportunity. Or as Homer said ... a Crisertunity.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Dubbo Spec

It appeared, wraith-like, on the Monaro highway as we drove home. A beat up old white sedan - a commodore I think.

Its front passenger flicked ash from a lit cig onto the darkened highway. Its bumper was held onto the car by packing tape - artfully arrayed around the back and sides.

And the words Dubbo Spec were stuck on the rear windscreen ... in Chiller font.

Yes, Chiller font. The font developed for serial killers.

That's a fucked up car.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Ross Gittins is the devil on my shoulder

I started getting the SMH about 15 years ago on Mondays. For ... the weekly TV guide. Remember, this is before the internet was available in my house.

Then ... I started reading the actual news part.

Then I got it on weekends. And, until I had the internet on my work machine, I got the daily SMH as well.

So now, for the hard copy, I only get the weekend paper. Which makes me another small part as to why newspapers are a dying business model.

But I only ever read or use about 40%: The main paper, The Good Weekend Supplement (theWife and I do the quiz together), Spectrum, and News Review. The rest goes into recycling - either the yellow lid wheelie bin or down to the cat basket for lining the litter tray.

Lately, however, I've noticed that I've been saving the business section. Now don't get me wrong, I have little head for high finance. When I did economics in high school I lasted three weeks before I transferred to film studies because the lads there got to watch The Holy Grail.

I read the business section for one reason - Ross Gittins. Because he can actually A) write, B) writes accessibly to numpties like me, and C) is informative.

However I will never, ever, ever (Gremlins style) ever fall into that 'old people vote conservative because they have stuff now and want to defend it from hoodies' mindset.


(Raises fist in leftist salute*).

* Fun (possible) fact, the Nazi stiff armed "heil hitler" salute was adopted partially as a response the the lefty power fist (though I admit the wiki doesn't mention this). Indeed, there's a bunch of arm based action figures going wanting; Heil Hitler, Lefty Power Salute, Bangles walk like an Egyptian, Oh no - an invisible wall! Mime artist, I once caught a fish THIS BIG, Mr Burns Excellent Fingers, Shooter McGavin pistols etc. Hasbro, I want to see this hand based heroes available in my local ALDI by 2012.


Sarah and Gam have a 3d pic of their baby in utero. Check it out..


Friday, March 12, 2010


There's a moment of bliss when you sink into a bath where it's hot enough to elicit said 'ahhhh' but not so hot as to give your balls discomfort*. It's pure joy. Sure it lasts just a moment, a fleeting moment at that, but a wise man once said if you're depressed then learn to like these small moments because that's all the fuck you have now.

Anyway, I realised this week that ABC 2 now also carried The Daily Show. The Daily Show ... followed by the Colbert Report.

Ahhhh indeed. And ya bo sucks to anyone that doesn't understand just how fucking awesome that is. I suspect you're the sort of person that goes to bed at 8 in a sensible nightie**

*Not sure if this likewise applies to the girls - do ladies have to be wary of their descending flappage lest their sensitive skin folds are seared by the scalding fluids?

** I once went into a kitchen of a group house at 3am to get a drink of water. My clothes stunk from the pub and were unwearable. I was tired. All I could find was a nightie - a sensible sturdy number. And yes, a flatmate found me in the kitchen.

Makes you think...

Would a person with the surname Munchenberg be subconsciously considered to be a superior cunnilingust without the benefit of reliable metrics to prove so?

I suspect they would.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

The power of mum

Not my mum, theNoo's mum.

TheNoo has small airways on account of being small - so when chest infections happen they're worse. That's what we thought was the case ... but his breathing got laboured so into casualty we went. He had lots of ventolin, was there overnight, then for another night getting tests to see how his O2 levels were travelling. It was a fucked time to be honest and highlights included him yakking on the floor, me holding him down as he screamed blue murder to cram a mask over his face, and me being abused by some fuckwit behind me when I was doing the speed limit added to which was their dangerously swerving out from behind me to turn off ... which caused me to lose my shit and chase them honking my horn like a fucking madman as the red mist descended over me*.

Anyway, theWife stayed by his side all night with no sleep and through the next day as well. The first sleep she got was in the fold out chair next to his bed.

Of course this heroism was somewhat undermined by theNoo appearing to the casual untrained medical observer to be the un-sickest child in the hospital - with his overt healthy giggly appearance and running off down the corridors given any opportunity.

Anyway, big ups to theWife for sticking by her tiny man and getting him as comfortable as he can be given the circumstances.

*I've never done that before and I won't again. But fuck me, at that moment, I was ready to get out of the car and "remonstrate". However, when they turned off I didn't follow and kept going as I realised I was being a crazy person at that moment.
Of course real life had handed us a delish shit sandwich prior to that but that's no excuse for being everything I hate.

