Friday, August 31, 2012

(Makes feeble self-pitying noises)

My nose crud has done a Hitler and invaded the Poland of my moustache with snot dribble snagging together a clump of mo hair. When I next shower I will have detach my detachable shower head and send a power squirt at my afflicted philtrum.

Last night some food got stuck; twice. I spent an hour trying to retch the food free and ended up vomiting twice, including once outside. Right near in fact to where I hold my cat by her heaving flanks if I've heard her bringing up a hairball and then rushed her outside to hold her over the grass.

I spent a good twenty minutes of the retching attempt march-bouncing on along the lawn in the freezing night tunelessly head-chanting 'The Grand Old Duke of York' hoping the rhythmic motion would help. With not having much success I then crawled onto the mesh-walled trampoline and knee-bounced for a time. In the end I resorted to the fingering of the uvula to trigger a vomit reflex and gouted forth a torrent of mini-wheats, milk and fruits.

Ah, what a joy 'tis to be me.

But, as I told myself last night, thus I carry on.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

theBoy escapes his room

theBoy sometimes cheekily gets out of bed at night. Sometimes he has a reason—'I need to do a poo!'—sometimes an excuse—'L--- scared me!' L--- being our cat who is almost certainly sleep in a different room.

Just then he shuffled into view along the mat we keep over the threshold of the end room and spine corridor, the mat there because we ripped up the protective sheath of metal that held down the carpet—the nails  rubbed unpleasantly on bare feet. Only he was on his knees and had a cardboard box on his head.

He knew it was me at the computer, though accidentally called me Mummy when he whispered 'Mummy, I'm here'—or words to that effect. Words muffled by the very box he'd placed on his head to conceal his identity. 

When theBoy has committed a post-going-to-bed infraction he loses something from his array of comfort toys he sleeps with at night. This includes four sleeping aids—two lambs and two bears ('Forty')—a purple dragon, a blue spotted dragon ('Silly Simon'), a pink hippo ('cuddles'), his drink bottle, assorted books and likely a couple of torches. One of these things then gets put on the fridge. Though that hasn't always worked. Once he lost all his lambs and Fortys and in the morning he woke up, used a chair to get one of them down, then hid it behind the couch. Only he left the chair behind as a clue to his crime. That was a little disappointing for such a failure in execution of a scheme. I hope in his future career as a super villain he's a lot more careful.

This time he didn't lose anything—he got back to bed before theWife officially rumbled him, theWife liking to give him a chance to return before she nails his ass to the wall and subtracts one of his comfort items. 

theBoy, yukking it up when he should be asleep since '07.

Stupid cough and where Mikey takes down his boss via the medium of illness

I'm still suffering the dying remnants of MAN FLU!, my spousal-acquired sickness that laid me low for a day. Actually it's laid me low since I got sick but I only had a certificate for a day and thus came to work ... where I promptly infected my boss and she's now off sick herself.

Good one, Memo. Indeed so outraged was she by the infection that she emailed from home a colleague elsewhere on the floor and demanded he go around and give me a dead arm; she literally put out a hit on me!

And it's a fair cop, too (1).

I honk up goobs now and then, in the manner of a cat with hairballs, with my morning shower routine sometimes consisting of semi-retching up gunk then washing the remnants off the tiled wall and down the drain courtesy of spray from my shower's detachable shower head. But if I am also fluey then these goobs come with greater frequency and consistency and even onset in the workplace.

So naturally I had one of these coughing-up-and-out moment at work. I'm not sure of how the physics of this came about but a ten cent sized piece of spittle-goob somehow flew out of my mouth to land upon the right lens of my glasses as I was wearing them. I then had the ignominious joy of daubing off my own infected spittle.

I've also returned to full-body-ache mode and my headache has resurfaced. This all despite my manning up and flogging the hell out of the TPC for near 47 minutes at out last encounter. So much for it taking it all, bitch (2). 

Huzzuh for recurring not-quite-gotten-rid-of illness!

