Thursday, September 30, 2010

Two strikes

We had a lunch today for L who's going on leave to go and get hitched. Peeps brought food from hither and thither to share, Jesus and the loaves and fishes style.

A good time was had by all.

Except ... well except for me. Partially because of the whole no dairy thing. I decided to risk a mini-sausage roll on the grounds that it might not be buttery pastry. But I ate it too fast. It got stuck as food tends to do when I eat too fast and at one point I had to leave the lunch and go yak up in the toot.

... yay capitalism ...

But prior to that we were talking as we do and, in my delicious gooey fat mind, I decided I was holding court. Only I was more George C than King E, as any goodness I uttered was "buried under a pile of gaffs and bad puns".

But I did get off a couple of self-assigned-as-pearlers pearlers.

The boss mentioned smoked oysters. Without stopping to consider both what I was saying and the demographic of the assembled listener-hood I said 'Ah, smoked oysters. Your aphrodisiac and your post-coital all in the one food.'

Which, patting my own back here, is a pretty quick thing to think of that had a hint of naughty. My boss groaned loudly and asked why is it was I could not be silenced.

A fair point.

Later, just before I ran away to join the porcelain circus, having disclosed I was no longer a man who indulged in liquids and their accessories as produced by the animal featured on the cover of Atom Heart Mother, the assembled masses were suggesting, nay commanding, I sup from the fruit platter instead.

There were a bunch of almonds in the centre of the platter. I expressed my hesitancy, mainly because they were not peeled and still had a woody grainy looking coating that reminded me of fake woodgrain wallpaper from the 70s. I tried peeling one, scratching it off with a thumbnail, but it was too laborious and I later lied and said it rolled under a workstation.

C, a reasonably important person in my area, said that the almonds were good for the body due to the fibrous powers they possessed.

Strike two is coming. Can you feel it? Fucking hell, I can.

I responded, a lightning quick combo of witty retort and repost - 'do you take it orally?'

Cough ... coughcough.

I wish S was there. He would have laughed. But he would have done that sneaky one he does where he looks down and hides his mouth because he doesn't want to be directly associated with my badness.

C thought about it for a while then said this.

'You remind me of a job I once had... in the psych ward. I'd hear something like that, and just smile and nod.'

Mega-epic-pwning of me.

Most of us like to think we're useful, important, funny, powerful, heroic, super. That we possess qualities that are welcomed, hell adored even.

But let's face it. When it comes to life we're more like George Costanza than pretty much any other character on the teev.

Well, in my case at least.

Aasif Mandvi goodness

Hat. Doffed.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Twenty, twenty, twenty four hours to go ... I wanna be sedated

With thanks to the Ramones

Well it's been over 24 hours without any dairy. I know it's a tad optimistic to talk effect but right now, after a hideous night, bad bloating, and a shit best described as "explosive", I am feeling better. I actually have only mild gut pain at the moment. A 2 instead of a 7, which of late with 7 having been the norm.

I do miss cheese though. Plus there's half a block of Haloumi sitting in the fridge begging for a date to be slivered and fried and dipped in Paul Newman's (may he rest in peace) South-Wester sauce.

And ice-cream - which I'd given up during my experiments with Lactose paring back anyway. I will miss ice-cream. The Soy substitute is not for me and gelato is well ... it's not ice-cream, is it?

But once I got the news I was not lactose intolerant but, based on my current cyber-doctoring, with now packing an adult onset of milk protein intolerance, it made sense just to go cold turkey on it.

I hope I don't end up like my brother's friend Scary and give in and binge. He was a 10 year vegetarian who, one night upon returning to the flat, saw big saucepan of bolognaise and thought 'fuck it, yummo' and scoffed the lot.

He was very, very, very sick over the next few days from the taking of into his body a massive meat infusion.

As my dad would say ... always in the gutter.

Bamp bamp, ba bamp, ba bamp bamp, ba bamp, I wanna be sedated

Speaking of partisan chum buckets...

The chum bucket...

1) The bucket used out of shot when filming that an actor can spit food into instead of swallowing when doing a take where their character chows down. Because ... you'd get full.

2) The headquarters of the plankton villain in Sponge Bob Square Pants

3) The Australian newspaper.

TheOz as it is affectionately known, or The Government Gazette back when Howard was in government, is a partisan chum bucket of a paper. Skewed to older Australians and business, it's decided that preachin' to the choir is the choice of the now paper-generation, and actual balanced coverage of issues is a no thanks. It also recently declared war on the Greens, decrying the party as being, oddly enough, overly forthright in its viewpoints.

TheOz also does not like bloggers. I think in part because a lot of them find their journalism - more the opinion parts - to be unintentionally hilarious with their crude childish bias and their ability to blow out of all fucking proportion errors committed on the Labor party's watch - the Education building scheme and the pink batts scheme to name but two. Which as irony would have it were two of the 10 point responses parroted by the opposition during the election campaign of 2010 which The Australian asked nicely to have been put in power.

One blogger theOz didn't like was Grogs Gamut, an anonymous public servant blogger who talked about government and politics and likely without performing some nifty brown nosing on the Liberals like theOz does.

So what did theOz do recently?

They outed him. Having confirmed his real identity they gleefully sprayed it over their mastheads.

Indeed theOz said this about him

The prolific blogger shows a strong preference for the ALP, despite the Public Service code of conduct stating that "the APS is apolitical, performing its functions in an impartial and professional manner".

These fuckwits don't realise that as a public servant you're entitled to have personal beliefs and express those beliefs. You just can't do it as a representative of the public service. Gamut was a blogger who happened to be a public servant. Not a public servant acting as a blogger. I doubt however they'd see the difference because of a mental deficiency and a lack of common decency.

Gamut was anonymous when he blogged. Therefore he was NOT in violation of the code of conduct because he DID NOT REPRESENT THE PUBLIC FUCKING SERVICE WHEN HE FUCKING BLOGGED.

The reason I started this anonymously was because as a public servant I realised I could not blog about politics and government if my identity was known, even though I was doing it as myself and not as a public servant, because of the danger of people like Andrew Bolt and TheOz trying to blow it all out of proportion. That and in the public service you cannot comment in the media, without clearance, about your direct job or more broadly your agency or organisation.

And I bet you buckets to donuts Gamut, in his capacity as a public servant in his day to day job, did his job well and without fear or favour when Howard was in and when the ALP got the chair. I know I did and do the many many years I worked under both parties. You know why that's easy to do? Because at the end of the day we are there to help people, and we do that no matter who holds government. Yeah, yeah, I hear a lot of people slagging off public servants. And maybe there is a little truth to the attitude that public servants like being public servants because the pay is reasonable and the conditions are great. But a main draw to the job is, that at the end of the day you know that you are small cog in a big machine that's designed to manage people for the better.

Unlike people at The Australian.