Saturday, March 06, 2010

That's a stretch, Coca Cola

Coke are epic advertisers. Mainly because they are convincing us of the need to imbibe their brown fluid which does not exist in nature (DISCLAIMER: I love Diet Coke - I once gave it up for like six months but then returned to my dark fizzy master).

They often have branding campaigns for the Summer, almost as if they're the world-wide sponsors of an entire season, and this recent ad for the Oz market with the giant air bottle shooting attractive 20 somethings out in the manner of a well ... you know ... is no exception.

Except... in the cut down version of the ad I've seen on The Daily Show, at the end they throw a small bolted on spruik RE the latest innovation by coke...

... which is a 600ml bottle with a grip.


Correct me if I am wrong, but isn't this the same theory beyond Malibu Stacey's counter to Lisa Lionhart...?

Lyrics made instantly funny when imagined as being shouted by Hitler

Bright eyes,
Burning like fire.
Bright eyes,
How can you close and fail
How can the light that burned so brightly
Suddenly burn so pale?
Bright eyes.

Things not to yell out mid-coitus

'I am the greatest ... I AM THE GREATEST!'

'Go Crowe, go!'

'Spud's on the job!'

Epic food fail

Supposition: That Chinese food gives me incredible gut pain the following day.

Proof: The second last time I ate Chinese I went to hospital the next day with acute gut pain. Also, right now, I am in acute pain. And er ... I ate Chinese food last night...

Assessment: Jesus fucking Christ, stop eating Chinese food already (mentally smacks self over the head with a rolled up newspaper).

PS Thai food, no problems. What's up with that?

Actual professional pwns pro-torture spinner

When a presidential administration passes on into the night, inevitably there's a rash of books from administration players that come out in its wake; memoirs, auto-biographies, biographies, and of course defensive screeds designed to absolve them of acute moral failings during their time in office.

Marc Thiessen is no exception, releasing a book titled "Courting Disaster" which claims Obama is going easy on the muzzys and he should man up and grab some electrodes.

The fact that I lived at a time on this planet through eight years of a presidency that was PRO-TORTURE still boggles the fucking mind. Honestly, when the cold war was in its dying days I genuinely thought 'well ... at least that sort of behaviour is just going to occur in those unpleasant tinpot dictatorships which will eventually pass in time.' Instead 911 proved to be the catalyst for all the horrid knuckle-dragging hang-em-high fuckwads that had been littering right wing think-tanks and waiting for their fucking time to horridly shine.

So who better to review a book about the pros of excessive interrogation than ... an interrogator. You know, a professional, as opposed to a partisan word-smith hack whose greatest exposure to danger was probably when a mentally fragile man approached his car at the lights armed with a squeegee.

Needless to say, the reviewer pwns the absolute shit out of Thiessen's rubbery justifications, including a much deserved pointing and mocking of one of the dot points in the pro column being the writings of ... Thomas Aquinus, famed biblical scholar of the middle-ages.

I can see it now. 'For didn't Jesus say 'speaketh my name bitch, and I will lay aside these irons of heat, and thou will be embraced'? Indeed, therefore we can in fact inserteth the hot rod up the infidel's jacksee.'

The Bush II administration was infested with hard core ideologues who thought the use of soft power was somehow effeminate, and that they should stomp across the globe with a legs apart stride only seen in westerns or airport stalls as used by Larry Craig. So naturally when it came time to question / interrogate they followed not the tried and tested examples of patient steady-drip of privileges / counter-ideology interrogation as successfully practiced but the knee-jerk reactions of a man armed with a trolley of car batteries, a bucket, and a box of scorpions. The damage they did is still ongoing - and will be for decades to come.

It's funny too how gung-ho these fucktards were to go to war, when so, so many of them either never served in cams, or did their best to fucking avoid doing so by joining the National Guard (Bush II) or getting several deferments due to graduate school or getting married (Cheney).

Anyway, read the review here.

This bit makes me want to stand up and salute...

Thiessen and the torture apologists mock every American soldier who has followed the rules of law and ethical warfare. He insults every interrogator who has learned to elicit information without resorting to medieval abuses. The America that I know and signed up to defend does not stand exclusively for security. It also stands for freedom, justice, and liberty. It stands for universal rights afforded to every human being (even unlawful combatants or "detained persons"). America, as Thiessen surely has written into many a presidential speech, is a beacon of light precisely because it represents the protection of basic human rights. Yet, in Courting Disaster, Thiessen thoroughly villainizes those who defend individual rights against the state (such as members of the Center for Constitutional Rights). Thiessen's ideology represents exactly what we are fighting against in the battle with Islamic extremism—the regression of human rights and the sacrifice of individual protections to the state.