(1) The Witch character from that clip of Holy Grail was played by Connie Booth of Fawlty Towers writing and acting fame. Fuck me what a funny comedic actress and writer she was. She later divorced her then husband and Fawlty Towers writing partner, John Cleese, and became a psychotherapist.  She's now 68 but she'll forever be Polly from Fawlty Towers in my eyes. But only 'cos I don't personally know her. I bet her friends think it's a trip that she used to be an actress and that she helped craft a tremendously skilled piece of comedic art. For example, though Connie Booth is not in this scene she helped write the show that it was part of; car punishing. That scene especially works for me because I have been that angry and frustrated. Such as when I recently rage holed our bedroom door with my head.  
(2) I don't know why I find this joke funny but I just do; An elephant was walking through the jungle when she got a thorn in her foot. The further she walked, the more sore it got. After a while she started to limp. After a while, an ant walkrf up and asked, "Hey, what's the matter?" The elephant answered, "I've got this thorn in my foot and I would do anything to get it out." The ant said, "Anything? Would you let me fuck you?" The elephant thought about it and decided what the hell. How bad could an ant be? So she agreed. The ant started pulling on the thorn and sure enough, he got it out. True to her word, the elephant laid down on her side and moved her tail out of the way. The ant crawled up on her and started going to town. A monkey up a nearby tree saw the scene and couldn't quite believe his eyes. The monkey started laughing and threw a coconut at the elephant and smacked it right between the ears causing the elephant to moan loudly in pain. 'Take it all, bitch!' said the ant.

A Mikey Mirror Universe moment

Star Trek has given us many things. The idea of a classless, moneyless technocracy that serves the needs of its people, hand-held portable instant communication, and even the concept of No Smoking in an office environment. 

The Star Trek episode 'Mirror Mirror' also helped popularise the sci-fi concept of the Mirror Universe, with the Trek Mirror Universe having the same people as the actual Trek universe only the personalities had been warped by their differing environment, with the Mirror Universe in Star Trek revealing a galaxy '...marred by continual warfare, with compassion seen as a liability' and that in this universe 'Uniforms are often more suggestive, such as women baring midriffs, and men with tighter pants.'

'Mirror, Mirror' also gave us this bitching photo of Evil Spock and Evil Kirk, complete with a goatee and a cut-off sleeveless tight-to-the-body shirt.

I was riding the TPC, an exercise bike recently purchased on credit from Casso, the original maker of the Roomba and who lives in a 99% shrunken state within the first ever-sold Roomba. As it was a morning ride, for I had to go to an event straight after work and therefore had to perform my mandatory exercise before instead of after, I started with two layers of clothes. The free-standing shed where the TPC sits lacks any form of insulation and it is after-all still Winter here in the nation's capital. 

By about the fifteen minute mark, however, I'd turned the halogen heater down to the lowest setting, whacking the buttons cresting the top of the machine with the back hand of my skeleton-handed back scratcher I keep close to flesh hand for when I ride since sweat sometimes causes itching to prickle to life across my hairy back. I'd also stripped off to my waist and rolled my PJ pants legs up, looking once more like I was cavorting in Renaissance-style padded underpants. Though I hardly think riding an exercise bike would qualify as cavorting in any capacity. 

I started with an initial aim of my original standard of six kays, since it was before work and I was still recovering from the recent bout of MANFLU! I'd scored courtesy of theWife. An illness I've since likely passed on to my boss. But six kays came and went and I kept going. Seven kays, eight. Nine even. Still grinding away. 

And as I ground away the sweat ran free, dripping off my Brando-esque head and down the convex of my hairy stomach. So much sweat dripped that eventually a path of least resistance by my salty man water was found, right down the centre of my overly massed stomach, my chest and stomach hair soaked together to form a noticeable trail of sweat-slicked man fur to where the sweat would then drip into my deeply-set belly button. In other words my trail was the neat antithesis of what would come to mind when the term 'snail trail' is used in relation to the male body and thus a dramatic counter to the typical mental image of a taught muscular stomach with a light furred trail forming a kind of hairy shaft of a downward pointing arrow which, as irony would have it, is pointing to a shaft whose base is crowned with hair (1).

A Mikey Mirrror Universe moment, indeed.

(1) Unless, that is, the region has endured depilation. Which, I understand, is a fashion amongst some guys. Frankly the idea of razor work being performed down there fills me with the shudders, but in their defence they can likely see what they're doing whereas I'd be complicated by the fact I'd be razoring by feel alone. That or re-purposing in a very disturbing manner one of those angled-floor sited mirrors you can use at the shoe shop to admire your feet with.

Dental Plan!

With thanks to the Simpsons.

Because of egregious cock-blocking by flat-earthers in the Opposition ranks aided and abetted by its News Limited cronies its rare the government's actual good news gets out.

And that is that, five years after it was promised back in the 2007 election, free dental care will be provided to the needy

The deal was helped through by the Greens and provides yet another example of how the ALP and the Greens can work together in the common good to provide remit for people their parties actually give a shit about; those not born from a hoo-hoo whose flesh body comes from staid circumstances. 

Bad teeth can be agony. Sure, there's dietary and lifestyle issues at play but you don't not extend care to someone who injures themselves in sport, a voluntary activity. No, you laud their physicality and try and get them back on their feet. Okay, so diet and lifestyle are both hedonistic issues in a sense but then being born into poverty, both absence of money and education to know better, is not your fault.  Poor people eat like shit a lot of the time because that's what you do when you're poor (1).