I find it delish that a paper whose political coverage is festooned with 'anonymous party sources' - especially when it comes to destabilizing a party leader they don't like (anyone in the chair in the ALP / Malcolm Turnbull in the Libs) deigns itself to be the arbiter of who is allowed to be anonymous.

But then bloggers directly imperil The Australian because they've lost their near monopoly of political opinion in this country. Thinking people who are IT literate who can see through the laughably backward 'ALP him no good, me kill mammoth' caveman esq arguments of their stable of opinion columnists cause The Australian grief because they directly impact on that paper's relevance and ability to influence opinion. The Greens I am glad to see have an active media campaign to make sure they and their affiliated brethren respond appropriately to News Limited's seeking of information about them and also regard dealing with theOz as a proper media organisation is utterly fruitless. I think too the ALP is starting to do the same.

What a sad laughable pack of elitist idiots. Yes, elitist. Not in the educated grounded in empirical evidence seeking and considered analysis sense as they'd use it. In the talking out their arse with no justification to do so apart from a half-backed dated world view sense. You know, they think they're better than everyone else and taxes should be lower because winners pay high taxes etc.

I wouldn't be surprised if theOz tried to keep propaganda tips to the billionaire miners when they used their company workers to hold protests against the mining tax. You know, the ones with the manufactured protest signs that all said the same thing.

Ah the mining protest. Not astroturfing, more like vomiting coal dust into the face of Australian democracy.

Rolling Stone interviews Obama

I was scoping out my favourite Media watchdog website, Media Matters, when I noticed they had a story regarding Obama's views on Fox as given in a recent Rolling Stone article.

Holy cats! To Rolling Stone dot com

(cue spinning newspapers)

So here's the link to the Obama interview. What an awesome interview. What an awesome man.

If he keeps this up he may have to be added to my yet-to-be-laminated-man-hug-powered-asteroid-deflecting-machine-I-would-let-him-spoon-me-even-though-he's-a-dude-card.

Oh, while I'm at it, this is what Obama said of Fox.

The golden age of an objective press was a pretty narrow span of time in our history. Before that, you had folks like Hearst who used their newspapers very intentionally to promote their viewpoints. I think Fox is part of that tradition -- it is part of the tradition that has a very clear, undeniable point of view. It's a point of view that I disagree with. It's a point of view that I think is ultimately destructive for the long-term growth of a country that has a vibrant middle class and is competitive in the world. But as an economic enterprise, it's been wildly successful. And I suspect that if you ask Mr. Murdoch what his number-one concern is, it's that Fox is very successful.

When I was an undergrad I studied communication, including looking at balance in the media. I have to confess we looked at it from a historical viewpoint because we never ever thought we'd see the partisan like of Fox and News Ltd in a first world country again. How wrong we were.

Fare thee well

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Are you a large man?

Do you, like me, have a gut that's best described as ample?

And, if so, in accordance with the adage of have lemons, make lemonade, do you - pushing aside self-revulsion for being that way, use this ampleness to your physiological and dare I say partial psychological advantage?

You do? Then you sir ... you are a Jolly Fat man. Happy clown on the out, the sad scary one that scares people on the in.

I do use my ampleness to my advantage. Today, at one point, I balanced my half empty can of diet coke on it when I needed two hands while driving. The can was at a steep tilt and in danger of tipping off but still, despite my seething dislike of my overweight experience, I got a minor quirk boost from it. Hooray!

In addition to occasionally feeling like Obelix, when I am in the shower and soaping my tum in a round-about-manner I rest my paw, fingers splayed across my girth. And for a fleeting moment I know what it is to be a powerful Hollywood success. If that is you were willing to pretend to be Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair that time she was preggo. Especially if combined with the nudie penis between legs tuck behind* best provided as an example by Jay in Clerks Two in taking the piss out of Silence of the Lambs.

Like I said, lemons into lemonade. Though in a comparative analysis of the ratio of lemons to said lemonade I'd say it's one bushel equals a half glass.

* I recently tried to do it. Turns out since pre puberty - the last time I recall trying this - it appears my balls grew a tad and it frigging hurts if re-attempted.

(drum roll) no milk for you

With thanks to the Soup Nazi

I got my breath test results back for lactose intolerance. And ... I am not lactose intolerant - even though I get gassy and pain wracked if I have dairy.

So what does this mean? Well ... I guess it means I likely have a milk allergy. That, or milk protein intolerance.

That makes sense. I went lactose free but I still had milk - lactose free milk - and still had pain. Less pain than normal but then I was drinking less milk - adios for example drinking 600 mls of Dare Green Lid Iced coffee that I usually had once or twice a week.

So, what's the cure?

There is none.

What do you do?

Currently the only treatment for milk allergies is total avoidance of milk proteins. Products in addition to milk itself to be avoided by those with milk allergy include yogurt, butter, cheese, and cream. Goats' milk products may also need to be avoided.

Talk about a massive fucking kick to the guts. An ironic use of the phrase since having chronic IBS - possibly fueled by this here condish - is like being kicked in the guts. Well, more like someone going the Mola Ram on you but entrails instead of heart.

I know in the long term avoiding all dairy is a good thing. And there's milk substitutes from oat, rice, or soy. But right now, as it stands, right now I feel pretty low.

Food used to be a true thing I could count on. It made me happy, when skies were fucking grey. And now I can't even count on that, at least, when it comes to the moo-juice derived goodness.
Fucking hell. Sucks to be me*

I guess the next step is to confirm the theory about the Neddy No for Milky Juice for Mikey as it makes his tummy wum fill with hideous gut gas that could stun a mule** if I farted in in their sterile face.

On a related topic, about 3am last sleep period I produced a pain wracked fart that lasted for fully ten seconds. Loud and proud. It was so intense I was worried I'd shoot around the room like a let go balloon. I think that bad boy could have taken out a whole barren of mules***.

UPDATE: Just tried the Rice Milk. Mind you it was with cereal and a shot glass worth of brown sugar but it was ... okay. Oh, apparently in Germany, das nein einer und milk iffen it is nein from das oonimal.

*Of course this disregards my membership of the 7% of the world's population that lives in a first world country and, within that group, those that have gainful protected employment and excellent conditions. But hey, it should also be pointed out that depression is higher in the industrial west largely I suspect because we have a lot of time on our hands to be morose while second and third world people expend far more mental energy just on achieving success in securing food, shelter and safety.

** Mules are almost alway sterile. See, Mikey teaches you things.

*** The collective noun for Mules is a barren. That's just mean.

I've been reading a lot of Conan...

I've loved fantasy and sci-fi books as long as I can remember - though I really only started getting into reading them after I discovered D&D.

But as a kid I never read Conan, books which pretty much started the sword and sorcery genre.

Robert E Howard was an odd fish. A prolific pulp author, he wrote a prodigious amount of novellas and stories for pulp mags, worked out until he was fucking huge and, when his mother was dying, was so distraught he popped his clogs at just around 30 years of age.

