Tuesday, January 31, 2012

As said in Storyverse

'And the pasta robot turns into a race-car and he flats a Chinese ninja! flat, flat'(1).

theBoy had created a robot in IRONCRAFT! (2)—not the Robot, who is a regular character—a robot covered in hot pasta. The glue you see, was seemingly magic, and in addition to its superior adhesive properties, it maintained the thermal-nature of any pasta adhered to it. 

I decided, like the magic shrinking hat in that fucked-up kids' show (3), the hat owned by a selfish octogenarian, this was magic (or technology) too good to be held in the hands of one. 

Since China has a reputation for industrial (and actual) espionage then it was Chinese ninjas that then came calling, seeking the secrets of this special pasta-heat maintaining glue. 

So theBoy has experienced now a series of attacks from Chinese ninjas whenever his pasta robot makes an appearance. The ninjas ever seeking that special, special glue. 

I bet it's horses hooves or something (4). 

UPDATE: It was later. I had a Kinder Surprise-like capsule containing two shoelaces theBoy had challenged me to place into said container, close it up, and whack it with a drumstick. You see I was in the character of Mister Maker, an overly-excited likely-meth-fuelled kids craft show compere that appears on ABC kids. There's a segment where he tries to make a kewl craft item in under a minute. This same challenge was now mine. 

So I made the Kinder Surprise-like capsule shoelace container (slash) improvised music device craft item—in record time, no less (5)—all whilst giving myself some backing music of singing the main-riff from 'The Final Countdown'. I then stuck the container in my pocket in my polo shirt—the pocket sitting on my breast. I gave him back the drumstick but feigned loss of the container. theBoy could see the bulge in my pocket and went for it. Still in character—for I can do a passable but heavily exaggerated Mister Maker voice—I yelled over and over 'you're pulling on Maker's Man Booby! You're pulling on Maker's Man Booby!' I then hobble-ran to the big bed and threw myself on my stomach. He ran in, drumstick in hand, and proceeded to whack my lower back, arse, and upper legs with said stick. And as he did it ... he sang along to the main-riff to 'The Final Countdown' (6). And he did it in time, too.

And then I ran in here to blog this. Because that is comedy fucking gold.

My arse stings like fuck, however. 

UPDATE: In Storyverse we were playing statues. I was out. theBoy told me to 'sling your hook, Daddy!' 

(1) The flat, flat represents the sound effect of the race-car "flatting" the ninja.The doubled use of the word float make it sound like the Robot race-car backed over to make sure. 
(2) IRONCRAFT! is a show in Storyverse that is clearly mocking the concept of Iron Chef. In this case the lads gather and have to do craft with a mystery ingredient. In this case the ingredient was pasta. theBoy made a robot out of it.
(3) Fucked up me, to the adult, that's watching it. But I am not the target audience. It's under sixes. For them it's probably as was the original '80s The A-Team TV Series to me. And I fucking thought The-fucking-A-Team was awe-fucking-some.  In retrospect, some 30 years from my violence-loving youth, I would say it was probably not awesome. But The A-Team was not designed for now Mikey but then Mikey and then Mikey loved it. But then even then Mikey would probably have thought the shrinking grandpa show was still shit. But the then Mikey was then around ten ... not around six, the target audience. I am sure if six Mikey saw it back then, but then Mikey (that's ten), then six Mikey would have creamed his pants over it. Had six Mikey of course been glandularly active. I was 17 until I thar-she'd-blow'ed because I couldn't work out the mechanics of wanking. Yet in retrospect it seems so simple. I guess it's the cat-flap theory (3a) all over again.
(3a) I was talking to this dude, T---, at work. He's around my age. Smart, funny dude and regarded as a massive oddball by everyone else. To me he's a kindred spirit. He's ex-military and I told him about how in the initial stages of the Iraq occupation that US soldiers had adapted silly string to serve as a quick and effective means to check for snares and assorted booby traps on doorways. The foam is light enough that it won't set off the snare but bright and visible enough to splatter across a near invisible length of fishing line or even cling to it. If there's a snare, the silly string will show it's there. It's just such a simple, easy idea. T--- said it was a cat-flap idea. Doors didn't use to have them. But then they did. It solved an obvious problem, neatly and simply. But the idea still needed to be thought of and then acted upon for the problem to be seen and then seen to be solved. Simple ... yet someone thought of it. I like that concept. I bet that's the problem of clean but abundant energy generation gets solved. It will be a head-slap of a solution and one likely involving the use of magnets.  
(4) Casso said that if I am referring to generic horses as opposed to being owned by a specific group of horses that it didn't need an apostrophe. I am trusting she's right.  
(5) This fucked-up feathery little puppet pops out of the stop clock to jeer at Mister Maker and tell him he's hopeless and he won't do it and he's fat. And if he just did these 1954 Canadian Royal Air Force Exercises for Men! exercises then he wouldn't be fat and therefore a success in life. Then when Mister Maker beats the clock then Tocky, I think that's his name, cries Mister Maker succeeded only through luck. If I was Mister Maker then by the fourth time that happened my eyes would blaze red with rage and I'd grab that little feathery fucker and pull him out through the clock hole then dash his scrawny head and neck repeatedly against the counter until the world was a haze of blood-mattered feathers. I'm just saying is all. 
(6) Oh please. Please do invest the time to watch the clip in all its glorious most-excessive celebration of hair metal that has ever graced man. It even includes one guitarist rubbing his luxuriant hair up against the neck of a fellow band mate. I believe they call that 'Yithing'. Later, during bathtime-based Storyverse action theBoy sang the song to explode a pesky ghost. His busting made me feel good.

Monday, January 30, 2012

Whitman's sampler ... of crap

I talked to my dad recently. It had been a while. He'd tried calling but I'd been out, or just not gotten back to him. In truth it's hard to talk to him at times because of the spectre that is my mother hovering around us. 

She's gone in mind but still here in body. They had a birthday for her, her friends from her final productive adult years and dad, in a side lounge, with wine and cheese. At least that was the plan. But within five minutes she'd would have forgotten it had ever happened. 

But would she have had moments of clarity? I wonder if Alzheimer's or dementia, whatever your head-poison, is like being drunk? Where you have those sudden 'woah' crystallised moments of understanding about yourself or something you're doing. It's almost like the game paused so you could think your way through a puzzle. I wonder if she gets those moments where she goes 'oh, fuck, I'm in a home'? Or is it just that she drifts, floating like a feather, though a dry curled leaf is more apt, from moment to moment, either in a zen-like state of abeyance of thought or stuck in a permanent confused loop of 'now, what was I doing?' Forever locked in that moment you have when you're in the kitchen and you've forgotten why you sent yourself there.

I often go to the cupboards in that mind blanked state and then by reflex open them and stand there. I come-to and find I've been standing there for some time subconsciously seeing see if something has tripped my yumdar, my threshold for investing time and effort into grabbing something probably tasty if I put some effort into into preparing it. 

In many ways it seems dementia is like the description to the (A)D&D Feeblemind spell. Here's the Second Edition version. 

This spell is used solely against people or creatures who use magic spells. The feeblemind causes the subject's intellect to degenerate to that of a moronic child. The subject remains in this state until a heal or wish spell is used to cancel the effects. Magic-using beings are very vulnerable to this spell; thus, their saving throws are made with the following adjustments...