So it's about fucking time. Kudos to the ALP and the Greens for actually getting it up.

Now bring on a proper ridgy-didge National Disability Insurance Scheme and not one monstered by over-fed privileged a-holes in the Liberal-National coalition state parliaments like in WA.  

Sometimes government does actually work for the greater good. This is one of those times. Oh and big ups to the Greens for pushing it because at both the last elections this was right in their policy platform. 

Hey, Tony Abbott, look at that. They're still doing way more for the health of Australians than you ever did in your time as the most ideologically-ravaged health minister in Australian Commonwealth History, as evidenced by your tantified efforts to block the provision of chemically-induced abortion, preferring women to do the walk of shame to get a surgical termination and likely endure walking past foetus-clad placards waved by old religious people as they do so.

(1) Once, as a student, I toasted a mold-ravaged piece of bread then cut away the mold. It was the only bread I had in the house, I had no money, and I had no car (I either walked to uni, attempting to hitch, or caught the bus). And I was trying to live on the $135 a fortnight I got from my parents, my parents paying me the equivalent of Austudy because they didn't want to sign paperwork saying I was fiscally on my own (note this was 1992-1994, so $135 is about $200 in now money) (1a). Sometimes I supplemented that money with casual work like envelope stuffing—and how glorious it was to have $60 in hand. You could actually buy a meal from the student bistro. But that's also not to say that I didn't indulge in the student lifestyle of hedonistic pleasures; I did. But for the most part I was broke-arse poor and I lived hand-to-mouth. But I also came from a middle class household where, had I asked for it, my parents would have taken me back home and provided for me. Other poor people do not have that luxury.
(1a) The DollarTimes website has a neat inflation calculator to find out how much money was worth in today's money down to 1915.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

That. Happened.

With thanks, once more, to Talladega Nights. A movie whose blooper-reel-infused credits are nearly as awesome as the movie itself. Damn you impro Gods!

In Storyverse it's been now firmly estabalished that one of Rat's ladybird vanilla milkshakes (1) will snap someone out of a hypnotic state if the shake is cast in their face. For Rat, you see, runs the Ich Bin Ein Ladybird Café whose house speciality is infusing your food or drink with ladybirds.

Tonight Captain Hypno, a pirate-themed mass-hypnotist whose eye patch conceals an either magical or high tech (2) crystal whose swirling innards send those before it into a mesmerised state, ran a series of ads on the tellie offering new vans for old, ala Aladdin, in order to attract the gang's attention. The ads were naturally infused with WomWoms from Hypno's eye-crystal. Hypno's command? That the members Mystery Inc., aka the Scooby gang, bring then give him the Mystery Machine. 

(cue piratical evil laughter) BWHAHAHAHAHA!

So it came to be that a milkshake was thrown into the faces of the hypnotised Velma and Daphne in order to break them out of their lurching shamble as they robotically headed for the van in order to drive it over to Hypno.

Me: And who is that cast forth this great milky wad into Velma and Daphne's face?

theBoy: It was Rat!


(1) I have to confess no other flavours have been attempted.
(2) Clarke's third law applies here I guess, too.  

Where Mikey gets a cert from a chemist

In the public service you get a certain number of sick days per financial year where you don't need a medical certificate. For us I think it's five. As they don't need a certificate they've often referred to as 'doona days' because the idea is that people who just can't face the idea of work, call in (or email/text in) sick, then return to bed and pull the doona over their head. 

As a man for whom illness is a constant companion I tend to chew through these days. And when I run out I need a medical certificate or I have to use annual leave (with management permission) to avoid the dreaded unpaid day crapping all over my next pay allotment. 

Chemists in the ACT can now give Absence from Work Certificates. Knowing I had merely the flu or a cold I decided to make use of this provision and ask the chemist for a cert. 

Cleverly the chemist notes that it's a $20 fee for the consultation and that the consultation might not actually produce a certificate. But given I looked and sounded pretty flu-wracked I was confident I'd be found illness-worthy.

A while back various chemists across the territory hooked into weight loss program provision. There was Betty Baxter or Doctor Tim's Fancy Old Timey Fantasmagorical Weight Loss Solution, with each franchise selecting their own weight loss program provider. Because the weight loss programs requiring sitting down and talking with people each chemist crafted in their public space small cubicles complete with carpet sided cubicle walls with which to lead the fatties into in order to talk weight loss. From what I can gather this method didn't pay off them. I think it was probably because fat people don't like being squeezed into small areas to discuss their private fatty business, especially in likely earshot of the always curious (as anyone in a chemist can presumed to be).

