Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Broadcast e-news

At my org we occasionally get broadcast emails to all members of our office building, or corro from head honchos explaining the latest re-org and so forth.

They're mildly irritating.

For building wide ones it's usually reminders that the emergency system is being tested or "attention YCR-567 your lights are on."

Sometimes some fuckwit "replies all" moaning about why he's getting these messages. Seriously. Complains to everyone who got a broadcast email about getting a broadcast email.

Today I heard of a classic attention everyone email.

It was reporting a lost and found from the ladies toilets.

And found in the ladies was ... a coin purse.

Tee hee. Coin purse.

Glad no one replied all and said 'What did you expect to find? A plate of meat and two veg?'

(with thanks to M for the nose news).

Winter meet car

We have two cars. Our lovely leased vehicle that we pay a shedload for each fortnight. And the shitty white beast that used to be the family car that drinks oil and where the AC no longer works.

The good car gets the carport. The shitbox the uncovered carpark next to it.

When I got home last night I knew, I knew I should get some cardboard out and put it on the windscreen of the shitbox to prevent frost.

Did I?

I did not.

So this morning I spent 10 minutes de-icing the fcker.

In Arthurian mythos there’s this King that has a questing beast.

He’s doomed to chase it.

The side mirror to my car is my questing beast.

I remembered – I REMEMBERED – to de-ice it on the morning scrape so that I wouldn’t have to do that whilst driving and fill the car with a bloom of air more frigid than a distressed penguin.

With the car relatively de-iced I headed off. As I drove along I looked in the side mirror to check for traffic on my right.

In my de-icing it turns out I'd clicked the side mirror downward and now all I could see was the road surface at the right side of my car. I had to do the stupid wind window down and car interior frigid air fill maneuver after-all.

Then when I got to work and got out I discovered it was even colder and put me in mind of the experession 'as cold as a witch's tit'.

According to Mark Steel successful comedians recycle material.

So with that in mind ... see the following previous blog post.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Coles Master Chef FAIL

I don't watch Master Chef. Indeed I try and avoid most "reality" TV where possible - which as irony would have it - is rarely real.

If you don't watch Master Chef then you may be unaware that Coles is the prime sponsor and ads and product placement for the ubermench of Supermarkets Oz style litter the program like spilled salt.

Coles have even gone so far as to have some of their staff at the checkouts wearing the official aprons.

Here's an image I found on the web (so not mine).

When I saw a poor check-out chickling wearing one I pointed and laughed.

'I can't believe they make you wear that,' I said.

She agreed.

'Yeah,' she said. 'At least it's a thicker apron. Though they make us take them off if we have a break.'

'Why?' I asked.

'So they don't get dirty,' she said.


Steam Punked

Holy snapping cats it's cold here in Canberra.

I made the mistake of hitting my electric window button two hundred metres out from the pass reader and enveloped myself and the car interior in air frostier than an upset nun. It numbed my mo.

Still shivering as I closed in on my office I noticed an unusual figure. A man, in a coat, hands deep in pockets, a hat, and scarf wrapped several times around his head. Inserted in the middle of the face shielding scarf was a pair of sunglasses.

Yes ... it was the invisible man.

He was maybe a half dozen steps ahead of me and got through the barriers before I did.

He got in the centre lift and as I got near the doors ... they closed.

He'd thumbed the doors shut control button.


Left: Artist's impression of "the incident".

I tell you, the power of invisibility has clearly gone to his transparent head if he thinks he can void societal norms of behaviour.

The only justice I have is that his antics will be limited to the building as it's too cold for him to nud up and cavort outside.

What an invisible A-hole.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Och mon that's cojones

Why do Scotsman wear kilts? Because their balls are too big for their pants.

When I was a kid I loved war. It was fantastic. I had a folder of magazine cuttings of guns and other military tat - mostly taken from my parents' National Geographics. My fave toy was a piece of wood my dad jig-sawed into a gun shape then painted black. I even had a mini NATO style uniform.

While theWife was away I got to load up on lad DVDs she wouldn't watch in a pink fit. She doesn't like war themed stuff - she cried during the D-Day landing scenes of Saving Private Ryan.

I decided to mass-watch Band of Brothers, having missed it when it was screened free to air.

Now I like Call of Duty style games, I think I have four of them for the PC, and I get the shakes if I play them for too long. But I think Band of Brothers has officially cured the last vestiges of my lingering war-love from when I was a kid. Basically you follow a group of men in a single paratroop company from training through to the end of the war. You see the danger, the privation, the grim determination to succeed and the sheer love they had for each other and their wrenching pain when a friend was badly injured or killed. At one point a beloved Lieutenant ends up pulled from the front - ostensibly for trench foot but mainly because of severe psychological shock from seeing his friends blown apart.

War is not fantastic it turns out.

When I watch DVDs by myself I have this weird habit of pausing every five minutes or so for a bit of a break, checking what's on the TV, or looking something up online about what I am watching. Given Band of Brothers got their intro to combat in D-Day, I looked up the Normandy Landings.

Wowsers. That's some fucked up shit.

Then I came across the section on the Sword beach landing.

1st Special Service Brigade, under the command of Brigadier The Lord Lovat DSO, MC, went ashore in the second wave led by No.4 Commando with the two French Troops first, as agreed amongst themselves. The 1st Special Service Brigade's landing is famous for having been led by Piper Bill Millin.

Turns out that the British Army had largely moved combat pipers to the rear, but Lord Lovat - who was younger than me and a Brigadier when leading his men on D-Day - decided to bring his piper with him. This dude - admittedly in pants and not a kilt given he had to jump into the water - actually marched up the beach under fire playing the bag-pipes.

