Tuesday, November 30, 2010

That's mah boy

I came in from nerd night and went into theNoo's room to kiss him goodnight.

In his bed was his toy battle-axe.

Yep, that's mah boy.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Vale Leslie Neilsen

Leslie Nielsen died. He was 84.

I loved the Naked Gun movies, the Flying High movies (called Airplane! in the states), and Police Squad. He was a serious actor that had a career rebirth parlaying that serious gravitas into comedic roles like that of Frank Drebbin.

There's so many stand out awesome moments in these movies it's hard to pick one. I did a trawl through YouTube and found this.

I will miss him. He was a kak.

One of my favourite moments from Naked gun two and a half.

Commissioner Anabell Brumford: Ladies and gentlemen, I would now like to introduce a most special American. Tonight, he is being honoured for his 1000th drug-dealer killed.

Lt. Frank Drebin: [to applause] Thank you. But, in all honesty, the last three I backed over with my car. Luckily, they turned out to be drug-dealers.


PS This bit always make laugh as well...

Cos ya gotta have faith uh faith uh faith

I'm on record as not liking Tony Abbott. Perhaps it's his frenetic masculinity? Or perhaps it's his willingness to do whatever it takes to get his side on top? Perhaps it's his contrarian dated views that are better served in the century left behind ten years past than the one we're 10 years into?

Remember when Keating called Howard a pre-Copernican Obscurantist? I think that deliciously well-crafted insult likewise applies to Abbott.

Take for example Abbott's recent Neville Bonner memorial lecture.

Neville Bonner was an Australian first. He was the first indigenous elected member of Federal elected representatives - appointed a Senator in 1971, then won election in his own right following that.

He was also a member of the Australian conservative party - the Liberals - to which Abbott currently reigns supreme.

There's a likely apocryphal tale about Bonner in that when first becoming interested in politics in the 60s a Labor identity asked Bonner 'shouldn't you be with our mob?' - or words to that effect - which caused Bonner to promptly join the conservatives. At any rate despite his overt conservatism he was nonetheless an Indigenous member of the Australian parliament just a couple of years after Indigenous Australians got to vote at all.

At any rate Bonner is used as a bit of a touch stone by Liberals in that they point to his ground breaking achievements and crow the fact it was the Liberals he chose. Despite, of course, all that the conservatives have done to Indigenous people or haven't done where it comes to rectification. That and the Liberals dropped Bonner from their Senate ticket in 1983 and he ran as an independent instead.

So Abbott is giving the memorial lecture - for Bonner died in 1999 - and he talks about the monarchy - referencing the fact the son of the crown prince is about to get himself hitched to his lovely girlf.

Abbott, a proud monarchist, apparently said there were good arguments for the monarchy - but they were often beside the point

''The wellsprings of its appeal are instinctual as much as rational; more akin to loyalty to a team, solidarity within a family or faith in a church than they are to support for a policy. Deep down, they are the heart's reasons that reason doesn't know,''

I am an Australian. As it stands I can never be, nor can my child, be the head of state. The current head of state is the Queen of Australia.

Yes, that's right. Australia's head of state is a Queen. Previously we'd been referenced as a line or two added to her vast array of titles. In 1973 we took a brave leap into the unknown where we simply stated she was our queen, irrespective of what else she was queen of.

Of course she is rather hands off. She delegates her powers in this regard to the Governor General. Who she picks ... on advice ... of the Prime Minister.

Apparently to Abbott, that's all okay, because the monarchy is akin to the love of your local footy team or indeed your particular brand of bearded sky-father.

I know. It's just nutty. In fact it's an archaic holdover to a time in world history when governments feared to act without some sort of hereditary monarch acting as the dead-man brake on a runaway train in case it all got a bit too much and we got the vapours or something. Or we started chopping off heads like the bally frogs did in the French revolution, what? what?

Tony Abbott wants to run the government ... but he doesn't want to be the head of state. That's the Queen. Which is why when a foreign dignitary raises a toast to Oz it's not to her people. Not to her browned landscapes. Not to her unique flora and fauna. It's to an elderly woman, whose neck wattle has noticeably increased if recently minted coins are accurate, some many thousands of kilometres away in a large expensive house guarded by mute soldiers whose hats are best described as rape-of-nature-meets-lavatory-brush.

But monarchy to Abbott is not a thing of reason, of logic. To Abbott just because it's archaic and largely irrelevant to modern life doesn't mean it shouldn't be accorded respect such as all our coins having her face on them, our stamps festooned with queen heads, portraits in various places, and the word Royal predicating vast swathes of institutions and organizations within our land, and toasts raised in her name.

Because in the end the Australian head of state, and who can be it, is not about logic, fairness, or meritocracy. It's about tradition.

You just gotta have faith uh faith uh faith...

Sunday, November 28, 2010

So far so ... well ouch

Yeah I know I am waxing lyrical about my shit tract again.

It's going okay. In taking a daily laxative, no surprise, I am moving a lot more "product". But the "product" in question is looking more and more like actual proper "product" than most that has gone before. So I guess that's good - even if the first few days have been gut clenchingly painful at times.

Lucky for me I found a small travel stash of meds to take the edge off the pain because it was getting pretty fucked.

Went to a trivia night the other night - cunningly allowed to go because C asked theWife on my behalf. Look at that puddum! How could she say no?

The lads and ladies on the table were grand, I had some drinkee poos, and we came second. We may have come first if I hadn't blown the 'Who am I?' guess on - no shit, Mr Rourke from Fantasy Island - when it turned out to actually be Keanu Reeves.

Yeah, yeah I know how could I have mistaken the two? Well the hint I guessed on was 'met god once, bested the devil twice' and I knew from years of watching Fantasy Island re-runs on the shitty commercial station that serviced my part of the state that Rourke on FI had I believed done just that. Turns out that was actually a hint to Keanu Reeves movies Constantine and The Devil's Advocate. My bad, even if I did cop shit for my mistake. Of the booty we done gone and got I got some movie vouchers. Even with our noodles man taking up our previously used time of movie going they're good for a year so we should get to use them.

I also decided to have another revisit to the dairy fairy - checking to see if my milk thang still happened even if on a daily dose of laxative goodness.

Well duh. Of course it does. It landed 20 minutes after I had it.

And what did I break my dairy fast with?

... Goodberrys ...

I am not proud of myself, no sir.

UPDATE: It's the next morning. I am about a nine on the ten pain scale. It's almost hard to see. I brought this on myself. Oh dear god it hurts. It's like someone jammed the nozzle of a pair of bellows up my jacksie and has set to with fierce gusto to fill me with gas and entrails muck. Fucking hell ...