He left a lot of work behind. And he was part of the Lovecraft-Smith group of writers who wrote Gothic horror and fantasy and in collaboration created an alternate earth with a lot of back-story to it. Howard even wrote an 8000 word essay about his setting of pre-historical earth - before the earth heaved and dashed it all away - solely to background his setting and ensure consistent continuity in the history over hundreds of stories.

I have a hat. I am doffing it.

The imitators are out there. Hell, the mythos spawned or rather inspired dozens of people to try their hand and this style of writing. And, like romance novels which too have certain language styles and plot elements, the text can border on tipping over from baby bear's porridge into lurid prose so purple you'd think Ancient Romans would hunt the slug that secretes it into extinction.

As David St Hubbins famously said, 'there's such a fine line between stupid and clever.'

When I was a child I used to read as I walked along. This led to problems, not just from a safety perspective but also a social one. However I was still ahead of that guy who got a hold of policeman's note-pads and seriously handed out tickets to kids mucking up at the bus stop.

Your average Conan book is about 200 pages long, has a moderate sized font, and has a spine robust enough to be bent back so you hold the book in one hand, the bent over pages pressed against the back of the side you are reading.

So recently ... I've been reading as I go on my walk. It's not hard if I choose a path I have wearily trod hundreds of times before. Though I confess that I do glance up every few paces and if I see another person coming I will wait until they pass before I start reading again. If only so I can watch them and make sure they don't try and biff me. Actually, I do that anyway and I make sure to glance behind me for ten seconds or so after the pass to make-sure they don't turn around and seek to bash my noggin.

Mock me if you must but I am not being paranoid. Just safety obsessed ... with a hint of OCD.

Back to Conan. The last Conan book I read, Conan the Avenger, had within a Swedish fan try his hand at writing Conan. Bear in mind English was his second language and he learned it by reading Conan. Even with an edit it bordered on the purple side. There's only so many synonyms for "panther" you can use after-all, which were the author's fave metaphor devices used to describe the barbarian. Also don't try and apply a D&D rule glaze to the books. The dude is tooling around with 200 hit points. Conan in D&D would not slip in blood, pass out drunk, or be cold coshed by a first level degenerate swamp-human.

I'm on to my next one which is simply titled Conan. At one point the copyright holders re-released all the stories in chronological order of Conan's life. Oddly this is book 3 even though it is called simply Conan.

So why the need to tell the world all this?

Well, as I went to the toilet, in the semi-dark, the distant glow of the lounge-room light my only illumination, as I neared the toilet door I had a sudden mental image of a flight of arrows striking the portal before me.

Without stopping to think ... I made arrow noises - thwok, thwok, thwok.

I think Conan has started to leak through my membranes.

I end this post with a simple question to you, that is related to the thwok, thwok, thwok.

All of us have this. All of us. All of us when pressed will know what to say.

What ... is your machine-gun noise?

Mine is Ehh Ehh Ehh Ehh Ehh.


We'd let theNoo's hair get a tad long so today was 'sitting in the swing while mummy clippers off your hair" day. We put the family into Family and Community Day.

I started as a demonstration model - a stroker if you will - allowing the clippers to clipper off some of my odd shagginess. This seemed to placate the child.

We tried our best but the clippers - bless them - are not what they used to be and the other ones we had only really worked on the lowest setting.

So that's the one theNoo got.

He's now bald.

Actually, it suits him. Though I am worried people are going to assume he's got the big C.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Smarmy players... and their music

When you run a D&D game where the player characters are sufficiently powerful they can and do wreck your game. Well not so much wreck it but don't exactly go along with the planned story elements of the plot.

I'm running the nerd lads through an old Dragon magazine module from 1980. Yes, this module is older than some of the players. I've adapted it to 3.5 and removed some of the odder elements from it - hey, it was the early 80s and the hobby was only around for a few years at that point.

One of the plot elements was a soul of a Dwarven cleric tasking the lads to clean out his invader infested temple. Only he needed proof of their power - since previous visitors had proved 'wanting'.

The room spun around and lo, there was a curtain ... behind which was the sound of something big and menacing!

I rolled last on initiative which meant it was my turn last. Into action went the lads. The curtain was pulled down exposing the monster - a large eight headed fire hydra snorting puffs of angry rage flame - and various wounds were inflicted on it.

In D&D you roll a twenty sided dice to see if you hit - the higher the better. Basically you roll the dice, add your modifiers based on skill and strength - then compare that to the creature's armour class. If you equal or beat it you hit it.

When first edition Advanced Dungeons and Dragons came on the scene in the late 70s they decided to make rolling a 20 on the die exciting and you got double damage. In the third edition, which we play, various weapons do critical damage on ranges - 18-20, 19-20, or 20. If your weapon is Mr Crit on a 20 then chances are it has a higher multiple for damage.

For some fucking unknown reason I gave a previous enemy a large sized Masterwork Greataxe - Masterwork being a quality weapon adding +1 to hitting an opponent. Such weapons can also have magic invested in them. P, largely I suspect as a giddy fuck you, decided to use said weapon, even though he copped a penalty for it being 9 foot long, and had it magicked up the ying yang.

P's character went before my monster. You know, the one to test their mettle.

He rolled a 20. And, being third edition you have to roll to hit it again to inflict critical damage.

He did.

All up, with various bonuses and a x3 multiplier for the great axe, he did 102 hitpoints damage.

By way of comparison the average man on the street has 4 hit points. A sword typically does 1 to 8 damage. In the rules you drop if under 0 and die at -10. We play a variant where you can have a saving throw to avoid falling sleepies but you're at a penalty.

Well ... the eight headed creature ... made its saving throw. But P was not the last cab off the player's rank. An ice lance was shoved into its axe wound. Yes, that's right. Its axe wound was lanced. Hilarious stuff.

So ... did it get to have a go? Well, no, because the fucking ice lance made it go unconscious. The player characters then proceeded to lop off its heads and sear its neck stumps with ice to make sure they didn't grow back.

D's character then sauntered back over to the disembodied soul of the Dwarven cleric.

'So ...' he said. 'When's this test then?'

Those fuckers made my list. My list I tells ya! Who the fuck do they think they are? Indiana Jones?!

Blog referenced by a freakin' legend

Ah Mikey Moments, the moments you have when you do something so spectacularly bad and / or embarrassing you can't but help think 'did ... did that just happen?'

Check out Michelle's laudatory praise (slash) near and actual MM.

Mikey Moments ... where your second thought - after reconfirming the incident did actually occur as you horrifyingly suspected - is 'well, at least I can blog about it'.

Lolly Scramble from Mikey

This blog post is dedicated to the author of Lolly Scramble, Tony Martin.

You mean your shits?
On House there was an ep where the week's medical curiosity was a blogger. Only she was the successful kind of blogger - the one that is actually read - as opposed to us bloggers in Sector 7 G. The actress was the girl who played Donna in That 70s Show. Indeed her character was such a successful blogger that in the second act when all the Doctors thought it was her kidneys packing in one of her readers offered up his. Needless to say I am mentally scoping out you fuckers for parts. Sarah and Gam are top of the list because A) they're fit and B) their co-location means ready access to multiple organs.