Confusion says...

For some reason I end up collecting titles that come with additional add-on duties. No, I don't mean fake titles like that dude who owns 15.8% of Australia, made his own stamps, took on the tax department and claimed that his chunk of Oz was its own country, presumably on account of sheer attraction of mass, and then ran around the countryside flogging off knighthoods to daytime talk-show hosts.

I mean at work. I think it's because I have a big mouth and whine about how crappily an add-on duty is performed and so ... to shut me up ... they give me the job.

I mostly learned that lesson in the time before the long time ago (i.e. the area that traded me to the new area) when I took on an overly burdensome job that at one point had me screaming at a smirking fuckwit, that was 30 years older than me, because he wanted to charge $1300 to install a fucking powerpoint.

I got made the OH&S rep in my new section. It was kind of handed to me within two weeks of arrival. I had done it in a previous section, so I figured "why not?"

So far the job has consisted of me asking the building coord if I have to attend the six monthly walk around by the safety inspection contractor, to which they said no, and faxing forms for near hits to the relevant area in my agency. Which I've yet to even do. Still, it's on my performance agreement and when I recently signed off my achievements with some satisfaction I was able to record "met" against that line item.

What, however, being OH&S officer has allowed me to do is send pointless safety emails to the rest of the section. Pointless because they have only the briefest hint of a safety concern, much like the active ingredient in the baggie I spent my second year text book money on, and are purely a vehicle to send a chaotic semi-humorous email to work colleagues and indulge my overt narcissism about how fucking funny I am.

I get away with it because I am both jolly and fat. Little do they realise that jolly and fat people can kill - Santa in his giving away third world poorly constructed toys, and that guy who dressed up as a clown at block parties as a way to meet wayward youth whom he then killed and buried under the crawlspace of his house.

Last year, upon noticing that contractors that were doing a fit out had hung protective padded curtains on the inside walls of the middle lift, I emailed everyone the good news that if they wanted to do any Kevin Bacon style dance from Footloose, ala the scene where he threw himself against walls of stacked crates in the aforementioned movie, with the padding up they could in fact do so.

This week, I realised the inherent dangers of the following, and sent around a warning email. Once again, the subject was ... dance.

Further to my email about lift wall padding and replicating the angry dance from footloose, the following has also come to my attention.
As OH&S Officer I have to remind people that the backing music for the Conga and Limbo are markedly different. If you attempt to Limbo to the Conga theme you will instinctively want to either flick out a leg or back up, and that can cause you to topple given your body's tilt.

Thank-you for your time.

A director, let's call her M, a senior well respected person (with an admittedly a fine sense of humour), was clearly confused by this warning and sent this short reply.

From: M
Sent: Thursday, 4 March 2010
To: HM
Subject: RE: OH&S Update - musical backing of dance


... fortunately she didn't reply all.

I then confessed to her that at lunchtime, that very day, I had in fact inadvertently attempted a limbo to the conga theme and, when stepping back, had nearly fallen onto the circular meeting table and split my head open on the edge ...

Friday, March 05, 2010

Web Find - this link be the shiznay

Do kids, and their music (shakes fist), do they even still use Shiznay?

Anyhoo, someone had sent me a link to the graphic themed story on this site ages back. Then, I think this week Crikey blog spotted it after the author's run in with the SA plods.

So, one afternoon this week, I clicked through some of the most recent entries.

It got to the point where I was laughing so hard that the laughter became silent, the only sign of my reaching a perfect point in the humour-time continuum being upper body convulsions, chest shudder, and tears rolling down my face.

Kudos, David Thorne, kudos.

TheNoo agrees...

I guess he got this from daycare but lately, when we ask him if he wants to do (insert thing here), and he's up for it, he responds with '...okay, let's doo dat.'


The Daily Show pwns Fox

Yes, I know, it's a given that The Daily Show pwns FOX, as this occurs almost every broadcast, but this is an especially good pwning.

Stewart was bollocking their complete lack of journalistic balance by pointing out their "news" broadcast was as opinionated as the "opinion" shows on the 24-7 news arm of FOX.

Megyn Kelly apparently has the 12pm slot (in the "News" time period), and Stewart played a montage of her overt partisan bull-dust-in-the-eyes-courtesy-of-travelling-behind-a-cattle-truck-in-summer.

Stewart noted that FOX could be conceivably be considered balanced if, on opposing media channels, the standard fare was this...