UPDATE2: Comment from theWife. 'Now we know Goodberrys is actually Badberrys. Noted*'

UPDATE3: I had awesome Leonard's roly poly ham-chicken for lunch, left overs from last night. I tried eating it too quickly and it got stuck. Normally if I yak it up then a giant spit bubble emerges from my mouth and drops like an over heavy soapy effort into the bog. Today ... today was different. I got the mega-spittle ... the precursor for a proper vomit. Only I also needed to piss. So there I was with my nob out ready to piss but unable to do so in case I threw up. I tucked Mr Johnson back in, but left the fly open. Then ... then I threw up. I missed the bowl and instead splattered well above the rim and in and around the seat hinge. There was much cleaning up. After I finished cleaning I realised I still had my fly gaping open, returned Mr Johnston to the ready posish and took the waited for piss. Fucking hell what a miserable development.

*Please note that there is nothing wrong with Goodberrys for normal peeps. It is in fact delish. It's just bad for someone with digestion of dairy issues... as pointed out by Patrick on numerous occasions, he also suffering from delicate guts.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Meh health crap

That's what I'd like to see a Hallmark card for ... meh health crap. A card you send someone who you know is not in the greatest of ways, perhaps from multiple complaints, and that you - the sender - are thinking of them for those moments when they groan when getting up / showering / taking a shit.

For the first part of this week each day I had some sort of invasive medical needling. Four needles to the mouth on one day, half a litre it seemed of blood taken for another, and another coda of a hint of mouth needle again the one following.

Ouchies. I shrank back in the chair I don't mind saying, but also made fun of the ceiling art of autumnal forest. I said they should have aggressive suck it up, buttercup signage like 'man up bitch', and 'put your man pants on' - though I confess I stole that from barely sentient and sane Sharon Angle, Republican slash Tea Party candidate for the senate seat for Nevada in the recent US midterms. They shrieked 'No! We're caring dentists!' Apparently the company behind said calming signage on the ceiling, which I have noted previously was like the euthanasia scene from Soylent Green, has gone bankrupt and there will be no more calming signage. Dentists across our sad nation will be stuck with art for years and in decades to come will earn the scorn of the man in the Jetsons hat sneering from beneath his iSpecs- a combined iPad cerebral insert projected 3d 100 terabyte processor - at the visage which is SO twenty-ten.

That's right Jobs, iSpecs. I thought of it first - concept and name is mine. I declare the concept and the name open source to anyone who wants it ... unless of course it is a registered trademark already in which case um carry on nothing to see here.

On top of that impressive needling, and let's not forget as a child I either hid in a log fort to avoid a surprise vaccination, or had to be bent over the table and it jabbed in my arse if I knew about it, I decided to bite the bullet and went off to my meeting with the medical dude at my org about whether I let them have a lookie-loo into my health issues and business in case it impacts on the workplace.

Some observations.

The dude who took my deets was shorter than me, a touch older, said 'oh my gawd' at every fecally layered point I made about my condition best described as 'almost literally full of shit', and his handshake was limper than the handshake the lads gave George Bush II on that episode of King of the Hill where Hank, conservative voter, discovers to his horror that W is packing a light wet crimp* of a handshake instead of a proper Texan grip'n'squeeze.

There was a pipe in the meeting room that ran floor to ceiling that had a glass view port on it. It was an access port. Lots of flushing went through it. We were talking about jobbies, or rather my inability to properly job a jobbie out, and there were likely jobbies actually passing by the corner of our eyes in a wet vacuum esq tube like they have for the cash cannisters at checkouts in Woolies and Coles.

The process is voluntary and they can't make it part of an employee performance agreement.

He had already talked to both my bosses. I saw a glimpse of the back of his report and it said one of them described me as 'highly intelligent'. Don't get me wrong, I am a fucking brianiac compared to others in this world in my false-modest(ity) opinion. But to me 'highly intelligent' could have also followed with 'eats lunch alone', 'collected pictures of guns from magazines as a child', and 'occasionally breathes on people when they walk into the toilets'. Though that had only just happened so I am confident that wouldn't be on there.

The report is not seen by others.

I can continue the process and invite along as my special guest star a case-manager to hear about the glories that is my gut gomach when next I see a Doctor.

Actually I made up gomach. It sounds vaguely Yiddish I like to think. I did it because I needed something alliterative and I couldn't be intercoursed to look up a synonym for pain that began with a g.

That handshake was super limp.

But he was really nice. He was caring. He gave a shit. He clucked in all the right places when you give a sad and sorry state of stomach status. See what I did there? That was Batman TV show alliteration awesome.

It might actually be worth keeping going with this. After-all the trouble with what I have is that there's nothing overtly dramatic about my condition that makes me appear to be ill. Occasional white faced pain and minor gasping aside that is. Perhaps if they got a better idea of how I rock the intestinal freak show then maybe they would be more understanding when Mikey has trouble sleeping and that he may have to leave the meeting in case he farts, cries, or shits himself.

During my extended foray into the field of having dental work done, and by the way the pre-anesthetic cherry-flavoured numbing gel they rub on your gums before they needle it tastes like stale VB, the dentist had her thinly clad latex fingers in my mouth.

It was clinical yet intimate. Like
this scene from Road Trip. Later, when I realised that in addition for an accidental suckle I could have also playfully nipped them, I asked if she'd ever been bitten. She said yes, that it was mainly kids, and it probably was because they were trying to get their own back. Fair enough. They are such kewl dentists! I'd send them an Xmas card if it wasn't desperately sad, pathetic and more than a touch creepy. Then there's the sentiment scrawled inside...

'Have a great Christmas .... and please know I'll never sue ... I keep remembering you were in my mouth, and I could have suckled you.'

See? That's the sort of thing that ruins a patient-health provider relationship.

Why is life so difficult?

*UPDATE: I changed squeezed to crimp when I realised squeezed was too powerful a verb to drop on that remembrance of shows passed. I wondered how long it would take for google to sweep that into thine self. I googled 'wet limp crimp' then refreshed a couple of times. It was less than five seconds for this post to appear. That freaks me out ... oh wait ... content from this blog automatically enters google's data collection because blogspot is a google product. Der.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Me stomach snakes is lazee...

I had a meeting with my doc who recently me a double snaking. This procedure then resulting in Two-snakes becoming my alleged mafia name - you know, should one be needed - as a result of this having had medical scope examinations both top and bottom in the same sesh.

I'd recently had breath tests to determine if I had various intolerances - suspecting lactose intolerance because when I drank milk my guts would churn and lo there would be gaseous calamity (Lev 12:13). Turns out no ... not lactose intolerant. So I wanted to know what to look for next. Back to my two-snaking doctor.