Naturally the ep had a dig at bloggers - and the tendency of bloggers to talk about intimidate details of their person to strangers ... except as it turns out when it comes to blog talk about their shits. Because Donna / medical curiosity on House didn't ... and her medical issue was something that also caused her shits to sink - a fact missed from their detailed scanning of her blog for clues since she didn't blog it.

I am not her. I do talk about my shits. The other day ... a surprise bowlful. I was hoping it would be the case and, when it passed out it felt like it was my time to fecally shine. I looked in and yes, filled it. High five baby. Wait, I haven't washed.

Spring time for Mitler...
Remember that Bacchanalian Spring celebration I was talking about? Well it happened. I even brought flowers for the table. I just slotted the bunch into an empty coffee jar, still in its tightly wrapped lacky band and a colleague stepped in to render it presentable - even trimming the stalks and spreading the flowers out. Also ... not in a coffee jar but an elegant glass. M, whose idea this was, asked that we all wear a flowery or Spring-like shirt to the festivities. I have two such shirts - both Hawaiian like - so I wore both. Only they both had collars so it looked fucked.

M, who was dressed in a flowery top, said that she was originally going to wear a black shirt but then changed her mind because it wasn't very Spring.

I felt I needed to say something to support her original choice of black. Without thinking I spoke...

'Oh it is. Cos you see the homeless freeze in winter. When Spring comes their blackened bodies are discovered. You know ... it's the season of re-birth.'

M looked at me, narrow eyed, then said ... 'Being inside your head for even an hour must be hell.'

So not only was I pwned I am now totally tagged as the weird dude who wears two shirts and thinks about the deaths of frozen homeless.

Don't be Coy...
The noodles has a toy fishing rod that has a magnet at the end of the line. It's for those magnet catch the fish games. You know, plastic fish has a magnet on its nose and you wave the rod around until you snag it. Today I was lying on the couch and my shirt had slid up, exposing my abdomen.

Then ... then I felt weirdness in my tummy button ... which is somewhat of an innie on account of my hairy apple build.

Yes ... he'd poked the magnet from his fishing rod into my belly button and was holding on to the rod.

I looked at him. He was grinning.

'I am not a coy pond!' I shouted.

'Yes coy pond!' he replied.

There's no comeback to that...

No bottie talk
At work I have been banned from talking about my bottom. In my defence it was because two work stations over we have a loud sneezer and it's hay fever season. She sneezed loudly and frighteningly. I was so startled I said 'That was so loud it nearly made my rectum prolapse.' This caused howls of anguish at my saucy bot-bot talk. It wasn't even my line - it's from Bad News - where Vim says he's worried that if he sings too hard then that will happen to him. At any rate, not more butt talk. However today old boss joked that if a person he had difficulty with wouldn't cooperate he'd send me to talk to them. The idea being that my oddness would unsettle and confuse them. He said this as I was heading off to point percy. I shouted out a departing rejoinder ... 'I could regale them with tales of my prostate examination...' It seems I just can't stop talking about my wonderful butt. It really is most entertaining. And if it wasn't covered with a carpet of fine hair and backstopped by a penis concealing stomach over-hang I think most people would regard it as really not that bad. As far as butts go. And mine goes off like a fire-cracker.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

No say no!

I had theNoo at home recently, just him and me for the day (should that be he and I?). There was a fair amount of teev watching I admit, mostly ABC Kids on ABC 2 (theNoo calls it ABkidz) and the watching of Madagascar one and two.

After M2 finished I turned off the teev and told theNoo it was now 'quiet time'. That usually means him actually lying down and watching a movie, or spending time in his room reading (and possibly snoozing). But today it meant a break from the box.

He got out his box of plastic dinosaurs and we retired to the end room. I lay on the couch reading an old Conan book while he played with magnet blocks and the dinosaurs. Trouble is ... I'm too awesome. I say that with no false modesty. If I am in the range of a child that child will want me to play with them. Maybe I release some sort of 'giant kid' pheromone that attracts them to me but well I am an awesome player? For some reason it is not hard for me to regress to that state of childhood wonder.

Being three theNoo is now inventing games and acting out stuff with toys. It's friggin' adorable. I could watch him play for hours. He'll even do voices.

At any rate I got told 'you no read!' and had a large triceratops thrust into my hand. He had the small one. The dinosaurs ended up toppling down the cliff (couch back) and even down a waterfall (a blue cotton blanket draped over the couch back). TheNoo would declare the fallen dino muddy, wash him in the waterfall, then repeat the drop. This went on for a while.

Finally I reclined and tried to read for a bit longer but theNoo wouldn't have any of it. I fake-slept, where I snore and theNoo tries to wake me up by poking, shouting, and, on the odd occasion, a soft feathery kiss. It's like one of those random dungeon events from 1st edition AD&D where it's 1d12 possible results and 11 are bad.

TheNoo started shouting 'wake up!' as today's chosen vehicle of alertness inducement. I still had big triceratops in my hand.

So I shook triceratops's head side to side.

'No!' yelled theNoo. 'You wake up.'

Triceratops shakes his head no (cough).

''No!' shouted theNoo, his no being a cease and desist order to the triceratops.

'No' shook Triceratops.

'You no say no ...' said theNoo. 'Triceratops.'

Yes, he actually told off the triceratops, by name.

I laughed and laughed and laughed. Then he laughed. He always does when he knows he's done something cute.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Talked him down

Now and then theNoo will wake up in the middle of the night and cry. Most of the time he's basically still asleep but in a temp awake and upset state.

Unfortunately for theHouse, theWife is the only one who can calm him down so he goes back to sleep. If I try then I get wails of 'No, not daddy. MUMMY!'. Which is fair enough, because mummies are the shizzle. There's a reason dying wounded call out for them if they feel the end surging upon them.

Tonight it happened. I had the monitor then heard him cry-awake-asleep. I left it for a couple of minutes in case he stayed unsettled. Then ... he started crying out for mum.

Since mum was still asleep I braved my chances and went in.

'No, not daddy. Mummy.' he said, clearly, looking at me. I crouched down, then lent against his bed and in a soft voice gently said mummy was in snoozy land, and was there something I could help him with. No, mummy he insisted. So I just kept saying mummy's asleep in a gentle soft way.

This went on for a couple of minutes then, finally, the Noodles laid back down, went fetal, and dropped back asleep. It's been 20 minutes. I think he's going to stay that way.

Small but significant victory for theDad.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

So I got that going for me ... which is nice

With thanks to Bill Murray in Caddyshack

I just found out that another IBS trigger - and thus something that causes me to swell up like a giant smelly gasman - is (drum roll) chocolate.