My dad said that lately they've been getting the dementia-afflicted into the communal areas, or "GenPop". There's a nurse—Canadian, dad thinks—that tries to keep the less-bad ones, the ones that can maintain a rough timeline in their decaying noggins, mentally active. So she's been reading them stories which they can then follow along. Lately it's Wind in the Willows

When we were children, and if mum was able given her time and resource constraints (1), she would read us stories. She'd do voices, too. Dad then said that when she read us Wind in the Willows that her favourite bits to do were Toad's bits. I think because he was so joyous, so marrow-sucking-of-life. A total fucking narcissist, for sure, but fuck me, did Toad love life. Anyway mum loved to do Toad and she loved to yell 'Poot Poot!' for when Toad was careering around in his motor car and scaring sedate country dwellers with his horn and erratic driving.

Dad said he'd like to think that might spark a memory in her. Oh wouldn't it be grand if it did? If she had one of those 'fuck, my mind's gone' moments of clarity but with it was twinned a memory of us, snuggled around, listening to her read Wind in the Willows and in Toad's joyous voice, shouting 'Poot, Poot'? And that she'd get comfort in that?

Damn, Second Edition Advanced Dungeons and Dragons description of Feeblemind was right ... mum did cast magic spells.

At work, as I was talking to Robot, he announced he didn't like the way my arse-fat was hanging over the sides of my chair. My arse is large, it's actually quite muscular and I am sure would go down like fine crackling down hill-folk way, but it seems to fit in regular chairs okay. But Robot was semi-insistent. Apparently there should be an inch or so either side of the body. I had squeezed along the sides a little on the way in ... and apparently over. 

I had been feeling on the up until then. I had my cane on show but barely needed it. I even felt a little trim over when I'd last been at work. Then the Robot comes along and delivers some arse-flab chair overhang truth-telling smack-down and takes your mood right back down. 

Again, I win first time those words in that order; the contest!

(1) Sorry, lapsed into public service speak. She was a mother in a household of five, four of them male, three of them child-to-adult. Cooking, cleaning, you name it. On top of that she studied as a mature-age student, re-inventing her career from housewife (she worked before we worn born in the hotel trade) (1a) to teacher. And then from teacher to regional journalist for the ABC (each town in a regional section had a correspondent who worked part-time to file copy, attend council, or talk to notable types. My mum did that!). Then back to teacher then librarian. She did uni face-to-face then by correspondence. Before the MS took her legs, and her mind started to go, she'd even prepared to start first year English. So you know what, she did have time and resource constraints. Mainly it was us.

The return

I came back to work and met with my new work station. It's got a window, which is kewl, though my PC faces the corridor due to the large pillar that juts out and thus prevents PCs to face windows. 

It took around 49 minutes to log on, and two calls to the IT support desk to do it. Later I miss-keyed my password and locked myself out. I had to call for a third time to get it re-reset. 

I had to delete (slash) relocate a tranche of emails just so I could send out emails of my own and even then I didn't get much done as Robot, my rehab manager, turned up for the rehab interview. Which meant giving my case history of my 'woe is me' medical crap for a third time to a third party. It makes sense, privacy-wise they just can't hand that info over, but it is annoying to have to do it. Especially when you recall stuff mid-way through like 'oh yeah, I have apnoea apparently. I need to get tests.' Still, he seemed nice. So that's something.

Nothing was done with any of my work while I was away as best I can tell which is a little worrying. And I am worried the uber email address for my job filled up so much so when I was away that it's fallen over (I couldn't access it today) and unrecoverable. Fuck. 

Oh well, can't be helped. I was on medical leave. They could not have expected me to do anything while I was away to fix stuff. It was in the hands of others.

Cross fingers the email sort tomorrow won't be hideous.

UPDATE: I just had to spend thirty minutes talking to my workplace case manager. This in addition to the call with Robot from the rehab org that's helping me.  Only he wasn't calling about my needs or anything but about the letter from a Doctor saying I could be back at work. This wasn't raised initially as a requirement but apparently my returning on half days needs a doctor to say that's okay. And because that may happen therefore I need a Doctor to say I can come back ... at all. It's all very annoying especially after you've given a recitation of fool proof plan of resolving the issue on the morrow and ended it with 'yes, you will have the letter and yes I know I can't come back to work until I have it' and he then reminds you that you cannot legally come back to work without a letter. Why do people feel the need to say the same fucking thing three fucking times when I've shown active listening skills in repeating it back to them along with fucking resolutions? Maybe it's a 'I just need to reiterate this' action. I LOATHE being told the same thing more than once. Loathe it. Makes me go the mega-seethe.

But then the admin for my health assistance has been nothing short of a complete balls-up end-to-fucking-end. So of course such an absurd piece of admin requirement would happen, like Cancer cells re-spawning, waiting to trip me up the moment I walk in the fucking door. It wouldn't be the public service without it.

UPDATE2: Went to check the old white car. It has not been turned on since it arrived, steaming away the last of its water, some months ago. I tried it. It is dead. To the NRMA!

UPDATE3: NRMA been and gone. They turned up in less than an hour, charged up my battery enough the engine could just start it on its own and theWife took the old white car for a charge. Meanwhile I did Storyverse on "The Big Bed"; the name for the king-sized bed that dominates the second non-master bedroom in our house (1). The gang played virtual hide and seek. At one point "I" left the game to go do my cycle, only I got delayed on the computer. As his hiding spot theBoy chose to disguise himself as me and be riding The Purgatory Cart (2)  when the "it" came in looking for him. In this case, it was Robot (3). He saw theBoy dressed as hisDad, bleeped "CARRY ON", then left. Cunning theBoy!

(1) Why there and not the master bedroom? Alas, also known as the end room, the master bedroom is instead a combined guest bed (slash) library (slash) study (slash) desktop computer room (slash) the warm place that gets lots of sun and where the cats like to sleep at times (slash) where I also sometimes read my newspaper. theWife bought this kewl spongy carpet thing that I can beach myself on. It makes a hard floor just a little softer. Ideal for men weak of the hip and moral turpitude.
(2) Owned by the already-off-to-a-tricky-start international jewel thieves and travelling mother and child, Casso. Well, the mother bit, at least. I don't think N--- has laid claim to the bike. Though if he saw it I am sure with minimal prompting he could be coached to toddle-run over to it and yell mine, then rub up against it and purr like a cat. 
(3) My mental pic of Robot tends to vary but it seems mostly Marvin-esq from the awesome-as-fuck Hitchhiker's TV series. God I miss Douglas Adams. He the man was everything I the Mikey wanted to be—only taller! Though to have that bonus height having forever been a smaller man that would have been fun. Less fun is the dying at 49 after a gym session of all things. What a shitty way to do. Just after you did some fucking allegedly-as-all-fuck-staving-off-death exercise. Like when it rains as you drive out of the car wash. Only far permanent and upsetting. Like when you drive into a car wash and you simply don't come out. That's more like it! 

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Adios, Summer of George

Well it was a good run. I did nothing of note apart from simply healing and hanging. Which I suppose was the point. The first three days of work I suspect will be email triage.

At least I am legally allowed to drive again. Which was nothing to do with actual physical capability since it was my left hip operated on and we have automatic transmission in both cars. However, of course, I still needed that time off for healin'.

Can I get an Amen?