If you go to Millin's wiki there's a link to his first hand account of the day. I wonder if he took requests?

How about ... It's a long way to the top when you're under German fire...?

Anyway, that's a set of balls on that guy.

The noodles has a Loony Tunes name

One of the running jokes in Road Runner was the protagonist's pseudo-latin name, with the toon frozen while they were in mid-leap and the name appearing above them. Wile E Coyote was for example Carnivorous vulgaris. Road Runner was Acceleratii incredibus. The names would often change.

TheNoo's pseudo-latin name is Rowdius Interruptus.

The name for newspapers in our house is 'Rowdies'. It came from the Simpsons' episode where Homer was accused of pinching the bum of the babysitter - proven innocent when Willie came forward with a filmed-from-the-bushes voyeuristic video that showed Homer was just retrieving the Gummy Venus de Milo that was stuck to her arse. At the end of the episode the tabloid TV show, who'd turned their sights on Homer, went after Willie ... calling him Rowdy Roddy Peeper (a pun on a Scottish themed wrestler Rowdy Roddy Piper). Peeper sounded like papers. Hence Rowdies.

Glad I cleared that up.

I like to read papers on the floor, stretched out, lying on my stomach. That way I don't have to suffer the irrits of managing the pages - avoiding page fall out and that annoying page-turn fail where it suffers a crinkle.

As a baby, when he was crawling, theNoo liked nothing more than to fast leopard crawl across the lounge-room carpet and over my paper. He'd grin up at me with his wet pink mouth, his shy tombstone teeth just peeking up from his gums.

I think he learned to do this from the cats.

When he was pulling himself up to walk holding onto the furniture, he'd get near the paper then flop on it.

As a walking boy he likes to run over them.

Today he augmented his fun.

TheWife got him a cheap toy stroller from Toys R Us. He likes to fill it with toys then speed it down to the other end of the house, turn, then come back again.

Today he discovered the joy of rolling the pram across the top of my paper. He'd park it, laugh at me, zoom up to the sliding door, spin, then come back for some more.

When he's older I half expect he will try for a Tom Cruise Mission Impossible style from the ceiling crawlspace dangle...

Bailed up for a phone and a smoke

I was nearly finished with my daily walk when I decided to take a different route into our cul-de-sac. We have three. The road - obviously - and two between houses walk paths.

The path I took went past the old mate's house. He was this lumbering elderly thick glasses presumed alcoholic that I would see meandering up the hill, VB longneck in hand, headed for I guess either the local club or tavern. I assumed he died recently when I no longer saw him and a large skip appeared outside of his house.

As I went past his house a woman emerged. Older, missing most of her teeth, a rollie cig burning thin in between two fingers.

'You got a phone?' she barked.

I did. I said yes.

'Can I use it?'

'Um,' I said. 'Do you need to call someone?'

(which was a dumb thing to stay but I guess I was putting off the inevitable of handing over my phone).

'Yeah, me friend.'

As she dialed she asked if I smoked. I said no. I presume that was so asked so she could hit me up for some cigs ... perhaps she forgot she was already smoking one. Hey, I do that with diet coke sometimes - have more than one can on the go - so who am I to criticize?

She tried twice but failed to get through. She also confirmed that was the old mate's house and yep he was dead.

She handed the phone back and we parted. As we left I couldn't help notice that on the front lawn, one end battered and lifted up, was what appeared to be a brass funeral urn.

TheWife confirmed she's the lady that staggers around seeking cigs now and then. She's had to tell her a few times now that we don't smoke.

Poor thing. Missing teeth, hitting people up for smokes, clearly half cut etc. I wonder why she doesn't ask the other person who lives with her? He's not hard up for cash. He has a brand new looking hotted up silver grunty sedan replete with custom rims.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Wimped out on a formal dinner

I got invited to a formal dinner that would have been attended by very senior work types as well as the odd sprinkle of pollies. Frankly it was a pity invite - though I appreciated it - and likely only because I am the group's point person in my government organ for reports.

It was a dinner suit required formal wear event.

I don't have one. I have a normal suit I've worn a half dozen times - and I took that to work, draped over the back seat of the car, fully intending on donning it and attending. Though I was nervous I would be singled out - Happy Feet style - because of my tan appearance amongst a sea of black.

But I didn't feel great and formal dinners where I get seated next to people I don't know tend to freak me out.

So I bailed. I sent my boss+++ an email and asked him to give my apologies.

I said I'd be his wingman at a future event.

Then ... for some reason I felt it needed an extra zing to the ending of that email.

Or I could open for you at your next event "... 12 inch pianist. Ladies and gentlemen, Boss(plusplusplus)!"

You know what? I think that last line wasn't needed after-all.

It's a walk off ... it's a walk off

Before we start - a public service announcement. You can see the famous "walk off" Zoolander scene replicated in lego form on YouTube.

Notice I didn't say "here" and put the URL under that. Apparently that's a neddy no for scanread devices. Although it's a link to a video whose humour is derived from the visual so it's still a shitty thing to do.

On with the talk.

My undies are starting to fail.

Perhaps its the duration of service? Perhaps the elastic has sagged from overstretch? But the lads I regularly don are frayed and holed. In a couple the gusset has torn free from the moorings and disappeared - and if I don't wipe well this threatens potential skiddies on my pants.

Because I Harry High then the failing undies have a tendency to drift ... below making for an uncomfortable wearing experience of a taut pants rim around my belly button yet a sagging stomach overhanging underpants beneath.

I rectify this when possible.

Alas it means slipping my hand into my daks, reaching downward, and internally puling my undies back into place. I look like Zoolander when he's attempting the ultimate walk-off move.