Yes, that's right. Another one of life's small edible pleasures - chocolate - is now denied to me. I know, it's hilarious - a fat person with food issues whining forth about losing a smell skerrick from the world's menu of things that don't make him go a rooty-toot-toot (smell extra). But still, whine I will. If my world consists of dealing with pain and feeling like crap and a small comfort is lost to me as it's likely an exacerbator - then yep, guess what, I am going to bitch about it. Even if I got me 98% of Maslow's needs. I'm still no longer packing chocolate.

Ha, that would be a good chocolate ad. A slow pan down a 3D Maslow's pyramid and chocolate is like number five or something. Then cut to the brand. Don't thank me - advertisers - for once again doing your fucking job.

Speaking of which ... just how fucking awesome is Mad Men Season Four? Every episode is spun gold. Spun gold I tells you ...

gold ...

gold ...

Remember how some chocolates come wrapped in gold coloured foil?

I do.

Damn you world. And fuck you Maslow, you smarmy pyramid obsessed fucker. I bet you think pyramids can resharpen dull razors too.

Good luck to sis

My sister in law's mum may be on the way out. Sis/law has come home from OS for the possible final days.

Best of luck with it all man. I hope it goes as well as it can.

Daddy on Noo overwatch

TheWife is off to the baby / toddler garment expo at EPIC in Canberra. I'm home with the doodles. He's happily playing as Blues Clues is on the teev and I am catching up with missed eps of The Colbert Report on Mr Lappy.

TheNoo's been assembling mega-bloks into rough animal shapes and coming over to show me. One was a "pig". Which proceeded to snuffle me with its snout in the stomach area.

'No!' I shrieked. 'Stop grubbing for truffles in my tummy.'

Which naturally encouraged him to further intrude the mega-blok pig into my fat folds.

In retrospect I shouldn't be so comedically fearful. I think it encourages him.

If I was state-side I would so be there

Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert are going to do a Beck and each hold a rally at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC.

Only ... their rallies will oppose each other!

Stewart's rally is for the 'Busy Majority' and is designed around the concept of sanity. His proposed placards included items such as 'I'm not afraid of gays or gun owners ... but I am afraid of spiders.' Also, Legalise Pot.

Colbert's on the other hand is 'Keep fear alive!' and asked people to bring five sets of underpants because the fear quotient is going to be that damn high.

When Obama got in a few media pundits predicted that Stewart and Colbert, who made their mark lampooning the very easily mocked Bush II administration, would suffer a drop in popularity. Instead both comedians have gone from strength to strength. Largely because of the hysterical over-reaction to Obama that has so infused the menacing Fox news corp and the delight that reality-based left leaning thinking types have in seeing the tag-team of Stewart and Colbert so effectively go the jester on them and the various almost psychotic uber righties that are now dominating the body politic media discourse at the moment.

Needless to say, if I was in the US I would so be there. With my sensible placard in one hand for Stewart and my five pairs of underdaks worn Superman style for Colbert.

Those gents are the shizzle.

And a reminder to my Oz based peeps, The Daily Show and The Colbert Report both screen on ABC2 from 715pm to 8pm weeknights. Easily the best tv out there. And totally worth the purchase of a set-top box for the digital signal on the strength of those programs alone.

UPDATE: Challenge to Morton T Fogg, resident left leaning yank currently studying in the hot-house of leftism in Californy. Get thee to the rally!

UPDATE2: Legalise Pot reminded me just then of the infamous Bong Hits for Jesus case. Which ended up eventually before the Supreme Court.

Nothing like a concrete example to make you revist your preconceived impressions

In the public service we have to undergo annual or every two years training in a host of 'proper behaviour reminders.'

This includes, but is not limited to, mandatory reminders on OH&S, security, understanding our employee agreement and, of course, Equity and Diversity.

At our work they developed a series of online training packages. For the equity one it's set in a small work team environment which is afflicted with a number of budding interpersonal conflicts that the manager has to resolve. It also gives the person undergoing the training an idea of what a person with a particular background may have to deal with and teaches them that, in the case of the person with a disability, they should not be automatically ruled out of an activity as chances are they have readily adapted to their condition and can rise to the challenge.

The other day I was at the library for story time. A volunteer from the audience was needed to hold the book for the story teller and turn the pages.

A woman stepped forward to do the job. She had vestigial arms. Deformed arms that were the length of perhaps an upper arm and possibly reduced numbers of fingers.

I'm embarrassed to say that my first thought was 'there is no way she can do this.'

She sad down, the book open facing out and resting on her knees. Her fingers curled around the top at the sides holding it in place. Then, story time began, and she had to turn the pages.

No problem at all. She curled the page out then stuck her finger under the curve then deftly turned the page.

This single incident of my poor preconceived notion of ability did more to remind me not to do that than any online training ever could. I almost felt I should have apologized to her. Mind you if I had she would have likely gone '... what ...?' and looked at me like I was a cock-spank.

And she'd have been right to do so!

Emotive gut punch

When you're feeling sad then external stimuli like songs can set the tears a'flowin' . Even ads that rely on emotional resonance can trigger da flood.

This one gets me. I've yet to drop tears on it but all the elements are there. A young turtle's struggle to navigate his childhood and a theme song designed to make you dissolve into a puddle of salty sad water.

Damn you Franklin!

Franklin however does suffer from one particular trait that is common to anthropomorphic animals - the selective wearing of clothing. Sometimes a hat, sometimes a scarf. And, most oddly, sometimes a shirt worn "under" the shell.

If he's just in a shirt doesn't that imply that he's ... tackle out?

UPDATE: TheNoo had to see a doc yesterday, who was checking his agility. He asked theNoo to walk on tippy-toes to the door and back. As theNoo strode forth his nappy ... slowly slid down to the floor. So in the end he was running around just in a shirt, his cute lil' tushie and tackle area waggling at the world. I used to do this thing called river nudes where I'd do a river dance in a harry high pair of pants and the vigorous action would carry the pants past the point of kept on the waist and drop to the floor. It is the way of such things. Eventually ... the son out does the father.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Be like the cobra - wait, then strike

We've had our boy cat for about 10 years. That's a long time in cat terms but to me he still looks like an overgrown kitten.

Boy cat doesn't mew - unless the vacuum is on nearby. Instead he bunts you in the head by way of affection. Sometimes so hard he presses your nose back into your face like it's one of those innie face glowing Sphinx statues whose eyes "follow" you around the room.

He's an expressive yawner. He opens his jaw wide, oh so wide, and silently rasps out his sleepy request for more 0(subscript)2.

In the 10 years I've had boy cat I've tried to stick my finger in his mouth when he yawns and thus touch his tongue. I can't remember the last time I succeeded. He's typically alert to the attempts and will sense an inbound index and dart away with a little spring.

Tonight, however, well ... I'll let Bush II indicate success/fail*.

Yep, I got right in there. He was so surprised he left his mouth hanging open and allowed me to easily retract my index to the safety of a closed fist in case boy cat wanted revengay.

Then, less than two minutes later, I got in there again.