Saturday, January 28, 2012


It's landing. Being blessed with slow motility, motility being the name given to passage of matter through the intestines, it means material banks up. So when I go then boy do I go. Not in one great glorious brown cascade but in painful sections where it's hard to pass and exhausting but you seem to have passed a normal load. Only there's two more normal loads banked up the chute and the next one off the rank is due for a pain-wracked drop off in half an hour.

I've taken SUPERMEDS! and with theWife up I am back to bed. Cross fingers I can sleep the pain off. theBoy was fun when I did the morning wrangle. We told stories. I tried to introduce a sub-plot where I got cuddles but theBoy yelled 'no sub-plots!' Later he was on a roll and started doing Storyverse himself. I just nodded, grunted, or said 'then what happened?' He can do this solo storytelling for ages, and he moves around all the time during it, prowling back and forth like a Gospel preacher. It's a joy to see.

(lightly clutches tight tummy) Sigh...

UPDATE: I'm in time out on the big bed for having ruined the cinema game. Cheeky daddy!

Thursday, January 26, 2012

I got told off...

theBoy loves telling people off. He often yells 'CHEEKY' at us for having cheeked him when he feels we've somehow mislead him or made fun. For example, after we've told him his sought-after toy was in a particular spot and because he performed a perfunctory search and didn't in fact see it, he may then believe we lied to him. If he does, and he likely will, he may then return to declare cheekiness. Even though, as I said, the toy was actually there and the reason he didn't see it was because of his perfunctoriness. 

That's some shizzle to be layin' on ya on Oz Day.

Anyway, we get told off. A lot. All the time. When he was younger he'd even try and send me to time-out. Once it happened in the rocket ride at Questacon where he didn't like my interfering with the controls during the countdown. I had to experience the remainder of the flight at the bench down the back. I felt like a space-Rosa.

If theBoy hurts himself he only wants his mum to comfort him. I once forced him to let me kiss an injured site better before he got to his mum for the comfort kiss only to put him back down and for him to go over and re-inflict the injury for the 'MUMMY KISS IT BETTER'. 

He'd been directed to take off his pyjamas and get dressed in order he can hang out with theWife during the BBQ cookin' phase of our compound-secreted Oz day celebrations (1). Only during the disrobing he banged his toe. theWife was outside.

'MUMMY?! MUMMY?!' he shouted. 

'Hey, honey,' I said, concerned, 'what's happened?'

He appeared into view, yelling. 

'Not you, Daddy! Not you! Mummy!'

Then he turned and shuffled back out of sight ... the shuffling caused by the pyjama pants bundled and wrapped around his feet.

I broke out into great grandiose operatic laughter and caused him to howl in protest at the mockery he felt he was receiving. 

We're The Indomitable Trio!

(1) We borrowed against the loan last year and had a patio put in, with beautiful sandstone like pavers, and a strong high wooden fence to screen the side-yard from the street. It turned a basically unused section of our home into an awesome outside lounge. It's just so nice having this almost private park by the side of our house, with theBoy's hiding tree opposite—a large bushy tree that has a hollow between it and the wall where theBoy hides during outside hide and seek and a large mesh-walled trampoline by the entrance to the yard. I love our house! Though the air con died last night so that's going to be annoying. Fortunately for me theWife does all the home finance stuff and I don't have to worry about it. However there are spending restrictions as part of the Ostrich-head-lying in regards to domestic finances. I have to clear purchases of over say $20, or consult on their requirement. I have failed on that before though. The last time was because of a panic attack about getting work done while I was forced to work from home and I then fear-purchased a bunch of IT crap we didn't actually need. theWife is a genius at returning stuff, though, even if outside the date they say you can return things. I just fire her off and walk away from the unpleasantness, then come back to find the nasty problem has all gone away. She's a Mr Wolf!

It's Oz day so we're bunkering on down

Not for us entering public space and having to experience poorly-spelled patriotic messaging scribed on cardboard box flaps. Flaps that are then flapped and waved at passing cars by novelty-wig wearing, temporary flag-tattoos emblazoned on each cheek, half-cut bogans.

So we're staying in, just us, the Indomitable Trio. Later a BBQ of assorted meat thrust onto skewers and perhaps slices of Halloumi fried on the BBQ plate. With Paul Newman's South-Wester sauce for me as the saucy accompaniment. 


I discovered a capability increase in theBoy. He can be now asked to go get me a Diet Coke from the fridge. Hooray! So he did that and it came to me and it was awesome.

Then ... then we were doing a session of Storyverse, with various characters having adventures centered, as irony would have it, around a picnic (1). There were robot-empowered picnic baskets—with little legs Pratchett-style for Lamby Lamby Forty and Forty's basket, and two-splayed claw feet and digitigrade legs for theBoy's—a large ocean-dwelling tentacle-packing slime monster that attacked them on the way to the picnic site, and a rabbit that got fed by a hastily assembled automatic carrot dispensing machine and its guts swelled to the size of a bus and it exploded half-digested carrots across a blast radius of several hundred feet. 

As the rabbit exploded I asked theBoy what he was doing. He said he was headed for the bus and driving away. After he escaped—having to dodge two tentacle slap strikes from the half-burned away slime monster they'd bested earlier on the way to the picnic, theBoy having previously thrown his ammo-depleted cannon at it and then triggering a self-destruct under it to explode it—I told him he'd left his friends behind and they had in fact been covered in the half-digested carrot from the exploded rabbit. 

'No!' shouted theBoy. 'They came with me!'

'But you didn't say that!' I protested. 'So they got covered!'

'NO!' he shouted. 'That didn't happen!'

Then to ensure compliance of a rewind to the story he came and took my half-drunk Diet Coke away.

So ... theBoy can get'uth... and theBoy can take'th away.

UPDATE: It's later. The rest of the trio are abed. I am up watching The Colbert Report. Earlier theWife and I were talking about Oz day. We decided that for us it really means little more than a kind of bonus day. And because it's a single day then it likely means the next day is a work day and thus it feels like a Sunday. An extra Sunday. I don't mind Sundays. Sunday's a fun day. Oh I'm not especially identifying it as my most-fun day of all the days of the week or anything. But, being a day of not-work it is, therefore a day of more fun than actual work would likely be.

Do you see? Anyway, Oz day is, therefore to us now known as an extra Sunday. Oh and I'm not telling tales out of school to say that it was just such a pleasure to spend the day with those that make me worth being me.

(1) Ironic since we avoided going out for a picnic ourselves.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012


(punches air)

I had been without SUPERMEDS! for some time by the time I got more. It was annoying to be without them. Then it got to be more-painful without them because they weren't there to dial back the pain. So I admit I was climbing the walls by the time the new lot arrived. I hoed in, blissing out on their power as they robbed the pain messages of some of their strength. Oh Lord, that's the stuff. Now, I am on the couch and surfing and watching stuff then surfing, blogging, and surfing.

Summer of George!

A phat shout-ot to mah writing bud, Casso, who is winging her way blighty-side along with her little man. I raise a glass to your challenge. I know it will be worth it.

Another Musical Mikey Mnemonic

My parents' LP collection is, and never was, cool. 

In addition to some life-history-picked-up stuff, such as my mother's collection of Fijian mens' choir records whose covers rippled with bare-chested large-haired men beaming brightly from within a palm fringed beach scene, it was mostly the classic operas, classical classical music (as in the ones you'd see listed in ads shown in the early-mid eighties for Demtel records where they'd grabbed assorted composers and jammed them willy-nilly (1) into the same sound-based data matrices unit of encoded-plastic.