The other day I was walking along when the undies drifted away again. Without thinking I got in there to pull them back up. This turned out to be a bit of a struggle. The five second manuever turned into a twenty second disturbing display.

As I looked up I saw the overly attractive twenty nothing PA staring up at me from her desk. This is the same PA I nearly chest bumped over when I came around a corner - she only comes up to my nose - when I was singing 'Hitler, he's only got one ball!'

I thank the stars I was at the whistle bit when it happened.

A momentous day

Well JG is our new PM.

Long may she reign. Of course I say that as a paid up member of the ALP. I think we would have won with Rudd - and I was proud to be in a party with him at the head - a man unburdened by factional crap to get there, and from all accounts an intelligent leader. Save perhaps for a tendency to micromanage in person or by adviser proxy. But the Rubicon has been crossed by a ruby headed lass and therefore the die is cast. Let's see how it goes.

When ex-Princess Di was killed in a car accident, I phoned a friend about it. When she answered I shouted 'Di and Dodi dead; driver drunk' in my best Fleet street headline impression.

Well I'm an older man now. Dare I say more respectful, more understanding of people's distress.

But I will say this.

Rudd Ranga-Rolled.

That is all.

PS I was e-chattin' to a friend about it all and I did wonder if, when Gillard gets her first PM laced interview with the ABC's head ranga -, Kezzer O'Brien himself - whether they might not be able to help themselves and end up in a passionate lock lipped kiss. I did worry however that should JG pull back she might rip from Kezzer's face his papyrus like skin and it end up hanging from her thin lips like a half eaten flesh napkin. Let's hope that gets avoided.

UPDATE: I just watched Kerry O'Brien give tonight's 730 report intro - and he's going to talk to her (I presume) live! Kezzer noted dryly that not only was she the first woman prime minister ... but likely the first red-headed PM as well. Oh how I wish I wish he'd said ranga instead.

UPDATE2: I wish the media would stop fucking showing Rudd crying. He only lost it a little bit. We don't have to see a multiple replay at all camera angles. Give him some fucking space.

UPDATE3: I got home about 6pm. I was super hungry so started dinner the moment I walked in the door. I wanted to know more about the latest so I turned on Channel 7 news so I could hear it as I cooked.

I rarely watch commercial news. ABC, SBS and internet-read newspapers like the SMH fill my newsie needs. So it was a rare event. It reminded me just how professional, skilled, and balanced those sources are compared to the pastiche of excrement Channel 7's effort was - naked editorializing, sensationalized self-determined perceived failings of the Rudd government and overly emotive language. Let alone a bizarre vox-pop of voters from the state - the state mind you - electorate of Penrith where they ran a shame roll of people booing Rudd. It was a pathetic waste of time and effort. Unbelievable.

UPDATE4: I will miss Lindsay Tanner. He's a good egg.

UPDATE5: No live 730 report interview. I'm guessing they couldn't control their throbbing red-headed fueled passions and were worried someone would turn the fire extinguisher on them to take the "heat" out. I note too that PM scored a belly laugh from Kezzer when she said it was 'a good day for red-heads'.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010


I was at the movies and, unlike I usually do when I get home, failed to scan SMH or ABC when I got in. Then I checked my phone and saw some SMSes from friends and theWife RE Rudd.

Jesus. A leadership spill in the ALP!

Interesting times.

But, like I said when it was the Bees Knees Kim "Bomber" Beasley Vs the intrepid Belgian boy reporter, either one is a win win for me.

May the best person win!

Now that's a word veri

I've been a bit slack with keeping up with people's blogs of late. Hell, not updating this as often as I used to. But I am resolved to be better about being a proper blogger and not only produce rarely read content but actually enjoy - and I do - the produce of my fellow bloggers. Who are still sticking to the blog medium despite blogging being the social networking medium equivalent of using a Commodore 64.

Anyway, I had a look at Pat's blog tonight. His last post was Feb this year. He had a delish looking meal advertised on his last post.

I commented.

Pat has word verification on his blog.

Tonight, the word in question was ... tatlybe

I declare that to be the best word veri ever.

Ah friend foods

When I was a kid I had a bunch of friends. I even had a best friend where I would stay over at his house. It was an innocent time of dappled leaves, carefree play, and the like.

Then, because I was proving to be a problematic attention seeker according to teachers (apparently), my parents took me out of my idyllic state school where all my friends were and moved me to the all boys private school. There I had no real friends for ages, got acute depression (I was counseled for it by someone who later went to jail for molesting a patient), was bullied and otherwise had a crappy time of it*. I also lost all my old friends and when I eventually moved to a state high school where a lot of those former state primary school friends had gone I was mostly broken and unable to connect with anyone for the longest time. And my former best friend was basically just an acquaintance. That happens when you were besties in year four and don't really hang out again until year nine.

But before all this shitty crap happened to me courtesy - I think - of an ill advised decision to wrench me from safe surrounds and throw me in a Dickensian fucking hell hole of an educational environment - replete with beatings from bullying prefects - my best friend and I got on famously. I loved going around to his house and hanging out. Hell, he even had one of the first video game consoles where you used a cabled 'light gun' to shoot at squares on the screen!

He also had fruit loops.

My parents - being sugar is evil, no soft drink for you, no TV after the news (unless you're my younger brother who at one point got to have the spare black and white TV in his room by dint of conquest - he simply removed it from the guest room one day) types - frowned upon fruit loops. So when I went to my friend's place I ate as many fucking fruit loops as I could get my still svelte hands on.

I also remember going to another friend's place and having warm milk on my weetabix. What a revelation!