This time I had questions! Actually, theWife had questions which I had to ask, her having documented various symptoms and concerns about triggers as well as possible causes.

So we had a chat and he, the doc, got to circle various bits of the intestinal tract from his massive 100 page thick rip off anatomy pad of the intestinal tract. Isn't that neat? A thick book of gut cutaway diagrams - that way he could just doodle on it when pointing out how stuff works then tear it off to give to me if I needed it.

Conclusion? Go see a dietitian - sigh - but it has to be done. Apparently the one I am booked to see is an expert on the medical dietitian aspects of people with sad and sorry stomachs. Also some blood tests - and I had this kewl (presumed) gay (actual) Asian dude take my blood, who was most gentle and I barely felt a prick (ha, ha - you know if he was gay, like it would fucking matter if he was or wasn't) ... unlike the four mouth injections I had yesterday during my revisited second clean plus new filling*.

And ... a likely diagnosis - a lazy bowel or low motility. Basically instead of passing waste out like a normal person my system likes to take its time. Really... really slow on down that process so it can ... nup, no idea what the benefits of that would be from an evolution viewpoint so let's just sum up with 'the shit stays in way longer'.

So with a lazy tract, like two lane traffic narrowed to a single lane, there's some backing up.

Solution? In addition to diet and possible other side stuff being tested via blood work, then laxatives. Yep, turns out if you have a slow system you're allowed to regularly, routinely take laxatives to redress some of the speed issues. He said taking regular doses of laxatives for this is more than okay and that he has a number of patients that take them daily.

I guess I will try supplementary laxatives for a week and see what it does.

You know I assumed there were medically technical terms for types of bowel motion - or shits. Turns out ... no.

The class A shit however that he descried, verbally pointed to like the light on the hill, was something he termed - this deliciously accentuated by his still broad kiwi accent - as a "lovely log".

Yes, that's what I am looking to achieve - a lovely log. Not a floating ribbon like is my usual buttock betwixting fare. But a log ... that is lovely. A lovely log.

Like what my three year old does. Ah, already the son bests the father.

*About a week after my last filling a chunk of tooth came away ... from the tooth where the filling had been applied. I kept the chunk and figured since there was no pain it was just the coating bit - enamel - or the filling itself sharding off. Turned out it was enamel. My tooth so weak that the density of the enamel was less than that of the plastic shoring it up. By the time this most recent filling was applied that tooth was now 90% resin. I asked if I should just get it yanked and the kewl dentist practically cried 'NEVER, WE'RE TEETH SAVERS!' I love my dentists. They're in walking distance; they're young; they're mutually supportive - unlike my last Dentist who used to have domestics with his assistant over their job performance when both of them had either instruments or latex coated digits in my mouth; and most importantly they laugh at my inane whisper-witticisms. Whisper because they're barely a witty remark - a ghosted outline of what could be if only I thought of it there and then. They also use iPod shuffle as their sound track to work by instead of blearing out fucking 104 or 106, the commercial groan inducing commercial rock stations here in Canberra. I asked if they had a dental playlist - you know, rock songs that featured teeth in someway, and they said they only knew of one song that had teeth as a subject and they believed in fact the song was titled "teeth". True story. Talk to your dentists people - because they're people too!

Monday, November 22, 2010

Exhaled relief onto the chest of a very tall man

Recently I was in tremendous gut pain. My condition is cyclical in that it is always there but the symptoms vary in intensity. Sometimes it's an absolute shocker.

I went into work late, having munged pain pills and spent forty minutes with a TENS machine zapping over-write messages on the pain centres in my guts - dialing the pain level back a couple of points but rendering my already festooned with numb patches from surgeries past almost completely numb to the touch.

So any actual movement at the station, defecation wise, is a good thing because it means less pain. For example, being able to fart means less gas in the tract and therefore less pressure adding to the delish pain-mixing going on in my stomach from DJ jam-master-crippled-tum.

I was at the urinal, guts cramping, when whilst streaming forth a number one I managed to fart and give myself a slight dial back on the ouchies.

As I stepped away, zipped up, and headed through the door the relief of the fart swept me up, and I gave a nice big theatrical deep exhale of satisfaction ... right onto the chest of the very tall man that was coming in. So fever-ant was this exhale that it actually rippled the cloth of his business shirt and I think I may have even hosed down his man nips.

Luckily he was so tall that I didn't have to catch his eye during the accidental breathing all over his pectoral area.

Nothing was said. I kept going, washed my hands, and left.

Why do these things happen to me? Who else but me can accidentally do something as intimate as that to a complete work-stranger?

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Inevitable really

It's Spring here in Australia's national capital - the funny designed semi-sprawl of neat houses and public buildings that is Canberra - a rural city arisen out of the land as a result of not choosing Sydney or Melbourne to house the federal government.

It's nice out. Where in winter the garden is rarely used now, on the weekend, theNoo will spend a chunk of time outside - moving between various cells of activity lovingly set up by his mum. There's the play-doh table, the swing set, the fitness trampoline (those ones that tend to sit in the corner of a teenage girl's bedroom and end up as a repository for resting clothes or a mound of soft toys so beloved as a child but so displayed like a furries pyramid as a tween or older), the wendy house, the sandpit shells and so forth.

Then there's the hose. We got one of those hose nozzle gun things that has a trigger and is shaped like a gun. On a side note as a kid when playing wars those gun hose nozzles made a dandy pretend weapon.

So when theWife uses the hose outside - and he's outside - he too likes to use it. He will go off and water the weed infested garden beds that cling to the floor to ceiling windows of the dining room and bedroom. Or one or two of the free standing pots. Or even the vegetable garden - under the supervision of his mum.

I was stretched out on the recently mown lawn, luckily free of bindies and other thorny crap, reading a decaying school fete sourced book as theNoo was wandering around, hose-gun in hand like Roger Moore in the sniper opening sequence at the start of a Bond flick.

He saw me lying there on my stomach, eagerly drinking in the sun, waving my over muscled calfs back and forth like a lazy swimmer just expending enough energy to maintain buoyancy.

At that point he pointed the hose at my back and let fly. The shock of cold water on my sun kissed through shirt back was exquisite. I shrieked with discomfort and frantically stripped the sopping colder than hell shirt off my body, the slimy clinging cold of the sodden cloth sliding across my face as I pulled it over.

I told him I was angry, and got him to say 'orry in his little way, but let's face it ... that was bound to happen.

After-all, give a man a hammer and he sees the world as a nail

Thursday, November 18, 2010


I have always cheated at winkie murders

Well it could have gone pear shaped

I finally had the follow up talk with my boss.