That and United Kingdom regional mens' choirs, mostly Welsh or Cornish (2), but also possibly from Devon, Yorkshire or Dunny-on-the-Wold (3). Singing the classic regional themed tunes, such as 'Men of Harlech' or mild inoffensive variants like 'Men of Harlech go on a day trip to Swansea' or 'My coal-black hand grips the edible handle of my potato-infused pasty-wrapped meat-sock'.

And finally there'd be a bunch of sad Christian music. Sad, both in the quality of the recording and over-all concept. Music that would make me, were I an actual robe-wearing magic sky father, somewhat annoyed. I suspect that, were reincarnation an element of my belief and after-life expectation structure, those behind such theology-ranking-lowering monstrosities of music would then come back as those tiny finned fish in the Amazon whose sole purpose in life is apparently to swim up a man's urethra. 

They'd have titles like Songs of Hymnal Love, An Evening at the Back of the Church During Choir Practice or Mrs Herbert's Back's Gone Again, So Deidre Can You Conduct? Like their unread shelves of books, my parents' LPs simply dryly-humped each other in the dark, pressed by time into a daisy-chain irrespective of genre, type or ethnic-origin of musician. Only now and then to be flicked through by my musically-minded older brother, who was probably wondering if there was at all anything of actual interest to him within. 

There probably wasn't (4). 

So in memory of my parents' unplayed lo these last 40 years LP collection I give you another track from Songs of Sickness and Safety—my personal collection of music mnemonics to help me to remember be both healthy and safe; a chorus-re-mapped magnificence where the song-victim-of-choice is 'Don't you (Forget about me)' (5).

Here be the lyrics; old and new.

The concept suddenly came to me when I attempted an overly fast dismount from The Purgatory Cart (6) upon the strap coming loose on the right pedal. As my journey to the ground continued my testes rolled over each other then were scraped, half-trapped beneath my seat-straddling perineum, across the gel-seat-cover covered seat.

It was somewhat painful. But a genesis for an inspirational warning!

Hey ... we can't all be Van Gogh.

(1) I really want to see Willy Milly, having seen so many previews for it back when we got a VCR and it was the coolest fucking thing we'd gotten as a family since Encyclopaedia Britannica and the Apple IIe. Anyone got a copy? I can do VHS, DVD, or AV(X)FORMAT(HERE). 
(2) My dad's family apparently started in Wales but drifted to Cornwall in the 19th century. They are now rigidly-proud ex-pats from Cornwall. My mum used to say, since she doesn't any more as her mind is all but gone (2a), that when Dad was around other Cornishmen he'd happily lapse back into a Cornish brogue. I never heae that happen myself though.
(2a) I hate that the thing she feared most in age; going bat-shit like her mum, actually came to pass. She was one of those women that were an example of what a woman can accomplish in '60s through '80s expatriate woman in Western then Regional NSW Australia. It's absolutely fucked. I just hope science catches up when my genetic bomb triggers.
(3) I confess I am both heavily medicated and enjoying writing this. Backed up as it is with access to a creamy-centres mini- lamington that has a Twinkie-esq half-life of perhaps 900 years and a Diet Coke. However I am sure in the cold cruel light of un-medicated sobriety I will sigh, huff my shoulders, and turn off, head downcast as if I was a member of a Southern US '20s chain-gang, the low rumble of gospel music humming into life as I leave the shot.
(4) I will email him and ask. An update will come. Oh yes, it will come.
(5) First, as you know, there was my Dermeze classic, sung to the chorus of 'Jolene'.
(6) (As sung to 'She's a piss-pot') Belongs to Casso, through and through; the bike's a bastard so they say, and he's being ridden by Mikey even those it's station'ry;  It's going down, down, down, down etc.

Where's my pimp cane?!

theBeve put us unto Mad TV, discovered to be playing around 3 am in the morning by Channel Nine Canberra, one day some years past. Back then, and you kidz wouldn't understand this, you were forced to program a VCR for the correct time when the program was on and use magnetic tape cartridges to record the actual footage (1). I know, it's crazy talk. 

One of the recurring characters was a blaxploitation-style 70s piss-take dude who was in the possession of a cane. A pimp cane, in fact. The recurring sketches would normally centre around this device, with the character often forced to seek his beloved walking aid and he would thus bellow loudly 'WHERE'S MY PIMP CANE?!'

I now have a cane. And I got the pimpiest one I could find. Indeed, its pattern looks vaguely like a Harlequin died (2) in order to make it. 

When I got home with my pimp cane I then had to talk to my work-provided rehab manager, a different gent to my workplace case worker and personally-selected physiotherapist. The call went for around 40 minutes and he wouldn't get off the fucking phone. I should have feigned the vapours or something. Also, earlier, S---'s no-talent ass clown of a loaner iPhone auto-corrected the rehab provider's name when I texted the provider back. Which is why the text began 'Robot, I got your text the other day...'

(1) We spent about $20 a fortnight on tapes because I had OCD about obtaining them holding onto quality TV. Then DVDs were born, box sets became available, and then there was the internet. I gave about twenty cartons away when we moved in 2007 to a odd-little man who was put onto our vast free tape collection via my workplace classifieds. He turned up, in business dress, and loaded them into his car and drove off into time.
(2) Good. And if I see Whiteface ... (shakes cane).

Final Destination: 5

I see that the fifth movie in the series is available for rent at the near-local shops. 

If your destination is so final ... the generation of no-less than four sequels seems to me to undercut somewhat the finality of that destination. 

Teasing of theBoy

Teasing an easily-teased four-year-old is one of life's simple pleasures. You try it and see if it isn't. The instant outrage like they flipped a switch inside because of what you've teased them with is just so satisfyingly expressive that it's totally worth it to do it. But not too much. You don't want to raise a psycho. You can also use light-teasing—light, mind—in an attempt to induce preferred behaviour.

On with the show.

theBoy loves Wiggles-themed medical products. Well not all of them, for example, he's not up to using the Wiggly Wriggly Stopper, ribbed though it is for your lad or lady friend's pleasure (1). He does, however, love the band-aids and, being eczema-afflicted, he often needs their use from when he's scratched until bled. 

Today he ran in, yelling 'I got blood! I GOT BLOOD!' on the way into the end room, and demanded a band-aid. I looked. There was the tiniest dot of blood on the top part of his heel. Like he'd picked off a light scab (2).

I decided a sarcastic rejoinder to the size of his wound versus the enthusiasm behind his Paul Revere-esq announcements of bleeding ferocity. 

'Ahhh!' I screamed, pointing. 'GODZILLA!!!'

And I will do that from now on until his declarations of bleeding strength are more properly aligned to actual strength of flow. 

Teasing; an under-rated selection from the parenting tool chest (3)

(1) C---, D--- and I stopped off at a local chemist the other day. The chemist shop girls there were somewhat blonde and beautiful. Like they should be luring sailors to the rocks. One looked like a young Heather Graham. C--- went in to get something to assist his shits to be more regular but D--- and I started loudly saying things like 'he never gets ribbed for my pleasure' or 'and he always forgets to pinch the tip.' C---, who is not easily embarrassed, grinned like a Viking seeing an Easterner bugger a goat for the first time, then turned around and left lest we score more ribald successes upon his hirsute person. Revenge! (1a)
(1a) etc. 
(2) Once, in school, to horrify a girl I didn't like, I dug my fingernail into a brewed up scab within my scalp and picked it up. I then held it up, a great ripped out scab with blood and hair stuck to it, and dangled it off the tip of my index finger. The look of horror on her face was particularly satisfying. She wasn't very nice to me. Also, she was a tremendously enthusiastic grade-grubber and after every in-class test would run up the front to proclaim miss-assessment and earn herself a 5-10 per cent mark boost from teachers simply too fucking tired to argue.
(3) When done properly. Not, for example, to jokingly call your child a fat, lazy, shit like perhaps some people may have experienced...