I was chatting with L today about how when you went around to friends places you got to experience new culinary delights - or forbidden foods such as fruit loops - and L made me feel better about my food fails of late.

'I had a friend like that,' she said. 'When we went around to her house after school, for afternoon tea we would have have ... brown sugar sandwiches.'

Yes, white-bread, butter, and brown sugar.


As the song says. A friend in need's a friend indeed.

But a friend with brown sugar sandwiches is better.

* My new teacher at the private school was Northern Irish. When at the state school I'd used her garden as a short cut and I got caught. While she was berating me in front of her disturbingly looking like Prince Charles kids I legged it. I think she remembered this when I changed schools. She had a temper. She once pulled me out of class by my ear, tearing it and leaving me to bleed over my collar. Because she was Irish and my parents were brits, they formed a nub of an expat community in town and became friends. Great. Ear tearer came to my house. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Squeezin' the beard

At my work our area recently embraced a new administration system. There have been some teething problems but, by and large, once this system is up and running it will be a marked improvement on the old way we did business.

L, my desk buddy, alas encountered one of these teething issues. Awake since five am, with a sudden massive unexpected influx of recent work, she was a tad frazzled. Just as L was about to finalise a grueling document the new admin system decided fritz.

'FUCK (THE NEW ADMIN SYSTEM)' L yelled at near the top of her voice - and she's an amateur songstress so she knows how to project. Various peeps gophered up from their seats to peer over partitions and a ripple of laughter spread like a pond impact circle at her passionate denunciation.

Fair enough too.

P, who I did my recent stripper dance to, is on loan to us. He's the sorry soul in charge of responding to these problems and to teach us how to rectify them when they occur. P is proudly hairy, with an arse long pony tail and long scraggly Cat Weasel beard.

S and I laughed that P would take L's scream of fury to heart and start crying. I said that the tears may be so fulsome that he may even be forced to clean up the last sorry drips that ran free into his beard by squeezing them out into the bin.

That's where squeezin' the beard comes in.

I was on the way out of a session of The A Team - a cartoonish yet enjoyable rape of physics made yet more memorable by the lady down the front silently wafting up a hideous fart in the third act - when I passed the newsagents.

There on the wall was an A3 poster, angled slightly for dramatic effect, of the cover of the July edition of Ralph Magazine.

Ralph, as you may be aware, is on the way out. Falling purchases have sounded a death knell for this once "fine" bastion of ladish wants and needs.

On the cover is Clare Werbeloff. Clare got a heart attack monitor ping amount of time on the nation's consciousness for running up to a news reporter after an apparent nightclub precinct shooting and making up a bunch of crap - replete with sound effects and ethnic slurs - which the newsies took as gospel. It was not. Unfortunately her 'Chk Chk Boom' shooting impersonation became the Ozzer equiv of Bart's 'I didn't do it', including mentions in parliament ... just like Diamond Joe Quimby ("er .. um ... er ... I ... didn't do it...)

In this last edition of Ralph ... she gets her tits out. Nice. She enters the spank bank of men too scared to buy p0rn.

Talk about squeezin' the beard ... for both of them.

Mikey signs a card

My work is big on over-sized cards and a nice gift to people who've done their time at the galley-benches (workstations) and are now moving on. That's kewl. A workplace is good where people give a shit enough to organise activities, cards, gifts, and all that other stuff. It makes it a better place to be.

The trouble is, as wordy a man as I am, I struggle with what to say. Sometimes I draw a cartoon of myself and say something midly normal like 'stay golden'. Lately I've been simply saying something about their name.

On one card I wrote If your name was a palindrome it would be (reversed name).

Nice and anti-factual, as a palindrome is a word that reads the same forwards and backwards and his name did not have that functionality.

Recently we had a Mark leave. I wrote this.

When I think of you I shall always remember "of the beast".

I was so proud of that I went and showed S, who escaped the confines of a rather strict Christian sect some years back. So I know if I drop bible references he will not only get them but even explain to me what they mean.

When Christian sect people go door to door they take notes of what was said, where the person was fitting in the spectrum of the likely converted and all of that. That way they build upon past contact.

S said he also took notes ... of where the nice old ladies were who offered cake and cordial.


64 slices of American cheese

At work my workstation tends to look like the white-collar equivalent of downtown Grozny. Piles of papery rubble, various objet d'art produced by theNoo, stacks of course notes from IT courses undertaken, and jagged ridged magazine mesas wedged in straining holders.

I also have a scattered light flotsam under my workstation of sprung-off bull dog clips, paper clips, pens, and the occasional plastic fork.

It’s not a good look.

This messy mentality has intruded on to how I consume my food. I have a much chipped Chinese food bowl and a solid blue plastic camping fork. If I go the reheat then I like to nuke the last 30 seconds in the bowl because it’s not too hot to hold the food that way.

When I finish with the bowl I fill it with hot soapy water to soak and come back later that arvo to finish the cleaning.

Only sometimes I forget to do that.

The other day I decided, no. This is wrong. Do not leave it to soak. Do it now! Clean it now! So I did and, so proud was I, I then emailed the rest of the team to brag that I now met basic hygienic kitchenette practices.

Then … I forgot again. This time it was a cheesy Mediterranean spirals dish – a re-heat from the previous day as I’d purchased the large size, ate half, and kept the rest for the next day.

The next day being a Friday.

So Friday lunchtime I ate my Mediterranean spirals remnants, filled up the bowl with hot soapy water, and planned to finish cleaning before I went home.

For the weekend.

Come Monday it was still there. When the outraged L pointed at the travesty that was my cheesy left out for 48 hours dirty bowl I could smell the rot from three metres away.