I have to admit I was worried. I've been pretty upset over all of this, to the point where I managed to anger myself so much I started raving and crying when on the way, of all things, to get acupuncture.

There's something in my family's genetics that makes us go Hulk. My dad has it, us boys have it. Maybe in days of yore where survival was key having a trait that made us get furious, powering us with adrenaline and anger was a good thing.

In today’s effete limp-wristed white collar dominated civilized world where if you actually killed or processed the raw food item to which you are consuming puts you in a distinct minority then it can have its drawbacks.

I was worried, for example, that in the follow up meeting that I would in fact go the missing shirt and ripped purple pants that is synonymous with the grey-green-grey for a bit more-green again gamma radiation afflicted scientist we know and love.

But I didn’t. The key to not going hulk was preparation.

TheWife suggested I write down what I wanted to say so it was clear in my head. Even if I didn’t read it directly – it gave me that option if my emotions got the better of me – and it helped me streamline the narrative of my response.

So I wrote down a bunch of dot points and augmented the print out with some other notes and went on in.

I stayed calm. I got to say my piece, that I thought the bollocking I copped for one aspect of the bollocking, the left nut if you will, was largely undeserved but agreed that steps to prevent it were now in place. For the right nut I gave a big mea-culpa on the fail of using a checklist to check my reports were as sound as a pound but was able to point to rectification steps already now implemented.

My boss also mentioned that her use of the word “poor” in terms of my reports was more in regards to my treatment of other people’s content. That when it was my content she liked it but when it was other people’s not as much. So if I was editing someone else’s contribution that if it needed the heck re-written out of it, then I should go ahead and do so and simply liaise back with the contributor to sort it all out. Also, that I could do that without her direct input.

So I feel better for it all. It doesn’t appear to be a formal management process. I copped a deserved smack for neglecting technical aspects of my job, but she knows I work hard and she’s there to help me fill in the gaping maw of my skill set when it comes to those specific elements.

Big ups to you lads who commiserated and offered suggestions and advice. It was much appreciated.

Fragile man signing off.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

White collar v tradie

I am the OH&S POC in my workplace. What's that? I hear you think. What the fuck does that series of sorry letters plus the and symbol even mean?

Well ... were you a white collar worker you'd know that was Occupational Health and Safety Point of Contact.

Why? Well ... because it was being handed out and then it was handed to me.

For the most part it means the storing a copy of a form submitted to the safety area on the unit's files.
And ... reporting building faults.

This fits well with me because despite my hatred of ... the man (down casts head, raises left fist) ... I am a tremendously enthusiastic dibber dobber and will happily spend long minutes of frustration notifying various authorities about various things. It's not to feel important - though you do get a moment of giddy thrill when it's a security thing being ah dibber dobbed. Like when I repeatedly dobbed in thinlips-nowork, Ando knows who I mean, because she'd log her long-haired bogan son onto the network so he could surf against her log in across motocross fan pages*. No, it's more because I have semi-OCD and I worry that if I don't report it then the building will lose structural integrity and it will fall in upon itself.

Today - about lunchtime - I noticed a couple of lights were out. Apparently I was told by a colleague this morning but must have filed their dibber dobber as background noise - like that radio static residue of the Big Bang which, coincidentally, was evidence for the theory of said over-sized explosive force.

So I reported it. The lights ... not the Big Bang. Since it turned out there were actually seven lights gone out of action I labelled the report urgent. Likely fearing for the safety of public servants feeling their way around the semi-dark office - only 66% lit according to normal luminescence - they marked it top priority.

Within an hour I had a call! The tradies had arrived. I took them up - they looked at the lights then decided they needed a ladder. Back downstairs - ladder fetched - back upstairs. It wasn't a blown connection apparently because the lights blown were random. So they changed a globe - nothing. What could it be? They changed another - no, nothing.

He thought about it. Then said 'have you turned it off and on again?.'

No,' I admitted. 'They're auto lights. They don't have a switch. They come on in business hours. But there's an after hours light switch.'

Tradie thought. 'Try that,' he said.

So we pressed it. All the lights went off. A ground hog pop of the doppler rippled sound of 'hey!' hadron collidered down the workstations nearby.

By we pressed it I mean of course in accordance with we referring to a group decision or royal pairing. I was actually the one that pressed it.

Then we (meaning I) pressed it again.

They came back on ... as did the ones that had "blown".

Turns out there must of been a minor glitch in the auto timer for the lights and some just had not flickered into life. Pressing the after hours button fixed it.

So yes ... I had in fact ... emergency called out a tradie and his apprentice - both of whom had to go to their truck at least once for the ladder - for the task of the organising and the supervising ... of the turning on of a light switch.

I was pretty sheepish.

I kind of muttered
'you ... won't tell the other tradies will you?' because, of course, as a monolithic cultural grouping they have regular meetings where they decide all issues recumbent on the interest of tradies, and therefore they keep in touch. Likely through hot-tradiesbookface.com - the website that allows the lady loved blue collar hunk of large tool-belt clad hunka chunk to maintain their network.

I then added
'... or be on your Christmas blooper reel?', like you know TV shows make towards the end of the year, the editor chuckling, fag balanced on the lip in the edit booth as he cuts together all the moments where the presenter said fuck on a taping and, choosing sounds that ascended and descended in scale so the montage of talking-head excreted fucks bleeped out 'ode to joy', then presents the reel at the Christmas party and earns a laughing kiss from the intern whose presence is a 'this week, all week' repeating feature from his mental-assist-the-wank bank [kind of like shark week but with more masturbation and less sharks].

They laughed, chuckling at the money their company made from a call out that for certain has a minimum turning up fee, but cursing the unnecessary trip they made to go back down and get their ladder.

Mikey; white collar wunderkind.

*At my state high school there were a bunch of kids that loved motorbikes. Had posters on their wall, and their p0rn was likley street-strip themed with slattern-esq biker's molls forming the straddle saddle nudie-candy. They'd gather together the like minded and hang out at that gum tree that had the small hillock and a big dusty patch of ground near where the roots dip into the earth. During that time they'd impress each other, not only with the accuracy and gusto of a specific engine on a specific bike but, in true combo of voice and body working in synchronicity whilst eliciting the noise of an engine, would mime the position of hands on the throttle and brake and, with their foot, back-kick it along the ground to kick up some dust to represent the skiddy and dust cloud their awesome maneuver would have made had they been actually on that bike - presumably the slattern tattooed bikie moll standing out of shot but holding their can of Fosters. **

It was the 80s.

However, being without a clue or indeed interest about the subtle variances between the various engine noises being brayed aloud in the stilled winter morn air of recess while they gathered at their "skiddy tree"***, all their engine noise malarkey seemed to simply sound like they were belting out a large guttural word that sounded like 'Vaughton'.