The ego on that toe-gripperer

I bet in all of human history—back even when we were at the monosyllabic grunt stage of man twixt cave and walking about type behaviour—that's the first time the words in the header have appeared in that combination before. Ain't that somethin'? Everyday we can write somethin' that ain't yet been writ. Life etc.! (1)(2)

I can't sleep due to gut soreness. Well I can now, I took Super Meds! But I took so many I didn't want to waste the buzz on boring old sleep (3) but I needed to grab the headphones. I am lying on the end room floor. The harder surface helps dial back the pain. Plus I am doing this, talking to you (three actually interested, perhaps; the rest here by Google searches and who came here in vain) people reading this (4)), with the beloved and it's easier to type when lying on my tumtum (5). So I didn't want to get up.

The reason I needed my headphones was so I could hear more clearly the rage-filled melodious-yet-smoky-tones of Lewis Black. Alas but they were near my feet behind me. And in addition to the previous reasons proffered Being Always Sore Man which sounds like Peripheral Vision Man from Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, I didn't want to getup. So I foot-fished amongst the cables with my toes employed in a rudimentary tactile sense until I found the cord ... I was looking for. On encountering cord two my assessment was that it was the headphones' cord. Having eliminated the other cord as a suspect I actually said out loud (to no one) 'Ergo, the headphones cord!'

I am such a nerdy head-swell. Even in an idle utterance I chuck in pretentious word (6).

UPDATE: Apologies for the slew of typos; hopefully now fixed.  I wrote it on the tablet at four in the morning and blogging from the tablet is mostly an exercise in frustration. Trying to get the cursor in the right spot is often a tremendously exciting pain.

(1) Life ... don't talk to me about life (pook-churrr) (1a)
(1a) ibid re: header with the combo of Hitch-hiker's quote meets onomatopoeia.
(2) A shout-out to Casso (2a), who is actually rather busy prepping for a challenging yet thrilling adventure of toddler wrangling meets international travel and likely won't read this for some time, but if a word ends in a period but is also at the end of the sentence, is it one period or two?
(2a) Who is a deeply treasured friend who is not only welcoming and smart, but kind enough to support what little writing I actually do but taking the time to regularly visit here and give me support and encouragement to keep writing even when I feel like a massive turd that is void of redeemable nutrition's return to the eco system.
(3) (Cue the Queen from Blackadder 2 voice) Pooey!
(4) Oddly, likely all women. Though perhaps also gay men who crave an ursine build (4a)?
(4a) ibid, 1a. Or should that be 1a ibid? Ah, what do I care? I finished uni for good back in (cue old time prospector coice) 'ought six.
(5) Look, Hoth-based arctic-like conditions dwelling rebellion fighters. I told you. No frozen comrade storing inside me. Do I look like a man who has a sign outside the front of his stomach that says 'frozen comrade storers'? Do you know WHY you don't see that sign? Cos' storin' frozen comrades ain't my fuckin' business, that's why.
(6) Not to mention that use of 'proffered'.

You said McDonald's

Years ago Canberra Cabs experimented with a voice-activated automated response to pick-up locations when you rang for a cab. It sucked arse hair. I think within a year they ditched it after being screamed at with abuse for such monumentally fucked-up voice-recognition system. theWife used to be in a position that required a bit of local travel between buildings. Liaison to XYZ sort of stuff. It's no wonder she was chosen. She's skilled at putting people at ease, charming their socks off with winsome occasional child-like behaviour (1), but she's also smart on her feet and has a talent for crafting simple yet satisfying messages. She's a government info dispensing wunderkind. 

Anyway the Wife used taxis a fair amount because they didn't have that many cars they could book. They had to experience using the voice-activation system. theWife swore that no matter what you actually said that half the time the response would be 'You said ... McDonald's...'. She does a good impression of the fucked voice it used and everything. Coz of her mad skills, y'all.

Any-hoo, I was reminded of this because instead of typing a word I wasn't sure to spell I decided to try the voice search system on my Beloved. I still can't spell the word I wanted to spell but it derived from redeem. So I decided to try for my word by trying for redeem and seeing if it was in that list of other versions—you know plural, as a verb etc.. It didn't work. The closest it got to redeem was 'rude babe'.

I think there's a little something in that for all of us.

(1) A shout out to Craggles. I nearly said chud-like.

Monday, January 23, 2012

Suck it, male half of the former The White Stripes

I am famously witty. As evidenced by my hairy hagiographer C--- who felt completed to illicitly record my wise ruminations the other night after I broke the emergency glass on Mikey Drunkenness then proceeded to hold court at a costume party, dominating discussions on the couch through the majesty of my intellect, undimmed as it was by the half bottle of Scotch I drank, and through sheer lung power. So much so that Xena, the Warrior Princess herself, apparently came out and told us to shut the fuck up because the birthday boy, The Mummy, had passed out two hours before and we were keeping him up.

As a recent hip operation survivor—and suck it cancer and / or domestic abuse survivors, us "hipsters" also claim the sobriquet of survivor—I have a wound site on my left thigh that requires sometime attention. As the layers of muscles re-knit the surface of the skin around the wound can feel "tight" or like a light burn. The solution? Rub moisturiser into the site after a shower to help the skin maintain elasticity. Only I often forget to do it.

Like many other people I take inspiration from the movies in how to direct my life. I'm certainly not the only one. Here's a fun fact. When D W Griffith's Birth of a Nation came out in 1915, a technical masterpiece for its day riven as it was with mind-bogglingly pronounced unfettered bigotry, its subject being the rise of the Ku Klux Klan following the Reconstruction period post US Civil War, it inspired moronic cock-spanks to resurrect the Klan Koncept. The movie also introduced the idea of terrifying would-be opponents through the setting on fire of the crucifix. Which, I would argue, would likely have added to Christ's misery, what with the nails and difficulty breathing after being up there for a few hours. But, hey, no one can accuse Klansmen of thinking issues like this through.

So I took a leaf out of Samuel L Jackson's book, the L stands for Logic, and decided that the best way to remember to rub the moisturiser on post-shower was to sing a little song to reinforce it in my head. For lo did Samuel L Jackson's character do the very same thing in the awesome movie The Long Kiss Goodnight, where, to remember the location of two important objects, he sang the ditty 'Putting the keys in my left pocket. Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm. Gun in the right-hand side.'

Like many things Samuel L suggests, such as the importance of a child sleeping through the night or the immediate removal of legless reptiles from airbourne transport, this is wise advice and the singing reminder is indeed a great way to remember things.

But ah, what to sing? 

Then it came to me. And the clue lay in the very name of the moisturiser to be used to salve my wound, the same balm (1) we use upon the Chooky, whose skin is prone to eczema and thus each night before bed he must be greased slipperier than a frightened pig in a hill people organised  'catch the greasy pig' contest (2).