Epic fail – and after I’d expressly announced my future ambition to always wash my bowl afterwards there and then.

Today I had a cabonara from the café. When I’d purchased the spirals the previous week they’d kindly augmented it with some shredded cheese from the ingredient tubs at the sandwich bar. I wanted to do this again with this fresh pasta experience – only there was no shredded cheese.

However they did have cheese slices.

So I left the café with my cab, over the top of which, and locked in a kissing embrace with the lid above, was a slice of slowly melting cheese.

I showed everyone at work what a golden god I was for my successful cheese draping.

Cheese; is there anything it can’t improve?

PS I wrote the above about two hours ago. Now my guts hurt. Bastard cheese! Oh ... I can't stay mad at you, come here...

Sunday, June 20, 2010

What an age we live in

I am in bed blogging from my laptop. This may not seem a big deal to you kids and your music but when I was a lad of about 10 my computer - which I had to share - was an apple IIe. It had like 64k of RAM.

Now, some 25 years later. I am using a PC that is probably equal to the world's entire computing power in the early 60s and wirelessly hooked into the interweb.

It's just fucking amazing. I sure as hell do not take this forgranted.

I love being able to watch docos or surf media sites then go on a nerdy info adventure through wiki to know more about peeps I am encountering in my travels. It's just so fucking amazing. Seriously amazing that I can do this.

If I had a lighter I'd be holding it up rocking concert out style for the combo that is affordable computing plus wireless reasonable speed internet. It's just terrific. Yay for the internet!

PS the other night I got to play Xbox rockstar on drums. When air rocking I have always defaulted to drums. Turns out I suck on drums but ... after a while I semi got the hang of it. Yay me! Yay Xbox!

Anyway, good times. Now if only we can lick this global warming thing and smack the miner's council over the head with a rolled up newspaper and tell them to go on, get out of it or something.

Friday, June 18, 2010

A Mikey Milkshake Moment

In the white collar world, believe it or not, we try not to print stuff. If you print stuff you have to file it. And we hates to file.

The only thing you need to print really are documents where a signature needs to be applied for legal purposes.

In order to save confusion we use sign here tabs - little pull off sticky sided plastic arrows - to direct colleagues where to put their mark.

With documents so signed I needed to make some copies of a document I'd had signed.

Since it was going through the copier the sign here tab had to be removed.

For some reason I thought it best to stick it on my shirt for later.

Little did I realise that my saved sign here sticker, pointing upward, was in fact stuck for later right where my man-nip was. It looked like a stripper's nipple tassle.

On the way back to my desk I noticed what had happened. Opposite me - across the low wall that separated his workstation from the corridor - was P.

P is proudly hairy - with an arse long pony tail and Cat-Weasel goatee.

'P,' I cried out. 'Check this out!'

I then started shaking my upper money makers in a very disturbing stripper dance.

P then pointed out I was just packing just the one tassled boozer.

Good point. I replied that I'd lost the other one in an industrial accident.

'They didn't grease the pole enough!' I added.

Yet another workplace mikey moment...

PC Load Letter

The other night I was back at work trying to send a fax. Trying being the operative word.

There are two fax machines – and both are shit.

The reason they’re shit is that when you try and send more than one page the feeder mechanism decides that all the pages in the hopper are a single page. It grabs them all, chews them into its maw, then crunches and then soft fuck-up bleep punctures the stilled air with its R2D2-esq fuck-you.

So there was that. After the third attempt on machine number one, I went to machine number two.

It was out of toner.

There’s an old trick us white collar types use to temp fix this toner issue and that’s to take out the cartridge and shake it all about. This somehow gets enough of the ink dust to the right places within to at least eek out a couple more pages of printing.

So I did that.

At that point one of the plastic clips that runs the length of the cartridge flew off.

I then spent the next 20 minutes trying to put it back on, getting toner all over my fingers – which I wiped off on the seat. Probably a dumb move considering people sit on those seats.

After 20 minutes of futile ‘where the fuck does this go?!’ activity I then figured out I could look at the cartridge on the other fax machine for the nose news of where it was to go.

Then I realised I could simply swap the good cartridge over to the one that needed the toner to print and leave a nice note that I broke the broken one and get it fixed on the morrow.

So I did that.

Machine two decided however that the A4 paper in the tray was not A4. It suggested I have a look and re-load it.

I did that. Five times. Each time I did it, the fax would reprint the same received fax then bleep to say ‘wrong paper’.

Throughout my sixty minutes of being fucked around by fucking useless technology I was ranting. Safely – as it was past normal office hours and well night outside. Except for one other colleague. After a while she came out to check up on me - attracted like a moth to light to my tearful rage.

In the end, defeated, to angry and tired to care, I gave up.

I left a note on the broken cartridge to say ‘this is broken and I broke it’ and then sent an email to the two peeps in the office who look after office machines. There was much ranting.

When I got in the next morning they were both fixed. And the fax machine that was convinced the paper inside wasn’t A4 was happily now accepting it was.

Fuck I hate fax machines.

Both are lucky I didn’t office-space them.

UPDATE (some four working days later): The fax machines have been serviced. V, who handles such things, came over and said 'please don't break the drum again.' Turns out I'd been flinging the drum around ... not the cartridge. Mikey office machine fail.

Not so tall toe tales

I lost my big toe nail the other day. Well, I didn't lose it. The centre part of the nail had risen up like an ice-berg and I picked at it ... and tore out the centre. So with that the nail had to go.

I didn't get it all on the first rip-free.

I had to do surgery on myself to remove a piece of side nail that settled then sank down the left side of the nail bed. I failed with the tools I had and spent a restless night.