**By the way rest-of-the-world (you know who you are). As that wiki link notes, while you may think Fosters is the amber-fluid equivalent of our national flag, you are mistaken. No-one drinks Fosters in Oz in any appreciable quantity. If you want to know what's considered Ozzer then it's VB first, then four X (aka XXXX), then maybe Toohey's New (Huh, that's weird, no apostrophe). Outside that narrow-cast range of symbolic mass quaffed beers, there are others which denote your sliver of the Australian make-up. Crown Larger and/or perhaps Coronas for example are drunk by white collar workers because, well I have no idea, just because - while tradies and blue collar themed professions go the aforementioned standards. Sometimes European labelled beer is drunk. But, for the most part, those drinking to seriously drink likely drink pre-mixed drinks or woodies.

*** "Skiddy tree" - not quite as powerful a place as other trees of Ozzer lore like the Dig Tree or the Tree of Knowledge (down casts head, raises left fist).

A personal appeal from Wikipedia founder Jimmy Wales

Baby, I know I fucked up. I was stupid. I was drunk but I was stupid. But it was just sex baby. Not love. You know you’re the only one I love. I was drunk and horny baby. It just happened. I didn’t plan it. Please let me in so we can talk.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Shouty man

On the way to get acupuncture the fantasy conversation started up again. By the time I made the second roundabout I was shouting. In the stretch of road between that and the freeway my voice was raw from screaming blue murder about all that fucking work crap that landed on me.

Yep ... I'd gone the primal scream therapy.

It made me feel better.

At my acupuncturist they play "soothing music". I think it's meant to lull you into a meditative state as you lay there with the needles in.

This music is often interrupted by the grinding scree of the receipt machine and, today, by someone in another booth answering a mobile phone and proceeding to have a long conversation with her daughter.

Today's musical effort consisted of instrumental Abba songs ... and a tango.

I wanted to march out of the booth with my arms held up and my hat clenched in my teeth to serve as the rose.

I texted various peeps about the music and the Bevester suggested they might try Kenny G. Suggestion noted!

Still I did feel better for the session. Drained as I was from screaming so hard I flecked the inner windshield with rage-spittle.

Afterwards I went and tracked down a copy of The Wee Free Men for theWife who has been steadily re-devouring our Pratchett books and ... a copy of the soundtrack to The Piano.

I heard the title piece from it on the radio the other day, played it on YouTube, and figured it would make a kewl addition to my Mp3 player. I can also drop it on the machine at work and use it, along with my Princess Leia headphones, to drown out the work world.

When I got back we tooled out to a local fete. TheNoo didn't want to go into the various inflatable things - but I got some mouldy old books of Mikey interest.

As we drove off we passed a garage sale. They had a fitness tramapoline (as said by Homer). Score!

They'd clearly gone the upgrade of their TV machines and had a bunch of old fatties - like what we have - for sale. Along with ... a set top box. They wanted $20, all we had was $8. They sold it!

It was minus the cords but thanks to theWife and my pack-rattering over the years where we keep all such cordy tat in a box in the shed I was able to find a three+three plug and a male-male co-ax that had an adapter to make it male female.

Score again! I'm as giddy as Hanukkah Harry.

Finally the core watched TVs have digital capability - the lounge room, the bedroom, and the end room.

Ah TV ... I do love you so. I will never, ever primeval scream at you.

... unless, that is, you fuck me...

Friday, November 12, 2010


I keep fixating on all this work crap. On the way out NB stopped past my desk and said, in relation to the written down 'you're fucked at your job' missive, that we'd have to discuss it next week but not to sweat on it - or words to that effect.

WTF? I hardly think you can ping someone a email telling them they're shit then proceed to tell them not to sweat on it.

So I swing between not giving a tinkers to having fantasy moments where I stomp into work and yell at people in a very specific fashion about both their many, many failings and their appalling treatment of me considering the resource and personnel circumstances that were at play that contributed to me dropping the ball.

I think I feel this level of emotion because I actually invested time and effort and energy into enjoying their company. That it was different from my old work place where I was regarded as a fart in the bath. That I admired my managers and thanked my lucky stars they were on deck because finally I could trust someone would be able to do my job when I wasn't there. Fuck, I even took a chunk of leave on the strength of it ... only to find that in my absence basically fuck all was done.

Perhaps there's a measure of arse-covering that I am being put through the wringer? All I know is right now I am hurt, angry, bitter, pissed off and basically feel like I copped a knife in the fucking back.

I hate this petty, petty, petty shit. My life is not my work. It's just a place I have to go in order to live in the manner to which I am accustomed. But then you spend so much time in the workplace, working with people you spend hours each day with, it's hard not to want to form personal attachments and have friendships that go beyond what is needed for your tasking.

Anyway, I am pretty sad. I think I will aim to get all the crap that's on my list of things I agreed would get done between performance agreements ... then take a shit load of leave and let them put out the next report and see how they do.

Bitterman signing off. We got Turkish. It smells delish.

New wanker redux

Last year I blogged my concern that I was the new wanker because I wasn't on facebook.

I think I need to add another dot point to new wankery.

I don't have an iPhone.

But I am wavering.

I am blogging this from the lounge room floor as my cough rattled currently manic child pours over the crumpled cheat sheet of Megabloks Thomas the Tank Engine that includes ads for other playsets and points at shit he wants to get.

'I good boy ... I get this.'

I have to admire the cheek.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Unbelievable ... just unbelievable

I recently did the dance-of-joy over Backy McStab, a particularly loathsome ex-boss who bitch slapped my career path to embracing a life of mediocrity, leaving my geographic region of work. - Backy having by complete coincidence having relocated to my building, floor, and outside my door years after we were in employed symbiosis.

Recently I saw a farewell for her being held in the breakout area.

So by seeing that farewell one would assume she is boarding a new building ship or fucking floor at least, right?


Not right.

Not at all.

Yes, her new office ... is the mirror side of her old office - the actual back of her office. She simply took a job in the area - completely removed by purpose apart from broader support to the agency - that was almost inside her old area.

Ouch. Bad mental image.

I'd noticed she was still lurking around the floor like two weeks after her break-out farewell, whose sustenance included - I shit you not - "little boy" frankfurters which in the public service are only brought out for the top level of celebratory power such as a retirement, wedding or death.

So I'd put this lingering down to an early party and late departure.

Then I saw her old office; dark, clean, sterile.

Then the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Which was my finally seeing her beyond stupid nickname that is the homonym of her actual name - just bogan spelling - and her room location in the stiff little flag - my boyhood name for my penis - that juts perpendicular from every senior-person-so-has-an-office's office.