The name of this fine balm is Dermeze.

Without thinking too deeply, my tremendous brain rapidly sorted through its contents not unlike Sherlock Holmes in the latest (and most awesome) TV incarnation from Stevan "the Gawd" Moffat and Co set in the modern day, and picked an appropriate backing tune. 

So here it is, as sung to the chorus from Dolly Parton's 'Jolene' (3). 

'Dermeze, Dermeze, Dermeze, Derm-e-e-eze, don't forget to rub it on your wound'.

So why should the male half of the former The White Stripes suck it? Because he famously did a version of 'Jolene' and it is likely this version that the kidz today are aware of, as opposed to to original classic from Ms Parton. And my cosmetics-infused rendition of the chorus clearly kicks the tan out of his cute little cover.

And I likes to be relevant for the kidz ... because they're so easily distracted ... with their music. 

So there you have it, Mikey's massive brain has once more come to the rescue and enabled him to properly treat his wound site with moisturiser through the majesty of song. 

Record that on an iPhone, mutha-fukka.

(1) Quick, throw it in the tough!
(2) I once lived outside a town where for their show day they actually had a greasy pig contest. However I was very young and my parents probably said the pig's fate was merely to be eaten. They liked to hide concepts like bestiality by inbred mountain folk from us. Or in this case, plainsfolk, the town being on the flat terrain near Moree. 
(3) Another fun fact. 'I will always love you', made most famous by Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard, is another Dolly Parton song. And what movie did it first appear in? The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. God Damn.

It's a kind of magic

I just used my tablet to voice command search something on Google. Wowsers. Fuck me, technology is amazing. I tested a few text strings, and you have to clearly pronounce the words to get it to work, but while F Murray Abraham was beyond it the voice search was able to score me up some 'How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood' action.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Area man's drunk drought broken

Before last night I have not been stumbling drink since about June 2008. I generally don't drink anyway, unless I am at a gathering where drinking is happening, as drinking plays merry havoc with my guts. And if I'd stuck to the shandy plan—yes, I drink them, they're delicious; it's basically palatable beer—I would not have gotten so moronically, stupidly drunk. But when the first shandy landed I felt a swell of gas in my tumtum (1) and knew my IBS would flare. 

So ... I started drinking neat spirits. At first it was a 30-year-old port in celebration of its owner D--- turning 30, the gathering being a Heroes and Villains themed costume affair for his birthday (2). Then it was Double Black Johnny Walker—it tasted like smoky medicine. Then it was C---'s Red Label Johnny Walker, which, being half-cut at that point, I didn't bother asking I could have (3). I drank the latter out of a small vase I found in D--- and M---'s glasses drawer, though it had a petite handle so it could have actually been a drinking vessel.

At any rate I got shouty loud drunk and pretty much took over the couch area with bizarre Hitler-esq rantings in between boring the tits off one of D---'s lovely colleagues. C---, being a mischievous hairy prick, recorded some of it on his iPhone. He gleefully replayed snatches of it to theWife when he came around this morning to check on me. I was embarrassed and had to hide where I couldn't hear my droning drunk voice. 

I was so far gone that when it came time to get me home I had to have helpers go with me to help me down the stairs and into the cab. They even came with me, which came in handy as I avoided the soiling charge by their ensuring the taxi pulled over so I could spew onto the side of the road. 

That taxi-bourne spew is actually the last thing I remember. Apparently I self-dakked in the doorway of the house in an effort to get my keys out then stood for half an hour next to the toilet in case of spews. When I was put to bed by the suffering theWife I later sprawled out on the floor by the bed with my head resting on a tray-like bucket in case of further wrong-way-Jose throatal distress. 

When I awoke I felt terrible. Head was okay(ish) but my body felt like one great aching bruise. Not even a shower perked me up. 

I know I remember I had a good time, uber drunk people often think that, and C--- assured me I wasn't being the shouty ranty prick that Mikey's sober brain re-conjured on waking this morning, but I'm pretty sure that would have sucked to be forced to listen to me, especially for those people who'd I just met. I feel especially bad for the kewl bearded dude who turned up in a Professor Moriarty costume complete with half-top hat that I drunkenly slandered all night as being instead that of Abraham Lincoln—'See?! Abraham Lincoln agrees with me!' being I suspect I thing I said during rants when all he did by way of agreeing with me was to be polite and sit there and listen. 


I know people have theories about hangover cures (4); the greasy breakfast or hair of the dog. But for me the best I felt was after my sesh on The Purgatory Cart (5), the 20 minute ride causing me to break out in a cold sweat

As I limped from the shed a cool breeze washed over my half-naked sweaty form, further cooling me from my ride. It was nice. It was certainly a nicer experience than when I'd been riding and looking down at my harry-high worn PJ pants during the ride and thinking my cinched in gut fat looked all the world to be a front bottom. An actual secondary bottom of stomach fat, as opposed to a British hoo hoo.  

Finally big ups to M--- and C---  for not only seeing me home but checking up on me the next day by phone and in person (6).

It almost makes up for the shabby treatment of phone-recording my drunken ranting...

UPDATE: I just remembered ... I also took over the iJukebox and loaded the play list with songs that I liked from D---'s vast selection of music. Bad Mikey ... Even though D--- said anything I selected was okay because it wouldn't be on his computer if he didn't like it there were some unusual choices made; like Ace of Base and 'Docterin' the Tardis'.

(1) Attention Arctic wilderness survivors. If I am asleep in the snow do not attempt to store fallen comrades in me. 
(2) I forgot about the costume part. P---, who was still safe to drive, took 20 minutes out to dash back to his place for costumes—P--- plays live role-playing games and has a chunk of kewl clobber—and returned as Ming the Merciless (2a). He brought a kewl hooded long-coat for me, and I think he may have even given it to me, and someone put some steam punk goggles on my head. So I kind of looked vaguely villain-ish. Not heroic, or indeed, anti-heroic. Perhaps a comic foil or side-kick? But let's face it, my bod can't write hero cheques. Just not going to happen.
(2a) Being drunk and therefore with heightened narcissism I used D---'s nearby iPad to dial up a a Ming-themed blog post and demanded P--- read it. To his credit he politely read the entire thing, his lightly furred chest on display via the V of his Ming costume, but it was probably because I was staring at him with an unsettling drunken intensity.
(3) I however paid him $20 for the half-bottle I consumed.
(4) Medically speaking it's likely simple dehydration that causes hangovers and the best way to avoid one is have water between drinks or sip water afterwards or during the night (if one is able to). 
(5) An exercise bike technically owned by the foul temptress Cass but liberated by me in a Tom Cruise style from-the-ceiling dangle. And she doesn't even know I have it; AH HA HA HA HA etc.
(6) And of course to theWife who had to wrangle me to the end-room bed despite looking after a sick child in her own bed. Poor little Chooky!

Friday, January 20, 2012

Exactly how I felt...

My big toe gets intimate with pharmaceuticals

I woke up again, having I think been woken by theBoy around 6.30 to sneaky put on Blue's Clues for him, at around 10.30 and in accordance with bodily custom felt like warmed up poo. I try not to take pain killers straight off the bat, concerned as I am about the damage that would do to my already fucked-up innards, so I held off until lunchtime. Thanks to my regular pain med being withdrawn from the market my doc put me on a new one that is a single pill that lasts six hours. It takes about twenty minutes to drop but it seems to drop pain about two to three points and there's nary a negative wiggy to be had (the previous caused drowsiness).