The next day I went and purpose purchased needle point tweezers for the operation. It was awkward to reach what with it being on the left side of my left big toe and me being right handed. Plus I had my gut in the way. Finally with the desk lamp angled to provide vision, I went in. I ended up about a centimetre deep into my toe with the which, due to the BP well esq depth I was operating at, made the end of the tweezers look like a reversed magician's hanky that way it sank into my foot ender. It was mind numbingly painful. I got there in the end, and removed the quivering chunk of dead flesh and nail, but I had the post-pain shakes afterward.

Have you noticed in movies that when the big strong hero is being attended to by the love interest post fight that he winces when she dabs him? It's a technique to show his vulnerability to her and her alone. If I was so daubed I would totally have to be all manly so as to impress said lady and say things like 'mmmmm I love the sting of that - feels like victory'.

I think the daubing ladies would like that - you know - my large lumpiness glowering fiercely instead of a big nice smelling muscular scar covered sook in need of mothering.

Yeah, and pigs may fly out of my raw gaping nail hole.

Finally some recognition

I bragged to S that I had the number one google ranking for Pants Osmosis Window.

Needless to say I was very proud.

And what did S do?

He created this for me.

I rule.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Now I’d like to see this in calendar form

Our public holiday celebrations had one key event – a toddler’s birthday party. Feeling poorly I stocked up on newspapers in case I needed to remote myself and read through the discomfort. On the way to the event I cracked open the SMH to page 3.

This is what I found.

Snapping the snappers in their own territory
Lindsay Murdoch, Darwin
June 14, 2010

The eyes have it... one of the featured artworks in the exhibition; "The crocodile is the longest surviving dinosaur... it deserves respect." Photo: Glenn Campbell

A DAY'S work for Northern Territory artists Wayne Miles and Peter Torr involves stepping carefully through mangrove swamps looking for crocodiles, which they photograph and have turned into a unique exhibition.

"It's dangerous work, sure, but we pay due respect to the oldest living creatures on the planet," said Miles, 50, who began turning crocodiles into art more than 20 years ago.

You can find the rest here.

Kewl. I like articles about Crocodiles.

Then I came across this part

Miles began photographing crocodile skulls and naked woman in the late 1980s but kept the work to himself.

"I thought it would freak people out, particularly women," he said.

But several years ago a gallery owner in Darwin saw the photographs and urged Miles to exhibit them.

"It all took off from there," Miles said. ''Most of the customers are, in fact, women."

Some of the works are sensual images of naked women juxtaposed with crocodile skulls.

Now try as I might I could not fathom a means to sensuously depict a crocodile skull with a nudey woman. What could they be?

*A woman straddling the skull like Slim Pickens riding the bomb in Dr Strangelove?

*A skull having a playful nip at the woman’s vag?

*Her cleaning a skull's teeth with a toothbrush dildo?

*Being surprised in the shower, the plastic curtain clinging to her wet nubile body, by a leering skull?

*What about a bodice ripper cover where she’s in some sort of corset top and he’s biting the laces to free her 17th century ample assets?

At any rate, area blogger demands that Wayne Miles and Peter Torr release their sensual croc-skull-meets-lady-parts photographic treasures in calendar form.

It would certainly make a nice change to see that little number on the between shops calendar stalls that sprout up come November.

TheWife is an enabler

I love my showers. Love them. I could stand under a hot shower – where the climate allows – for hours if I could. As I child I was routinely scolded for excessive water consumption, mainly because I would rest my bulbous head against the tiles and enter a sort of warm waterfall lubed up meditative trance.

We’ve been lucky in that in all our houses we’ve had in the decade plus time we’ve been in the nation’s capital that the showers have been good ones. Good pressure, reasonable size. Hell, in one house it was large enough for both of us to get into.


However what I really want to do in the shower is sit down. Because after a while of standing, bearing my large frame against gravity, I feel the need to sit. But use of a chair in a shower is problematic given the effect water has on furniture.

TheWife purchased some el-cheapie plastic chairs for tiddles from the Reject Shop – yes, that’s right, Australia has a chain of stores that sells low quality assorted business called The Reject Shop, proudly proclaiming its lack of care and attention in its very title. While there I asked to get me a chair – a chair capable of bearing my weight and one that was waterproof.

Mission accomplished.

The only bummer about using this chair is that water collects between my back and the back of the chair. Which means if I fart the arse-gas bubbles through water like bong smoke to rise with its evil smell to coat me like a cloud of mites you pass through when you go for a walk.

TheWife also put in a suction pad corner shelf for me to put my diet cokes on.

So now I can sit in the shower and have a diet coke.


Apologies to the increase of girth in my carbon footprint.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

He tricked me!

Noodles and I play 'ChaseMe!'

This consists of noodles running off, closing various doors on the way to the end room in my face, then jumping a'giggling onto the couch. I tickle him, he puts me to sleep by snoring, escapes, then charges back up the corridor to begin the game again.

Of course he has to get me past the first door. Today he tried trickery.

'You go there,' he demanded, pointing to the other side of the sliding door.

'Why?' I asked.

'Go there,' he repeated.

'Is there something on the other side of the door I should see? Is it Oscar [our cat]?' I said.

He thought about it.

'Yes,' he said. 'Is Oscar.'

So I stepped past the sliding door and he promptly closed it behind me.

This sequence was repeated about a hundred times.

When we played it was apparently "quiet time".

Worst. Oversight of quiet time. Ever.

I am totally the good cop in our house. In fact almost every dad I know is the good cop. Yay for feminism!