*Of course it's a misleading image to use given Bush II used his infamous Mission Accomplished banner to declare an end of combat operations in Iraq ... about two months after the invasion. Turns out his optimistic forecast of success was not in touch with reality.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Magic Mohvie Moments

I want to rock from Road Trip. For some original HM antics featuring Twisted Sister see this post I prepared earlier.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Oh ... that's what it's for ...

I've been the proud owner / purchaser of a DVD player + DVDs for some 10 years.

It was only until the other day that I realised that by pressing the shaft that the DVD clicks onto in the centre of the case releases the DVD. All this time I've been levering them off from the edge and bending the disc in the process.

You know I take pride in the fact I am smarter than the average bear. So this is clearly an epic fail on my part.

Leonardo grabs me with skeletal fingers from his cold cold grave

I graduated from my first uni about 15 years ago. When I graduated my parents, being socially supportive peeps, fronted me the cash to have life membership in the students' union of that uni. The benefit of this was I got a union card that was almost identical to the university student card - only it didn't have an expiry date on it as it was a life membership.

Using this card, and my trusty hat with the uni name on it, I have for many years now enjoyed student discounts on entry to things. First I point to the hat by way of proof, then, if asked, I point to the card. This double trouble effort then typically grants me the discount.

Sneaky? For sure. Do I get a giddy thrill from it? Of course. For I am sticking it to the man.

Recently we went to Floriarde, the Canberra festival of flowers. Also at Floriarde was the Leonardo Da Vinci travelling exhibition. Unlike Floriarde it cost $20 to get in for adults. $15 as a student.

I had on my hat and my trusty card.

'One concession thanks,' I said brightly to the counter girl. Now most places I try and get entry to using my scheme are staffed by people who don't want to be there. It's just a job. They only give me the barest most perfunctory assessment of my student creds.

Unfortunately for me the Leonardo exhibit had hired a cluey interested person. She looked like a sexy librarian. You know, brunette, glasses, perky smile, eyes blazing with intelligence.

'There's no date on this,' she said.

'Um,' I said. 'Er ... no.'

'I see ... are you part time or full time?'

Now I should have said full time but I was shaken at being near rumbled. So I mumbled 'part time'.

'Sorry,' she said. 'We only give it to full time students.'

Curses! Full price!

Then as I was going through the payment process she asked what I was studying. In my case, what I studied. I kind of lamely muttered 'History ... communication...'

'Oh, what kind of history?'

Was there no end to this interrogation?!

'Um ... all kinds. You know, whatever interests me.'

'That's the only way to do it,' she said with a knowing 'not getting past me today with that student card business matey' look.

Damn you Leonardo. Dead in the grave near 500 years but your keen intellect has clearly infested even the lowly drones that carry your sacred object da military engineering models from town to town in that they saw through my feeble 'I am a student' hat + ambiguous card disguise.

I did however get to make some witty observations, and I admit the wittiness of said observations is clearly self applied.

I asked the beardy spruiker out the front 'will we get to find out what the code was?' then followed up with 'I heard they have the prow from the Titanic.'

You know that's gold, people.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Third time's a charm ... perhaps

Third breath test is this week and this one is for gluten intolerance. Is bread also my dark mistress along with (presumed) lactose? We will find out.

Still ... I get to sit for three hours and breathe every hour into the bag. So it's not like my arse gets examined ... again. Sick of having that part of my body medically probed - four times in the last eight years.

The worst part of the breath test is no diet coke the day before. I am climbing the walls here. I just gulped down half a litre of water. Water! I know, that's probably the most water I have ingested in one hit in the last ... eight years.

I wonder if there's a correlation of water drinking and anal probing?

Only our unearthly visitors could know for sure...

UPDATE: Oh it wasn't for Gluten - can't breath test for that. It was for fructose. However I am also adding sorbitol to the list as I have my suspicions. Test went well (this update is from Monday), though I got bored with the books I had and actually cracked open a Reader's Digest. Then I turned on some classical music, pulled my hat over my eyes, and dozed for 40 minutes. It was like sleeping in the car only with the danger of pitching out of the chair if you actually went full asleep.

Come on, that's gold

The other day we see a concrete mixer pulled up outside a house. It was from 'Elvin Concrete'.

I said 'Hey, that's like Elvis and elves ... don't step on my curly toed shoes.'

I didn't even get a courtesy laugh...

Wee wee wee all the way home

I 'more than walked' from one suburb to another. I think it was two kays. All the way, without stopping. I confess though I didn't want to go under the over pass where some bored looking hoodie teens were congregating and I am sure that if I had not had my earphones blaring news radio I likely would have heard some unpleasant comments re my jiggling person.

Still ... I managed to find a pace that I could maintain that was indeed faster than walking. Not quite jogging, a mid point between jogging and walking. Though more a slow jog than a fast walk.

My face is on fire and my thinning strands of hat hair are crown roasting but still ... I managed a longer distance than yesterday and, most importantly, this morning I didn't wake up stiff and horrid ... in the legs department ... from y'day's running efforts so I was able to once more into the ambling breach dear friends to fill the more than walking void with my ample person.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Like an exploded brain cavity

We went to the zoo. I saw this.

Now that's a big arsehole.

Seagulls plucked - a kay!

As regular HM reading punters know I am trying to be fitter. I started regular exercise about two and a bit years ago as a means of dealing with feeling shitty. Basically I go walking at least once a day. Rain, hail, or fucking shine.

I have never been one for vigorous physicality. Blessed with water on the knee in late primary school I porked in puberty big time and never looked back. Self-investigations of my knob area are by feel alone.

Of course it didn't help the old self esteem being fat, or being in a school environment where having a disability was seen as being a slacker. And in transfer to a co-ed school at the height of 'girls are interesting' feelings whilst being fat and thus immune to being considered worthy was hell on earth. As indeed were unwanted and embarrassing erections during daylight hours. Let's just say, if you're in year 10 and catching the bus, do not sit above the engine in the mornings.

So after two and a bit years of regular exercise, am I fitter? Well, yes. A little bit. Have I lost weight since starting? Well, a tad. Not much, but a tad. Not that I regularly weigh myself. I stopped having scales in the house ages ago and typically only weigh myself if at the doctor because it's too depressing.

My regular walks now and then break into ambling attempts at running. Short stabs of faster than walking, usually from 'that (pant, pant) tree to (pant) that (pant, pant) light-pole' efforts.

Tonight the urge seized me once more. So I started ambling again, puffing billy style, loud rasping breaths of wheezing as I shuffled in my cumbersome rig of kangaroo pouch jumper, trackie-daks, hat, and head-phones.

I managed to actually keep up a pace that was bearable and didn't force me to stop, lean against an upright object and be dizzy as I gasped in great heaving gobs of air.

I made it past the silver birches ... past the railings where the path splits to the shops ... under the first bridge ... under the second bridge ... over the walk way ... back under the second bridge ... then past a random light-pole. All up, according to a rough eyeballing on google maps, I think I ran a kay.