Yep, I went the three exclamation marks. And I work in a job where I am required to tone down overly emotive language from reports and where such multi-exclamation mark use often occurs.

I have to ask. What sort of insecure person would through themselves a grandiose farewell - complete with inappropriately named pressed meats - with fucking balloons and ... and ... and fucking streamers ... only to have their next job being in an office easily reached if the corridors were filled with smoke due to their shared outer wall and closeness of siting?

I feel like the Germans when they discovered they'd been fooled by Patton's ethereal army.

By the way, this is how cool things bogans like is. I knew with utter certainty that one of their posts was on bogan names - without even needing to drill into their list of all articles.

I shall now take in more of the heady goodness that is their fine bogan-slaying.


Tuesday, November 09, 2010

The summer wind came blowin' in ... from across the sea

Well I guess it's semi-official, I'm being managed.

About mid morning I got whacked with another body blow. A detailed written outcome from my recent performance meeting where errors were laboriously detailed and remedies proffered.

Except ... it completely ignored all the stuff I raised in my defence, nor did it indicate my contribution towards remedies.

It was also exceedingly negative and made me sound like a poorly skilled fuckwit barely capable of scratching my arse.

Who wrote it?

New boss.

Well, there you go. A life lesson for Mikey. Don't ever, ever, ever, ever trust a manager. Because sometimes they will have to stomp you down - justified or not.

I didn't know how to respond to it. I drafted a reply - but it was too harsh. I drafted another and then the rage dimmed my vision and I just started pounding the keyboard with the flat of my hand.

Realising this was not helping, in the end I simply said I disagreed with the circumstances of one of the issues raised, that of course I'd sign on to rectification, but I was then going to leave it at that.

Then I went for a long walk trying my hardest not to weep.

Whatever the cause of your depression is, at the heart of it is the sense of failure and worthlessness.

So when you get told, in writing, that you suck arse and that your skills are poor, you tend to take it that much harder.

You know … it’s the confirmation that how you feel is actually true.

The thing is … I know it’s not true. While there is certainly an element of truth that I had not performed my job to stellar levels, I only ever received hard core amelioration attempts by managers when the new boss rolled up. Unfortunately for me I hadn’t ameliorated fast enough. Again, a fair cop, because I really should have used those checklists.

So on my near weepie walk I started talking to myself and had fantasy conversations with various people involved. Then I remembered something I told the Bevester earlier this month.

I don’t have a career.

I have a job.

I have no interest in climbing professional ladders to anywhere. I have no interest in being the best I can be at my career. While I used to greatly enjoy what I did because what I did had a purpose I still have to remember that at the end of the day, it’s just a job.

It’s no use crying about copping a mostly deserved smack down – even if getting the smack for dumping a senior person in the shit on a Friday was an absolute wankfest and if circumstances repeated I’d do the exact same thing. Because at the end of the day … just a job.

So with that stunning re-realisation that I am a wage slave not a career climber, I had a semi-manic chortle, and headed back to work.

Mind you I then planted on my Princess Leia headphones, listened to ABC Classic FM to drown out the sounds of the rest of the office, responded to any questions with monosyllabic grunts, and didn’t personally engage with anyone else beyond the bare minimum.

So there you go, Mikey ends on a positive note with two big fat life lessons; never trust a manager and remember it’s just a job.

I get knocked down, but I get up again, they never going to keep me down.


Monday, November 08, 2010

We hates the fats hobbits...

I have a confession to make.

I hate writers.

I do. I hates them and I loves them. I hates them because that's what I wish I could be whats was is is and I'm not. I loves them for their talent.


So much so that I typically skip the book section of a magazine I am reading, like Time, the Monthly or Zoo Weekly, because I feel a little stab, a soupçon, of hate for their success.

Deeply, nauseatingly pathetic.

Oh at this point I'd usually pop in an "I digress" but that's such a cliché I use deeply, nauseatingly often.

I'll go with another standard of "anyway".

Anyway, I hate love to link to things bogans like because it's instantly funny, well written, and onion or dickipedia esq.

Totally worth checking out.

The c___.

Inspiration to check it out from the smh.

UPDATE: When I read that SMH article and it mentioned the lads had got a book deal I instantly rolled my eyes at what I immediately perceived was the fucking lotto of life in getting a book deal.

Then I went to their site to look.

It's gems like this that made me realise why.

After seeing Twilight – on Richard Wilkins’ recommendation – the bogan decided to read all of the books. These books feature two key characters; a female character with absolutely no personality beyond whining about how awful her life is, and a vampire who is beautiful, kind, listens to the whining and glows in the dark or something. And refuses to root her.

Turns out I actually said yo...

Recently I was miffed that my boss had started a medical intervention process on me without talking to me about it first.

Today we had a meeting where Mikey got a smack for crap performance. The rehab thing came up. She insisted we had discussed this and that I had reluctantly agreed to it.

Post meeting I went and checked my records knowing that chances are if that had happened I would have bitched about it.

Fuck it. I had agreed and I did bitch about it.

So with that I was forced to press the go button on that.

As for the other stuff I got in trouble for tasking a higher ranking person late on a Friday to send off a report for me as I had to leave to go get my child from daycare. I thought I explained what was needed to be done in a simple way and that what I was asking was not onerous. Apparently I was mistaken and the whole thing was regarded as a Dead Cat - public service speak for giving a shitty job to someone when heading out the door.

I just had to take it on the chin, though I did kvetch that I didn't think it was such big fucking deal. I also dislike the idea that their time is more valuable than mine. I think if they ever mention it I might just say that I will come back to work with child in tow and sit there until I can press the go button myself rather than have my boss pass on a bollocking for it.

Then I copped my own bollocking ... for providing poorly constructed reports and not following the new checklists. Well ... she was right to do it - but I hated being told off. I especially hated her brutal honestly when doing so by saying the big words and phrases like "disappointed" and "I couldn't believe the shit I was reading" and "I had to ask if something had gone badly wrong to present such a retrograde piece of report writing."


So we spent an hour working out steps to avoid last minute clearance issues - I'd wisely blown off lunch to write a procedure to prevent recurrence that I could present at this 'Mikey fucked up' meeting - and other steps to ensure I'd follow the checklists for reports. The worst thing was that when I did go back and check my notes of that previous meeting on this that checklist crap had come up then as well. All I could say was that time pressures had landed when led me to do a rushed job - but that only goes so far. The truth is I'd coasted on it and done a half-arsed job when, like Homer, I should have been using my whole arse - even if time pressures were mounting and forced me to turn a two week process into three days.