Only when I got it out of the packet, thanks to my stumpy fingers, I dropped it onto the kitchen floor. Having had a hip operation a few weeks back I am ixnay on endingbay more than ninety degrees lest my new hip meets weakened still-knitting muscles and bad things happen. I have a grabber extendor claw but the pill was too fine-sized an object to claw-grab.

So I used my good foot and carefully lowered onto it where my big toe meets my foot. Then I monkey gripped it in the folds of toe skin connected to the underside of my splayed-out foot and lifted it up far enough that I could reach it with my hand. You can't exactly wash a pill clean so alas it was either discard it or take it.

I took it. Fortunately for me the narcotic effects of the pill has helped allay any fears of accidental ingestion of accompanying toe jam.

It's good be me.

And yes, McKay Hatch, I swore when it happened. That's what normal people do when something fucked happens. 

Casso asked for a substitute word to use in place of cursing, where it is both a single syllable and ends in a hard sound. She proffered Truck or Dog in place of those naughty words to make a McKay blush. May I humbly counter-suggest Hatch as a spak-filler for the empty hole where your fuck should be?

UPDATE: I just had to toe-grip retrieve my 32 gig stick from where it fell on the illegal shed floor. Fortunately I didn't have to ingest it ... the stick ... not the floor.

Last night I saw a young roach crawling under the glass-topped cat-themed tray we keep under the kettle. I deftly moved the tray then squished the roach. Time was of the essence, though, because it was about a 0.2 second roach-dash from the assembled CBD of building-like coffee, tea, milo and sugar silos in the corner of the kitchen counter. Once in there it was gone. No time then for a wad of kitchen towel. Yes, my hand went in bareback. Because the counter was cluttered a fisting or palm slap was too risky. So I indexed it, pressing down on its back like it was a lift button and causing a roach-innard money shot to squelch out its side, leaving a faintly grey podge of greenish slodge. Even I, who was a boy that once ate hot chips in sauce covered in lawn clippings thrown by a taunting hot chip possessing bully because he (me) was denied hot chips in the home, found that disgusting. 

I wiped off as best I could then ran to the toilet shelf where the alcohol cleanser pump pack sits and vigorously served myself several squirts. I then proceeded to rub my hands down as per the flu warning posters that go up in Winter in all the Commonwealth Public Service bathrooms. Which I admit I normally don't follow. What am I? Prepping for surgery. Ei 'Ont 'ink' 'o

Another Dr Evil spawned near miss

Our desktop computer sits atop the last piece of ex-govie furiture on active duty within the house, an old but still robust adjustable grey desk. With it is the Dr Evil Chair, a wheeled reclining office number purchased from the place where the Office comes alive, Officeworks.

It's a comfortable chair to use, and I've spent many an hour with the chair tilted back, listening or watching something on the TV yonder or the computer itself. It's a good chum. Only its tilting capacity has in the past tipped me out of said chair.Such as that time I had theBoy (as a baby) in my arms and just the other day I was laughing at something theBoy did and the chair and I fell over onto our side.

Tonight we were doing Storyverse in the end room and I leaned back. I must have leaned back too much to the right as the chair started to fall backwards. It only didn't fall because I had the middle three fingers of my right hand pressed against the carpet, taking the weight of me and the chair, as I had managed to flail my arm out to stop the fall in progress. 

I started yelling for theWife as I had no means to push myself back up and I could feel my fingers failing. theBoy tried to help but he's too little to be able to do anything like pull his plus-sized Dad back up from a frozen-in-mid-fall manuever. Fortunately theWife heard me, after I up-ticked the yelling to very loud and panicked (she was at the other end of the house), and got to me just before my fingers gave way.

Once again Mikey dodged a potential hip-dislocation, with my being at most risk of damage in the six weeks post operation. Alas the same can't be said for the many-world Mikey that either fell or didn't get help in time.

Dr Evil chair ... sometimes ... I dunno ... I'm not sure I can entirely trust you.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

The monster truck drives off to goldfish heaven

My IBS flared badly last night—with a pain scale of 5-6 at up to 4 am when I finally got up to take painkillers so I could sleep. It was the return of the fist; the fist-sized lump of pain from likely constipation. Despite the writhing I'd committed to sleeping in the big bed instead of writhing alone in the end room but fortunately on this occasion I was able to drop off to sleep.

When I awoke ... the pain was still there. And indeed back to 5-6 because the pain killers had worn off. I got up with the arrival of theBoy and tried once more to pass it. No going. Eventually I relocated to the end room after gobbling more meds and grabbing my beloved for some couch-bed based surfing until they kicked in an allowed a return to the land of nod. 

I woke up after midday. My body gave me the airport-paddles-wave to head on back to the toilet to try and pass it and pass it I did—a mental flash of a long train passing by a subway tunnel in my mind as the seemingly over-long bowel motion continued its motions. 

Eventually though it was done. Being a poo looker—you have to be when you're riven with complications in the bottom department—I looked. 

It had attempted a ghosting, where the stool tries to get around the S-bend of its own kinetic accord. However it was unable to do so due to sheer-girth. The exit tail—where it tapers away to a point on leaving the body—curled up back around like the end of a desert-themed slipper and nearly crested the surface of the water. 

And yes Mckay Hatch, before-during-and-after I swore like a mother fucker. And no, it wasn't implied. 

Alas I didn't get PAG, that sensation of utter emptiness and silent-still guts post-defecation, did not fully bestow itself  but at least the pain crept back down to bearable levels. I even went and had a cycle on TPC, watching Jon Stewart irresponsibly use Colbert's Super PAC money on Hollywood artefacts and having a world renowned chef prepare, cut, then chew his food for him and then mamma-bird it into Stewart's mouth. 

And yesterday ... I had practically nowt dairy. So much for that theory.

Epic rubs-sore-tummy sigh.

McKay Hatch—get f____

Modern Family is an awesome show. Just from a technical perspective with acting, use of camera, and the marrying of three sub-stories with the three families into a single unified broad story arc. It really is a testimony to how good TV can be.

There's an upcoming ep. where Mitchell and Cameron's adopted daughter, who is two, drops the F word at a wedding. It of course should be pointed out the actual utterance of the word is merely implied for comedic purposes with the "suspect" word bleeped and pixelated out.

As a parent whose had to dial back cursing, albeit often unsuccessfully, since the arrival of our little man, and whose little man himself has indeed dropped the F word because of daddy, now and then your child will emulate you and say bad words. You then, likely stiffling giggles, have to explain why you're allowed to use it and they're not. The plot of this episode that resonates with anyone with a child.

Enter McKay Hatch

An anti-profanity crusader in the US has asked the ABC television network to pull this week's Modern Family episode in which a toddler appears to use a bleeped curse word.

"Our main goal is to stop this from happening," McKay Hatch, an 18-year-old college student who founded the No Cussing Club in 2007, said on Tuesday.

"If we don't, at least ABC knows that people all over the world don't want to have a 2-year-old saying the 'F-bomb' on TV."

"We hope they know better," said Hatch. He's asking his club's members, whom he said number 35,000 in the United States and about three-dozen other countries, to complain to ABC.