Yes, a kay. 1,000 probable metres of more than walking without stopping.

Suck it and weep world. I did me 1/42 of a marathon.

Thursday, September 09, 2010

Drive-by boganing

In The Weatherman, Nicholas Cage's character suffers from occasional episodes of having fast food thrown at his person from a passing car. He thinks it's because he's a B-grade TV celeb.

As a fat person who walks I too suffer driver borne abuse from complete strangers, though it hasn't happened for a while. Well, until today.

I was walking along, listening to my Mp3 player, when a car load of teens in their shit box pulled up to an intersection. I was staring straight ahead which resulted in my catching the eye of the back passenger.

As they peeled out with a light squeal back passenger opened his door and proceeded to yell.

'What are you fuckin' lookin' at ya fuckin' fuckin' fuckin'?'

At least that's what it sounded like. I'm sure there was probably a 'fat cunt' thrown in but that I didn't hear cos their outrage was somewhat muted by the goodness of Glee The Music, Vol. 3 - Showstoppers.

I simply stood and smiled and watched them drive off into the distance.

I find it somewhat ironic that I am abused for being fat - assuming they did, I'd say Occam's says that's the case - when I am the one walking and they're in a car. Also just how tough are you to say that to a stranger when you're in a car departing the scene and they're on foot? It's hardly gansta, is it?

Anyway, I found it all very amusing and pathetic. I expect they congratulated each other on a fine display of their manly plumage all the while wishing that there were some girls around to see what a bunch of hard bastards they were.

I know their muscular shoutiness practically made my panties a hot-house of wetness...

Congratulations boys, today ... today you have become men.

Blowback on the BEW! game

TheNoo and I have this game where he makes canon fire noises - BEW! - and my clothing flaps up. This naturally evolved into him blowing my clothes off - usually when I had a shirt I was about to put on and held up to my chest. BEW! he'd cry and I'd toss the shirt.

This further evolved into my pants falling off when he BEW!ed me. All good fun.

Only the other day I was wearing just undies, being in the process of being changed. I was in the bedroom when TheNoo appeared at the door.

BEW! he commanded, pointing at my only clothing.

I shook my head.

'Sorry noodles, no BEW! I have to get dressed.'

BEW! he cried again, insistently. I said no again.

Then .... he ran from the doorway over to me, reached up to my undies elastic, then tried to dakk me.

YARGLES I cried, grabbing at my undies and trying to reef them back up and unclench his maddened little fist.

That will teach me to change the rules on him.

Shouting fire in a crowded theatre

I am all for freedom of speech. Including expressing your 'speech' in ways that might not involve actual flapping of gums.

Burning stuff, symbolic stuff, is a time honoured tradition of expressing your contempt for said institution represented by burning stuff. American flags for example often cop it on the burning front.

However freedom of speech comes with inherent self-applied limitations. For example the yelling of fire in a crowded theatre is not on because it causes panic and terror. Unless, of course, the place is on fire.

One pastor in the US has decided to yell fire in a crowded theatre ... with the theatre being world religion.

He's going to hold a mass book burning ... of the Koran ... on September 11.

When I was a kid I liked to stomp on networked ants nests. You'd find them in the scrub. Many square feet of hard soft mounds sprinkled with tiny rocks and hundreds of holes. I'd stomp-shuffle across then watch with delight as thousands of angry ants poured forth ready to take on whatever the threat to their world was.

Ha, ha ants. Me big. Me strong. Me man! You ant.

Pastor fuckwit wants to do the same thing. Only these aren't ants. They're people. And some of these people have a reverence for their holy book. Some of these people come from a culture where harming their holy book gives them the mega-shits. Oh, and where militancy is also a part of that culture.

The alleged defacing of a Koran - it was given a swirlie - at Gitmo was used as a dot point in 'check out the western outrages against us' list as disseminated amongst some of the faithful. That to do such a thing clearly meant 'the crusaders' wanted war on Islam.

Now imagine what a book burning is going to do.

I was raised in the Christian church. Admittedly it wasn't a hard core ritualised effort with strict adherence to cultural traditions. Indeed, I was lucky. I got all the moral messages out of it that also accorded with a secular humanist model of behaviour. One of which is not pissing people off for the sake of it. You know, turn the other cheek and all that.

I'm not sure what religion this Pastor is preaching, but I know this. If JC was real he'd be mighty pissed off by the burning of books in his name. Especially if that burning was going to be used in the minds of some to justify acts of future terror and pain.

UPDATE: It should be pointed out that even hard core fundamentalist Christians have been trying to get Pastor F to cancel his good ole fashioned yee-haw book burnin'. Even Glenn Beck of all people. Let's hope they succeed.

Tuesday, September 07, 2010

Gillard back in

How to denigrate your country in the eyes of the world

Step 1) Have a midget fuckwit as your leader who gives missile systems grandiose names and declares the holocaust a myth.

Step 2) Stone a woman to death because she chose to have sex with someone who was not married to her.

Man I feel sorry for Iranians. Imagine having to live with a combo of a dwarven fuck knuckle and a bunch of medieval minded fucktards who honestly believe that pegging rocks at a woman's head because of her own volition she committed "adultery" to is somehow a sacred expression of their cultural identity? Oh, and that it's the moral thing to do.


Best of luck Iranian peeps. Here's hoping that you manage to progress these fuckers out of country out of mind at some point.

Friday, September 03, 2010

Oh Fred ... just for research eh?

I have to admit to a certain expressive 'ha ha' when Fred Nile was revealed to have had his office computers used to surf p0rn sites.

The famously bushy eyebrowed one - has he not heard of a Brazilian? - has spent countless years thundering in denunciation of man and woman's joy and seeing the other naked and ready to get bizay.

I can see that. What happens between consenting adults with their bodies, or those who third party view such action in the privacy of their home, is completely Fred's business.

Oh, and it doesn't stop there. As irony would have it Fred also doesn't like it when ladies wear too many clothes in addition to too little since Freddy tried to get the Burka banned on the grounds of 'who knows what that Arabs are up to in the privacy of their body concealing garments.'

He's like fucking Goldilocks. Too few clothes, too many, just right...

Anyway the three computers in Nile's office apparently performed 200,000 hits on le naughty-naughty. That's a fair chunk - though as a web dude in Crikey y'day pointed out a 'hit' is any active element on a webpage, but even so, that's a lot of volume.

Nile claims the 200,000 suspect hits recorded under his login were his staff researching the Australian S-x Party and the proposed internet filter. Staffer David Copeland reportedly confirms this. But this raises further questions.

That figure of 200,000 could well be a “hit” for every element on a web page, and web pages typically have dozens of elements such as graphics, style sheets and hidden scripts. Even so, that still represents thousands of pages.

Just how much “research” do you need to do, how many pages do you need to look at, to determine that there’s – gosh! – p-rn on the internets?