Kewl ad - James Dean and McDonalds

Now I don't usually give a shout out to 'the man' and evil tentacle corporations, but this was a kewl ad. It came out when I was in first year uni.

I even had the poster on my wall.

To think this is now 18 years old. They could run it again today and it would still work as an awesome ad.

Of course it has nothing to do with McDonald's apart from the rugged up Dean scarping what appears to be a cheeseburger, but still. Good work team behind it.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Area canberra retail space owner of a shop that's hard to let remembers what was

Canberra, ACT: Area retail space owner, Beck Timson, today lamented at what Canberra's recent fireworks ban has done to his one to two days a year of letting that abandoned storefront - you know the one, the one that never has any fucking shops in it - at your local shopping centre.

'The government may have well raped me in the wallet,' said Timson. 'Their short sighted ban has cost me dearly - at least a hundred bucks in cash that I never bothered to actually put on the books.'

'The fuckers,' he added.

The fireworks ban, brought in last year to make the Australian Capital Territory in line with all other states and territories - apart from the Northern Territory who continue to celebrate the festival of ruined digits - was a measure, according to the government killjoys, to save both distress of animals, prevent bogans from being even more bogany, as well as reducing waiting times at emergency as the doctor didn't have to sew some bogan's fingers back on.

'Thousands of animals are no longer terrified and bolt from the home and Emergency Departments are not inundated with blood soaked flannelette and Metallica T-Shirts as gunpowder coated citizens do not clog the system,' said a sneering bureaucrat who thinks he knows better than people just because he's got metrics and stuff he can point to over the idiocy that was the impact of allowing fireworks before the ban.

'Furthermore by banning fireworks it means those Canberrans who live within a kilometre of parkland or future development space don't have to be woken at three am over the next month because some fuckwit has some left over bangers and decided to not only left them off but perform some "circle work" with his hotted up hoon car on the way out,' added the snarky bureaucrat.

Timson wandered around his vacant shop space, mournfully recreating his actions post use by firework vendors when he sprayed air freshener around the eerily quiet room - save for the faint hiss of perfumed air - in order to cover up the odor of unwashed bikie leathers and bong residue.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

My mafia name

With thanks to D of my weekly nerd night...

Mikey Two-snakes


Pants Osmosis Window Redux

Today I had another Pants Osmosis Window experience.

I'd covertly let fly in the gathering place before the lifts, making sure to open arse near the open stairwell . But the lift was speeding my way too quickly for comfort, and there was someone waiting for it in addition to me. Seeing the numbers above the doors racing up the charts I kind of waggled my arse around in an effort to shift the butt gas and promote its more rapid passage through the tight weave of my pants.

Alas I was not fully successful. There was a definite aerated fecal tinge in the air as we travelled downward.

I should have done a Peter Griffin and pointed at the other guy and said 'it was you...'

Wednesday, June 09, 2010

Take a deep breath, prepare for the worst, the ugliest man in the universe...

With my innards deemed healthy and pink I have to go on another medical marvels quest to determine what it is that can make me double over in extreme pain, gasping and/or sit on the toilet and sob as I try and pass a phantom wind.

My innards doctor said that my IBS could be a result of my body's inability to process certain natural sugars. I put on my investigating shoes - well, I went to wiki - and discovered that for food intolerances like lactose and fructose malabsorption there's a simple test that can be done.

The Hydrogen Breath Test


You have to wait four weeks post arse snaking to get it done apparently so in a few weeks I get to fast for a night, go into a room and breathe into a device three times over three hours to see if my bod dislikes certain sugars and or foodstuffs.

Finally I may get a fucking answer as to what is what in the 'ow my stomach hurts' department.

However Patrick, a fellow sore stomach traveller, has already pointed out that any additional tests will likely A) confirm I am malformed and B) this will put paid to my years of hearty and much loved cheese consumption.

Yay ...

PS Header for this post is a lyric from The Elephant Man musical Andrew Lloyd Webber-esq pisstake in my fave movie 'The Tall Guy'
by Richard Curtis.

Mikey drops a loud over the workstation wall clanger

My awesome boss sits over the cubicle wall from me. Which means if we have a conversation it needs a loudness boost in order I be heard.

Today we discussed a report contribution that was simply awful and largely unreadable. My boss didn't want it included.

I agreed with her.

'We should bury it like a turd at a campsite,' I semi-yelled at the partition.

There was an uncomfortable post "comment that was wrong, wrong, wrong" silence. Only to be punctured by Area boss accentuating my embarrassment by laughing her arse off.

Sigh. I think I am over emphasising the horse part of my workplace Centaur with the enormous arse.

Where Mikey freaks out the lead singer of Spin Doctors

Okay, maybe not the actual lead singer as per their seminal Two Princes music clip, but he looked just like him.

Anyway, I had to replace a book I lost belonging to my desk buddy. She was very cool about my borrowing it and she politely reminded me the other day I still had it ... six months after she lent it to me.

An investigation of my workstation and home turned up nothing. Therefore a replacement was needed.

I was on a course in the city so, come lunchtime, I combined my walk with a march to the local bookshop to get a copy.

It's cold as fuck here in Canberra, though I have to confess I am not sure if "cold as fuck" is an applicable use of "as fuck". What exactly does "cold as fuck" mean? Suffice to say what I am trying to get across as that, in Canberra, as it currently stands, it's cold.

The point of mentioning this is that it meant on my walk I had my gnome beanie on - along with my thick brown kangaroo pocket jumper. I looked like students may kidnap me and take me on schoolies taking photos of me in humorous locations with their phone cameras before returning me to the street.