Laminated man-hug card

In the excellent show Friends—and, yes, it was excellent—there was one ep that featured the concept of being allowed to boik up to five celebs without relationship impact, should the op present itself. Naturally Ross had his laminated, after erring and umming on who he should have on it, only to then lose out on a virtually zero chance to nail Isabella Rossilini because he ultimately dropped her pre-laminate then proceeded to run into her.

Funny fucking stuff. Okay, you had to be there.

As semi-regular punters know, I recently came out of the hugs closet and—despite a feverish love of the ladies and all their secreting parts—admitted that if I was going to be hugged by a man in some sort of caring spoon-like posish, it'd be sorta okay if that man was Daniel Craig. Indeed I labelled this non-sexual man on man close confines action as "dude spooning".

Yes, that's right. I came up with that and the etymology lies with me.

Anyway, I was thinking on my vigorous constitutional of late that if push came to shove, and there was some sort of terrorist themed situation I was caught in, or some sort of hug powered comet deflector was urgently needed to save mankind from an ESL, a machine invented by some sort of genius savant who'd really only ever wanted to be held, and I was one of only two people in the generator room and a second person was needed to power the generator, and that other person happened to be a man ... then ... well ... I'd probably be okay with adding to my dude spoon roster one Jon Hamm, aka Don Draper from the excellent series Mad Men.

Indeed, many men hold the Don Draper character up to be some sort of role model.

I suppose in a way he is. Because, like most men of my social set, he's a white collar man in a white collar world. A world where role models are thin on the ground. Because the ladies like tradies and fucking firemen for some reason—with their muscles and the saving of people and so forth—though it helps having a branding boost from their so-called shot-for-charity calendars.

So given his coolness, and his success with the ladies—both maritally and with an extra dose of super extra on the side—and instant smooth masculinity, yes, indeed a white collar role model he is. Plus he was in the Korean war, so he's got that "stone-cold" thing going for him.

Me? I'd just want to be held by him. Again, nothing rigid pressing me from behind, causing my defensive anus to go the reverse corkscrew like a duck's cloaca. But, you know, if a giant flaming rock was tumbling and turning through space, headed for earth, and this here hug powered comet deflector needed a dose of the ACDC, and it was me and Jon, well, strap yourself in big man, I'm backing in (BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP).

I wonder why I always want to be the receiver? The little spoon in a dude spooning arrangement? Amateur Armchair psychs, hit me with your views.

Mind you it would be a little weird in that Hamm is like only a year older than me. Still, I suppose we could talk about the 80s. You know, how gay George Michael was and how un-ironic it turned out that he actually did in fact dig dudes ... while ... we were ... um ... averting the comet.

So ... I guess I need to work out my other three potential spooning-if-forced-to-you-know-to-defend-the-earth possibilities, print it out, and laminate it just in case circumstances dictated its deployment.

"Oh my god, it's headed right for us, and we only have 14 hours to save the earth."

"Don't worry, HM is here"

(pulls out dude spoon card and heads for the PA).

"Paging Jon Hamm..."

Monday, March 01, 2010

Anticipation - and not the good kind

The other day my boss advised 'we need to have a talk later'. It was about my rubbery attendance.

I was shitting bricks all day, right up until close of business when the talk occurred.

The office door was closed, and the boss sat down. I was dreading this.

But instead of a spray and disappointment, he simply asked what was wrong. So it all came out. The pain, the insomnia, the impact pain laced fatigue had - all of it. And he was cool and understanding about it.

However, I really wish that had just happened - bandaid style - when he announced it instead of making me wait with the sick to the stomach dreads.

Free ball

It's a little known fact that dudes like to hang brain. Not so much the intentional covert display of testicles to the unwary, but to be naked and to have them dangling free and clear of confinement.

I guess that's why so many dudes go boxers or commando.

There is a feeling of groinal bliss when you disrobe and your scrote peels away from your leg where it stuck like those jelly plastic hands you get in show bags. This feeling of freedom down there is a blessed relief - especially if you've been a bit sweaty.

In our house, when theNoo is all tackle out, we have a little song. Which, naturally, goes to the theme of nosin' around.

Testicle free time, testicle free time - doo, doo. Testicle free time, testicle free time - doo, doo. etc.

I remember reading about a naturist cruise in the SMH. The reporter noted that there was an FAQ. One of the FAQs was 'what happens if I get an erection?'

Well, the nude cruise people explained, unintended erections happen. Their advice? Cover it with a towel.

So there you go. Interstellar hitchhikers and Naturists have something in common - the need for towels. Mind you, in hitchhikers, they had the added advantage of food in that they soaked one corner in life-sustaining nutrients that could then be sucked out in a pinch.