Since we're discussing Fred Nile, I'd like to take this opp to once again apologise to the world for performing my civic duty in a cavalier manner in my first occasion as a voter when, in a NSW election, in the upper house I voted for the Grey Party ... not realising my vote on preferences went to Nile.

Still, it taught me a lesson. Never, ever, joke-vote. Just ... don't. After-all, look what happens when you do. Turnbull lost to Abbott by one vote and one of the votes in the party room was a joke-vote.

Thursday, September 02, 2010

Oh Tony - did your casio break?

Despite having an alleged degree in economics - seriously - Tony Abbott and his team apparently made some slight miscalcs in his costings. According to treasury the Lib's costings were about 10 billion out.

10 ... billion.

The Coalition refused to let Treasury cost its policies during the campaign and furnished independent advice claiming savings of $11.5 billion over four years. Last week the Opposition Leader, Tony Abbott, relented to demands by the independents to let Treasury cost the work.

Figures released after the talks with the independents show Treasury calculated the Coalition would save only $860 million over the four years. Under another scenario it says the saving would be $4.5 billion.

Mr Abbott disputed the findings and said under the worst-case scenario they would come up $4 billion short and still save $7 billion.


My fave observation on this comes from today's Crikey.

... Mr Abbott, the man who remains more likely to become prime minister shortly said this morning, economic competence isn't about things like costings.

That line was too much even for my, I hope highly-developed, capacity to accept political hypocrisy. We all know Tony Abbott is an economic lightweight, but is there any need to confirm it with comments like that?

So for those who came in late, here's the story so far: the Liberals thought it would be a great lark when they were in government to establish a process called the Charter of Budget Honesty that would trap oppositions into being forced to either be humiliated when Treasury found flaws in their pre-election costings, or dodging the process and looking like they had something to hide.

Like most parties when new in government, they didn't think about the possibility that they might not be in government one day.

Come their turn, they opted to look like they had something to hide. Which, it turns out, they did.

And thus Peter Costello is presumably having an extended laugh today at the expense of Tony Abbott and Joe Hockey as their convoluted efforts to avoid the Charter trap have made things a whole lot worse in the eyes of the three voters that now matter, the rural independents.


That's not to say that if Labor had made the same errors in opposition they wouldn't have been pilloried by the Coalition and the right-wing media, but that's just ordinary double standards. I can't imagine the media letting Labor get away with saying 95% of its costings were right, which the Coalition used in its own defence last night. Hell, a 2.7% complaint rate for BER projects has been the basis for an extended campaign about the "incompetence" of Labor.

Absolutely, Murdoch's pet, The Australian, which to me gives off the mental image of Salacious Crumb, the unpleasant parasite licking monkey puppet that supplicated at the base of Jabba the Hutt's worm tail, laid out buckets of pages wanking on about the Building Education Revolution and Pink Batts to the extent they became opposition 'shouty repeaty' points to be used whenever any form of recording media was nearby, and the BER had a complaint rate of just 2.7%.

The Australian in the 2010 election have been particularly monstrously brazen in their suckling of the Liberal's teat. Kind of ironic since, as Crikey have pointed out, the planned Abbott freeze on public service positions meant no ads in The Oz and that's going to cost them 10 million a year.

That's like some sort of Stockholm Syndrome right there. Or a bit of 'thank you sir, may I have another.'

At any rate if Abbott did get in I for one would have to smirk at such shitty treatment meted out to a news organisation that would have done a country spokesperson on the wrong side of the iron curtain proud for their inability to be objective.

I know, I know. Complaining about the overt bias of a national newspaper bible of the free market that is rumoured to have broken even just once in its 35 odd years of existence is pretty silly. That's like being upset at rain. It's just a natural event that happens. Maybe I just don't like getting caught in a shower of shit?

Too eager

Tomorrow we have a Bacchanalian Spring Festival at work. Well, the food and drink part at least. Yes, the freshly decided Casual Friday with a floral motif will launch itself upon the work horseshoe and Mr Hawaiian shirt will make his appearance.

As I opened the cupboard this morning to get ready for work I saw Mr Hawaiian lurking there. To mind unbidden came this scenario.

Naturally I put this in an email and sent it to L, new boss and the new girl M, whose idea this festival was.

As I approached my wardrobe for my work shirt I noticed the door was slightly ajar. Curious, I opened it. At that point my Hawaiian shirt leaped from the hanger and tried to engulf my torso like the black alien gunk from Spiderman 3.

'Back,' I shouted to my shirt. 'No, it's is not your time! Friday, Friday my pet.'

The shirt shrank back into the dark depths, cooing like a reptilian pigeon.

Too eager!

It was like that scene from flying high 2 with the DANGER VACUUM cupboard.

Boss and L are used to my e-shenanigans, but M is not. The former did not respond. However freshly not returned to Queensland - despite Cass's suggestion that would be the case - M did!

Mikey - your talents are wasted here...

A ping back. Well I couldn't just leave it there...

I'm not fit for anything else.

The last time I did manual labour I was sacked and had to hitch-hike 30 kays home.

I got picked up by a kiwi shearer who looked like Jon English. He was driving an orange kombi van. As we approached the outskirts of town he saw a lizard crossing the road ahead broke into barking laughter and swerved to squish it.

At that point on I knew I was destined for a sedentary office existence.

I received ... no reply

Wednesday, September 01, 2010

Ah Spring

Spring in Canberra is a big deal. It gets cold here - not so cold as to get snow, worse luck - and so when plants blossom into new life well, it's a nice thing.

We have semi-casual Friday in my office. I normally celebrate by wearing my Hawaiian shirt. As does A who sits on the north side of the horseshoe from me.

One of our news starters is a girl from Queensland. She sent around a branch wide email suggesting that this casual Friday that in deference to the start of Spring that we all wear something that had a floral motif.

I sent an email...

Do A and my Hawaiian shirts count? They're floral. Plus mine smells like a meat cooked in a hangi. Well, I wish. If it did I'd probably end up unconsciously chewing on my collar like a dog trying to bypass its neck cone.

Sounds like an awesome fragrance. I can see the ad now.

'Be like the flesh cooked on hot rocks underground... Hangi ... by Calvin Klein.'

Now I have to admit, I didn't expect a reply, but well, I got one!

Somehow you make a rather revolting concept and fragrance sound raunchy....

And yep - Hawaiian shirts definitely count!

A response was needed!

That's the beauty of Calvin Klein. You can take any statement of grossness then leap to the title + maker.


Fetid water seeping into a freshly dug grave ... Eau cadavre by Calvin Klein

Excellent. I checked my shirt today and it has palm trees on it. Now I know that technically palm trees are not deciduous and thus do not rebirth in Spring, however one could argue that palm trees are an iconic representation of a pleasant seasonal atmosphere of oceanic warmth and thus count.

M suggested I could wear a flower in my hair. I could either glue it over my bald spot or entwine it in my below neck hair but either way I'd argue it's a bad look...

Yeah ... I got no further replies.