I finally made it to the bookshop and asked the lead singer of Spin Doctors if they had the book. By the way he didn't have the floppy ear hat as per the actual lead singer of Spin Doctors. No ... he had a tie on. Yes, a tie ... as a headband.

He was most helpful. They had it and he went and found it for me. I purchased it and lead singer of Spin Doctors asked if I wanted a bag. I did. This is what I said.

'Yes please, in fact a plastic bag. I don't want to sweat dimple the cover 'cos I am walking. Once you dimple a cover with sweat it's forever sweat dimpled. You can't change that.'

Lead singer of Spin Doctors agreed with me.

Then I added.

'... however you can get blood off a cover. I know that through experience.'

Lead singer of Spin Doctors looked at me a little askance as I re-donned my gnome hat and set off once more for the gilded shores of my city based day long course.

I wonder if I am still allowed to shop there?

Monday, June 07, 2010

Second Walkiversary

Well it's been two years since I took up the sneakers and actually tried to do the bare minimum recommended level of exercise as needed by an adult human. So far I've had just a single day where I didn't have a dedicated out and about walk - and on that day I walked from a distant carpark to the airport with luggage and a child in arms then spent four hours wandering futilely around the interior as the aircraft kept getting delayed so on that day I figured that counted as a walk.

Anyway, two years on. Well ... what's the verdict, did I lose weight? Well, yes and no. At one point I was walking about to about 50 minutes a day and, combined with some other stuff, yeah I lost weight. But now it's more like 20 minutes a day and thanks to a bad ice cream habit that weight crept back. Not entirely but enough to be incredibly disheartening and make me want to say 'fuck it, I am one of life's Dom Delouises - just accept it and eat another cookie.' But, well, I haven't given up. So far I've kept walking - even if it's not enough and even if food wise I am still eating insensibly.

Some days I enjoy the walk. On rare occasions even get an A is for Effort high from it. But, the vast bulk of the times it's an embuggerance and I don't like doing it. I do it not because I want to but because I have to and when I sink back into the seat of my car I do it with a grateful 'thank fuck that's over with' sigh of relief.

I will never be an Adonis. I will always be a Quasimodo type. But as a colleague once said to me 'it'd be a boring old world if we all looked the same.'

Besides, without people like me, good looking people wouldn't have anyone to reject, would they? I'm doing them a fave by being their contrast. They should thank me.

Cookies accepted at PO BOX 9944 in your local capital city.

Friday, June 04, 2010

Bathtime fun

TheNoo was having his bath, which I normally oversight. Due to a toilet need theWife sat on the little red chair by the side of the bath for me.

Job done, I entered the room.

'Daddy!' cried theNoo.

He turned to look at theWife sitting on the chair.

'Mum,' he said matter-of-factly. 'Get off'.


Wednesday, June 02, 2010

The simple things

Sometimes you miss the simple things in life.

For example, being able to fart and not risk an almost certain shart.

Stupid diuretics powders and their uber efficiency...

Tuesday, June 01, 2010

Didn't we have a lovely time the day a snake went up my jacksie...

With thanks to Fiddler's Dram.

So I am out. As ever I was my hilarious self. I asked whether the indigenous themed name for the centre meant "back passage", earning a polite titter (it actually means snakes in the dark apparently). Then, thanks to a reminder from theWife, I annotated my check in form with a copy of my sorry poem. The doc did mention there was a cure for a hairy arse but I said my experience of stomach waxing had put paid to any such attempts.

Then, later, as I was about to be zonked I said 'sorry if that trapped fart comes out and looks like the ghost from Raiders of the Lost Ark'. Which let's face it, is 80s comedy gold.

So ... the result? I'm clean. My colon is fine and my stomach is fine. Which means it's dietary triggered / exacerbated. So once the reports come back it's off to get various tests to find what I am 'insert delish food here' intolerant to. I bet it's lactose, and that wheat business, probably meat, and caffeine etc etc etc. Fuckers. Actually he also said that it could be a result of a combination of sugars, like fructose. Which is somewhat ironic as back in the 80s my parents took me off normal sugar for fructose on the grounds it caused less hyperactivity. Thanks parents.

I did tell the staff that I planned to write "I'm" on my left arse cheek and "sorry" on the right for their having to see the condish of my overly shaggy arse. She said it's been done.

I asked if they ever actually get to see a nice arse coming through the place, given the clientèle are uniformly poorly and thus the Venn diagram of poorly and nice arse would show a small sliver. She said that all arses looked the same to them after a while (as if).

When she came back I announced that I had solved their lack of nice arses out and about dilemma.

'This trick is,' I said, with my sage like wisdom. 'Is offering free exams to ACT firefighters.'

The nurse laughed. She said it wouldn't be cost effective as they're so buffed and muscular "we'd need gallons of anesthetic to knock them out."

So there you go ladies who haunt nightclubs near fire stations with the hope of getting a firey toasted enough to be led away into your honey trap, looks like you're going to have to get heavy duty rock and roll on the proffered intake to succeed.

Mikey, still alive and gassy and yes there was a brown stain on the seat of my pants, signing off.

PS I asked if the snakes went in at the same time and they laughed at me for thinking they did.
Phew! I was worried they'd meet in the middle and they'd get tangled. They also swore blind I wouldn't suffer a faint hint of 'arse to mouth' because it was a different snake use for each orifice.

Adios (Perhaps)

Any use of anesthetic can be risky so, since I'm going under to be double snaked, I might not make it out. Sure, a teeny tiny chance but a chance nonetheless.

So ... peace out e-peeps. Hope you have a good fulfilling life. And when you bend your elbow to life a piece of food you know you shouldn't be eating to your gob, then think of me ...

... Lowenstein ...