McKay Hatch; get fucked. If you don't want to experience implied cursing, let alone actual cursing (1), in all its rich delicious glory, then fuck off and don't watch any fucking television or read anything other than your precious do-gooder holier-than-thou texts. When / if you become a parent then you too will experience the delicious joy of trying to steer your spawn to do the right thing but you will fail sometimes along the way. That's what happens. Don't impinge your shitty fucked up uber moral world-view on other people because you find a little bit of cursing, implied or otherwise, to be a hideous evil—so much so you set up a lobby group to stomp it out.

I also find it delicious that a 18-year-old thinks they know anything at all about how the real world is and they think they can broadly monster an entire network with their 36 000 like-minded coterie of thin-lipped fuckwits that get all anal mouth when they hear a curse word, even if it's merely implied, and who almost certainly sign up to a strait-laced bible-inspired societal view that encourages the oppression of women and / or technically death to gays and Wicca—go fightin' Leviticus! (2)

I also feel sorry for Hatch. I wonder what words burble out of his mouth (3) when something bad happens that generates an impulse to swear? Studies have shown the bellowing of a hard-sounding curse word dials back the pain and / or frustration in the immediacy of the event. And as a man who is wracked constantly in low-grade pain of aching muscles and fucking bones and guts that are on a constant churn then I fucking swear a fucking lot. What's Hatch do? Some sort of Napoleon Dynamite  'Gosh' or 'Darn' when his ankle turns and he goes arse-over-lactating-access-ports and crumples to the ground?

Stick your No Cussing society right up my hairy-fringed anus, you overly puritanical anti-the-human-experience fuckwit.

(1) I imagine McKay would have a somewhat difficult time watching pretty much anything produced by the good people at HBO.
(2) This is not at all to suggest that genuine Christians actually feel this way and can't in fact divorce the dated components of their holy text from the reality of a world that is becoming steadily more accepting of the view that women and people who prefer the genitals of their own sex are equally valued and entitled to decency of treatment and access to opportunity to pursue happiness. However there are many, and let's say they probably go to churches prefaced by the size-synonym "mega", who do; and also likely have issues with people whose colouration trends towards the non-white. I have good close friends who are evangelical Christians and who are  some of the most decent, welcoming people I've met. However they're actually Christian Christians in they practice all that stuff that Jesus fella said about loving thy neighbour and helping people in need, as opposed to the 'no swears on the tube' cock-head crowd of one M.Hatch (2a).
(2a) They may indeed do good works too. But their language-oppression is like an abnormal protein that indicates a broader illness in the body. To wit their strait-laced 'my way or the highway' usage of language. I'd like to re-lyricise a hymn I sang as a child—"Get fucked, get fucked, and again I say get fucked'.
(3) Presuming he's a he; he could be a lady boy for all I know.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Area man twins his OCD with the many-worlds theory

I have low-grade self-diagnosed OCD. I self-diagnosed, from memory, after reading an article about OCD and how some suffers feel compelled to pick up or move in-the-way items and stow sharp objects because they're worried people will slip, trip and/or be stabbed and they will die and it will be all the OCD's persons fault. That pretty much sums me up.

Isn't that grand? A fucked mind for a fucked body. Oh well, you play the cards you're dealt etc. 

Any-hoo, so when I see something that should be rectified—such as encountering a potential trip or slip hazard like an object in a foot trafficked area such as a glossy magazine left on a smooth floor surface—then despite my semi-failed but still chugging along muscular-skeletal system, I will with a groan of effort either pick it up. Or, without any real effort, toe it into a location that won't be in the way of walkers.

When it comes to my personal safety, especially with the recent hip replacement (1), lately a thought has crossed my mind that 'other universe Mikey didn't fix that and he died.' This in turn makes me more likely to fix things (or avoid them) if I encounter them.

Yes, that's right, the many-worlds theory has landed on Mikey and infused his OCD with a patina of Sci-Fi. Like today, when after a particularly brutal session on The Hell Wagon (2), I was aching and trembling, with sweat dripping around my puffy man-nips, as I flicked out the bathmat before the shower, and a potential slip/trip presented itself. For one of the corners had folded under itself and presented a large bulge at the front. Instantly in my mind's eye I saw the lifeline, a great green shimmering Tron-esq effort, snuffed out for a parallel universe Mikey, all because he'd failed to heed the danger of the bulging bathmat (3) and not rectified it. 

I am determined to be the longest-living Mikey of all the multi-verse versions of moi. I do feel sorry though for the two parallel Mikeys that died with the Pulmonary Embolism I(we) suffered during the recent hip operation when it lodged in their brain for one of them and heart for the other, alas killing them (I lucked out as it landed in my lungs and just knocked me unconscious). After-all that's just bad luck as there's nothing they could have done to stop that happening apart, of course, from avoiding the operation entirely (4).

(doffs hat, downcasts head). 

Oh and a shout-out to the Mikey that dashed his brains out on the brickwork on his first foray outside on crutches because unlike me theWife wasn't there to catch him when he fell backwards.

(re-doffs hat, re-downcasts head). 

So there you have it. I have managed to enhance a mild mental quirk with quantum mechanics ... which is somewhat ironic as I am barely numerate (5).

(1) I had a dream the other night that people from my various stages of life—University Mikey; Early-in-Canberra Mikey, Second Work Area Mikey etc.—were on crutches when we ran into each other;  we'd all had recent hip replacements! Then we swapped manly stories about near-misses with falling, pain management etc. Even my dreams aren't safe from me.
(2) The Hell Wagon, an exercise bike on semi-perm loan from Casso, the Titania of the suburb we both live in (unnamed for privacy reasons), was the name given to the bike on its initial arrival at our house. For it was a most brutal object d'exercise to use—it was like the wheel of pain from Conan. Every turn of the pedal seemed to be incredibly difficult. I initially chalked it up to my constant physical failings but theWife investigated and found the wiring for the difficulty adjustment mechanism had come loose. Being a most useful mammal she fixed it and The Hell Wagon was re-christened The Purgatory Cart since it was now less painful to use, but still rather annoying as all exercise for the sake of exercise when one is blessed with a semi-fucked body is. Alas when I got on today the wiring had come loose again and it took me 24.55 minutes to reach my minimum cease-and-desist point of 5.5 kays. theWife will naturally now fix it. 
(3) Which, of course, sounds like a Sherlock Holmes title—The danger of the bulging bathmat. Turns out the bathmat was really a Bulgarian Opera Singer who'd studied poisons under an Indian Fakir and when Mrs Throsby tripped she went head first into the mirror. A mirror laced with poison! Of course she died mainly from the severed jugular and fractured skull but if she'd lingered longer .... poison!
(4) Thus there's another me that made that decision and is hobbling around with his original nearly dead hip and wondering if he made the right choice. I expect if he knew of the deaths of other Mikey (Brain) and other other Mikey (Heart), he would!
(5) Unlike that other Mikey that had a maths-whiz brain and ended up working for the team at the Hadron Collider (5a). Alas when they did one of those recent potentially world(universe)-ending experiments I(he) fucked up and it did actually re-start(cause?) the Big Bang. I am of course hoping he wasn't somehow spat into my universe and complicated doppelganger shenanigans do not ensue.
(5a) I had deliciously initially written this as Hardon Collider. You just know there's a gay porno out there with that title and that was filmed guerrilla-style after core hours, in a dude's Nuclear Power Plant workplace, perhaps using the back-up (slash) training control room for the backdrop. 'Hey man, check out my rod. It's approaching meltdown!' (Bocca, Bocca, Wow, Wow).