Yeah ... not a fun afternoon for Mikey.

Also in the meeting it was revealed that Ranty had blamed me for some sort of extra costing we incurred on a cancelled project but my boss had wisely gotten me to check for correspondence to see if that was the case. She was able to e-staple it to ranty's forehead and she actually extracted an apology. Which was noice. Only I found out about it after the fact and there was no apology given to me over it.

I'd been actually doing stuff for Ranty without making her go through my boss first because I thought our work relationship was on the mend. Turns out ... at the first opportunity she had to put me in the shit to cover her arse she took it.


Right now if I had ample means - like I was doing this for a lark and I was actually a trust fund protected gadabout - I'd quit. That's how despondent I am.

I guess it boils down to this ... the problem with now having a boss that knows how to do my job better than me and who gives a shit about how I do it is that they know more about the job than me and they give a shit about how I do it.

I sure as fuck am not looking forward to meeting my case manager and a big chunk of me is aggrieved at the huge privacy incursion of having them be in the know about my health business. Especially when my leave is now under control and I am well within the normal range of attendance. I sure as fuck do not want them along with me when going to the doc.

We shall see. It's certainly Chinese saying meaning "Interesting Times" for Mikey.

Monday, monday

With thanks to the Mamas and the Papas.

It's Monday morning.

I've woken early from bad gut pain. Only choice is to mung pills* and go back to sleep or suck it up and just go into work early. I have a lot of work. It's the latter.

I'm down to like six pain pills and I eek them out until Saturday. This means instead of taking two at a time which lowers the pain scale about three points out of ten I am down to taking half pills, which just drops it a fraction from unbearable to possibly bearable.

Stay tuned for sleepless nights.

This chronic pain report was brought to you by Mikey. Yes, Mikey-the Quasimodo of the modern age. If you notice him at all chances are you will then be a little sick in your mouth...

UPDATE: Woot - thanks to my policy of having caches of emergency drugs I found a half pack in my drawer. So I had me two at once given it's a Monday and I feel super sad in the tummo dept. Plus I needed it. Go drugs! Oh primitive peoples, how did you ever function without modern pharmacology...?

*However theWife got me a tens machine for my birthday so during the awake part of pain management that helps. Note to self. When the machine is on ... do not grab the conductive pads ... or you will have a flashback to that time you were five, saw a pretty flower in the paddock, then tried to climb the electric fence to get to it ...

Sunday, November 07, 2010


Don't you hate it when you run out of clean undies and have to mine into the sedimentary layers of your basket to find a pair that don't give you the heebs when you pull them up your legs?


On a side note theWife upgraded her mobile phone plan early, on account of her last insured phone dying in service - though Optus fucked her around for six weeks until they begrudgingly agreed she could.

She got an iPhone.

Needless to say she's entranced by it - each discovery of capability accompanied by a girlish shriek of pure joy, and occasionally triumphant dancing.

She downloaded the free ap that has the cartoon cat that repeats stuff you say but in a high pitched cat voice. She showed theBoy.

He yelled a bunch of random words at it to see it in action. Then, with a grin, yelled out a massively elongated UNDIEEEEEEES!

undieeeeeees! trilled the iPhone cat.

That's some good stuff right there. I love that he's already cottoned on to the fact that some words are just funnier than others, in or out of context.

UPDATE. She gave it a name. iFee. Noice.

Saturday, November 06, 2010

TMI for BI man

I like The Big Issue. If I have $5 then I will usually grab one when I walk pass the vendor. Not only does it support a good thing - giving people in shitty circumstances a self esteem boost up - but the articles / writers in the mag are quality efforts. Not bad for a small amount of dosh. Also at A5 it's a good size and you can get through it in a sit down hour long lunch at a food court.

I noticed John Hamm was on the cover.

So I went up to the Vendor dude. I was ... full of sugar so a bit excited.

'Oh man I'd buy anything with John Hamm on the cover,' I burbled happily. 'I'm a hetro dude but he can spoon me anytime!'

To his credit BI Vendor man just smiled. What a good egg.

Later I asked curiously unmarked 20 something JB girl how it was she could work in that place without an obvious tatt showing. She laughed. I suggested they should have a tattooist working on site, she agreed, then mused it was likely there was actually a tattoo pen around. So there you go JB, another freebie from HM.

Friday, November 05, 2010

White on blue

I have limited daily interaction with what in the old days would be called blue collar workers. I’m a white collar worker, again as far as that term can still be carried in the 21st century, and the peeps I interact with outside that environment are service delivery types.

Typically my relations are limited to cleaners and mechanics.

Since we got the new car then it’s almost always the former.

The cleaners at my work come around during business hours. They empty bins every second day and vacuum once a week.

Since they’re doing a shitty job that I would never do I always make sure to say thanks. But … I say ‘Thanks mate.’

Why? Because part of me thinks that’s how they’d prefer to be referred to. Mate. If I am thanking a similarly white in hue collared person I’ll either just leave it at thanks or, if I know them well enough, add a ‘man’ or ‘dude’ – even if it’s a dude-ette. But not mate.

Am I unconsciously classist or elitist? I suppose I am elitist in the sense that I despair at ill-educated opinions being burbled forth by elements of society one could argue are predominately blue-collar in socio-economic / education terms. But I don’t think I am better than anyone else just because I was lucky enough to be born into a family where seeking additional education was the norm and not luck or sheer grit.

So maybe I’m semi-elitist or conditionally elitist?

Which, as irony would have it, is the name of my debut album. Yes, Conditionally Elitist, with 12 sleep inducing classics where Saucy Mikey lulls ladies off to noddy land with songs of soft rhythm and gentle inducing slumber. Songs like …

Blame it on the rain … it makes you sleepy
What’s new pussycat? A pillow. Nice.
It’s the final countdown … of sheep! SNORE
Bang you like a soft cushion on a bed with a very supporting mattress
Love will make us spoon and fall asleep

And seven more sonorous songs.

Mmmm, Conditionally Elitist. Good for what ails you in the insomnia department.

The S makes all the difference

B made brownies for morning tea. They were moist and succulent.

I instinctively wanted to email her to say ‘I’m in love with your brownies.’

Then … I realized that if I’d left the s off that statement …

Other wordly

Post nap the world seems different. There's tightness around my face. Sounds are muted. Colours are muted. I feel like I'm one of those people in the movies who has received a knock to the head that's coming around. Only this lasts a lot longer.

I reached work insanely early - courtesy of theNoo coming into the room, turning on the night, and demanding I get up at about 630am. As my car entered the car park I could feel the fatigue leadening my limbs and the ache of missed sleep slither across my face.

There's a pillow in the backseat.

So ... I parked. Put the seat down. Texted to say I'd be late. Grabbed the pillow ... and dozed.

Not a proper sleep mind. Too much noise and light. But I did drift in and out of that twilight point that borders awake and not.

Finally I sensed it was time to get up and, with diet coke in hand, I staggered off towards the shops to get a contribution for a morning tea.

I loathe missing sleep.

In the Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency sequel, The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul, one of the characters is an aging Odin whose main joy in life is living in a retirment home and sleeping on clean sheets.

Right now ... I could totally see trading divine power for sack time and a nice bed would totally seem the shizzle.

Wednesday, November 03, 2010

Mikey tries to have a sit on the loo

I have IBS. It manifests with gut pain - mostly cramping - and, if I manage to go at all, it's often accompanied by HONK, POOT, TWEET style noises.

So ... I like to have buffer when I go.

I go to the toilets on my floor. There's five stalls. Two selfish fucks had taken stalls in such a manner that there's no stall buffer - the free stall either side of the one I need to use and needed in order I be fecally comfortable.

So I go down a floor. Closed for fucking cleaning.

So I go down a floor. UNBELIEVABLE - NO BUFFER!

So I go down a floor. It's receiving extra cleaning. According to the cleaning person loitering around there the other cleaner likes to give the trough some extra buckets of attention. I was invited to use the stalls ... but ... get fucked if I am going to go while McSloshy is sloshing buckets of fun along the piss trough.

So I go down a floor ... finally make it through the warren of corridors that leads to that one and manage to go.

On my way back into the main section of the building ... the fucking heavy door pull handle bangs into the soft part of my arm.

Later, my e-nemesis, the fucked in the arse fax machine, fucked up four fucking times in a fucking row leading to the recipient to call me and complain about too dark pages, too blank pages and other assorted crap.

When I got home I discovered we'd copped a speeding fine ... 1 kay over the 10% add on to the speed limit. 89 in an 80 zone.


Sometimes ... it just doesn't pay to get up in the morning.

Tuesday, November 02, 2010

I've unleashed a monster...

TheNoo's having trouble not saying the bad words.

The other day we were at a BBQ that had a kewl tree house in it. TheNoo popped his head out from a little window that only a small child could reach then, with a cheeky grin, yelled 'for fuck's sake!'

TheWife explained to theNoo that these words are for adults. And, that like black drink (diet coke), they were not for little boys.

She was getting traction.

Today, in the supermarket while sitting in a trolley, he started singing.

'Oh for fuck's sake,' he sang.

'No!' said mummy. 'I said you can't say that!'

'It's okay mummy. I'm not saying it.... I'm singing it,' he said.

You know what, that's hard logic to fault.

Mummy said that singing it was out as well.

Later, he was saying it again, but in a cunning way. 'I not say for fuck's sake, only mummy and daddy say it. But not me. I not say for fuck's sake. That's rude. But you could say for fuck's sake...'

And on and on and on.

In retrospect changing one of the lines in The Cat in the Hat Comes Back to 'take those cats and stick them up your ARSE!' was also a mistake.

This time last year...

Light the corners of my mind
Misty water-colored memories
Of the way we were

Area man finds it hard to have a Gaytime on his own

For those of you who are non-ozzers, I hazard you are unaware of the best ice-cream stick on the planet.

I talk of course of the Gaytime, aka the Golden Gaytime.

According to the Streets lads the Gaytime has ‘a scrumptious and unique flavour combination of toffee flavoured ice confection dipped in choc and crunchy biscuit pieces.’

It is indeed scrumptious.

For years – and I believe still to this day – the Gaytime’s ad tag was ‘it’s hard to have a Gaytime on your own.’

according to wiki, this tagline ‘survived intact despite the possible homosexual connotations in modern decades.’

I would however counter with the reasonable conclusion that if you prefer dudes and you are a dude and you’re banging out a solo on your pink instrument that would in fact constitute a gay time. However, if you struggled with maintaining your vigour then it would be “hard” to have a gay time on your own and thus, in that instance, the tag-line would apply.

Today I was feeling festive.

As I filled up the car I thought ‘fuck it, I’m going to have an ice-cream for breakfast. And I am going to have me a Gaytime.’

I went to the freezer.

No Gaytimes.

So it was in fact, in this instance, hard to have a Gaytime on my own solely because of the laws of supply and demand applying in the negative on the freezer’s contents.

Instead I had a white chocolate drumstick. Which was delicious.

However, continuing with the theme of sex and ice-cream I suspect the drumstick is a superior choice for those people that like to experiment with the insertion of objects. Given, in this case, the cone-al construction of the drumstick stem and the fact it would be easy to corkscrew in.

Even if you were a duck.

There’s also a dick trick called Chicken Drummie.

Something to think about at any rate.

Monday, November 01, 2010

And it hurts that my friends never stood downwind…

I have a lot in common with Pumbaa.

Like him, or a smelly cheese, I'm an acquired taste. I don't always present as a man grounded in full sanity or express expected behaviour. For example L on her return after a month off managed to clock three bottom references by myself in under five minutes. Her length of departure resetting her Mikey tolerance levels so my botty commentary no longer blended into background noise.

I'm also a sensitive soul, though I seem thick skinned.

Not, however, to unjustified critique. If someone holds a negative view of me that's grounded in either their ignorance or their personal opinion, by and large, I don't give a shit.

But ... if I cop a sting that's real, that's justified, it gets me into a funk.

I got told today that I had poor attention to detail. It really stung. Actually it was like a punch to the gut. My job is attention to detail. So basically it felt in the instant that I was being told I was fucked at my job. And it was delivered not in a positive sit down constructive fashion but via a flippant in the moment over the partition comment.

It's not that I don't have attention to detail. It's just that I've never had to pay attention to stuff as down in the weeds as I have to now. All I can do is plead is ignorance to how I did it before. However I did have a checklist that I should have checked that I didn't use, so it was a fair enough comment because I should have used it.

I asked for examples of where I missed stuff but they didn't provide it. Later they suggested I wasn't following a previously agreed method when I was, so I was at least able to respond with a correction.

Anyway, it's just another fat droplet of shit that's dribbling down my forehead from an adaptation of the
Chinese Water Torture meets excrement.

In the past when I've been e-chatting with peeps about grappling with the sads - and well before Harry Jenkins claimed the idea as his own - I've been telling said peeps that when they're feeling down, or take a hit, to remember to be like Chumbawumba. That when you're knocked down, you get up again.

But when you've got shit caking your head and shoulders, sometimes ... sometimes that's hard to do.

Still ... levers self up, shakes head and shoulders like a poo-coated dog, and keeps the fuck going...