So in this chemist they'd done a Cube and shifted the cubicle walls previously assigned to weight loss consults closer to the 'lording it above the proles' upper behind-the-counter level and instead assigned that cubicle space to consulting with people about getting an Absence from Work Certificate.

I had to wait about ten minutes—for only the pharmacist herself could perform this role—and I was summoned into the cubicle to talk with her. Inside it was a tiny desk barely two feet wide, like you'd find as a furniture fit out for a Wendy version of a home office. It was as if I was in a cubicle on Floor 7½ in Being John Malkovich.

Then, because the cubicle walls afford zero audible privacy, her consult—made extra delightful by her coquettish Kiwi accent and over-sized owl-like specs—was held at a near whisper. I murmured conspiratorially that I had the flu and then I discovered why the chemists in Canberra had gotten into the providing an Absence from Work Certificate gig; it's the perfect vehicle to sell punters a bunch of pharmacy-provided flu ameliorating tat. Because you see her response was 'well we have X, Y, Z to help with that...' And, despite being obviously flu-ridden, because I'd been worded up that the consult wouldn't necessarily provide me with a certificate I was already primed to accept the need to purchase said tat lest I trigger a 'well, you don't appear that sick; no cert for you!' type response. 

After agreeing to purchase one of the proffered products the pharmacist then speedily softly-read her mandatory spiel about how she's not a doctor, she's a pharmacist, and if symptoms persist then please see an actual doctor. Then stamp, stamp, stamp, and chung-ching! on the consult plus meds and I was out the door with my cert. 

It was in all a somewhat surreal way to get an Absence from Work Certificate but, even with the Medicare rebate for a doctor's visit, it was still cheaper—including the cost of the semi-mandatory medication I'd purchased—than going to my non-bulk billing doctor.

So I'll probably go that route again should I land with flu or cold. However you do only get a cert for a maximum of one day, they won't backdate, and of course there's no guarantee you'll even get a cert to begin with. 

Of course if this all shits you up the wall there's always the walk-in clinic at the hospital. It's free and they'll give certs up to three days in value. Except, of course, there's a hell wait to be seen. The advice from my peeps (1) who've used this is to go around 10.30 am so as to avoid the mass of ill-bodies crusted around the door who've been loitering since just before nine am. 

Dear Lord the hoops we jump through to be recognised as legally sick.

(1) A shout out to S--- for that piece of info. Which I guess actually just makes it peep as it's singular. 

Pwned through the medium of improvised construction

As any parent knows mornings can be hell in attempting to wrangle your child or children out the door. It's the old age tension of time meets child. 

Most mornings theBoy sneaks in to me, or extracts me from the bed, to do Humpty and Stumpty in the end room. Only when it comes time to get ready for say pre-school or day care then chances are he will chuck a snit about Storyversus Interruptus and even have a tanty. 

So we decided, no more Humpty and Stumpty on school or daycare mornings. 

We'd been careful to word him up about this, but our intent was hampered with both of us parents being sick with colds, but this morning, sure enough, in he came. I'd spent the previous day, and the night as well, enjoying bouts of fevered sleep. Even now I'm feeling pretty wiggy and I probably shouldn't be going to work.

Trying to do the right thing I told him no Humpty and Stumpty this morning. 

He did NOT take it well. There were tears, denunciations, declarations of hatred, and even smacking of the back of the heater—which he had turned on to make me hot in order to punish me—and even one maddened run at the end room bed where I lay so he could punch me in the foot. 

I had to have a shower and so I relented a bit. To give him and I a face saver on the new rule I said we could do Humpty and Stumpty while I was in the shower (1). theBoy was grumpy about the shower-based Storyverse session because of the perceived lesser duration, since it would last only as long as I was in the shower, so he came up with a novel way to extend it.

I heard some noises beyond the shower curtain about two minutes into my shower, as Humpty and Stumpty was raging, and then discovered the improvised construction.

He'd walled me in. He used the old blue backless chair (from when I was a boy), the orange stool, his white step stool, and his green over-the-bath dinosaur bathtime tray and built a fence across the face of the shower. Because, according to his well-developed sense of logic, if I couldn't get out of the shower recess then the stories would have to continue. Even when I'd turned off the water.

You know what, I paid that. It was a good effort and I had been justifiably well-pwned. I negotiated a release which consisted of him agreeing to take down the wall as long as he could lead me to space jail—or the end room bed—and I hoped back in post-shower and continued with stories until theWife was up.

When she arose she heard of the arrangement and agreed we could keep doing it until she got dressed. Provided that he agreed to cease and desist on Storyverse the moment she was ready to leave the room.  And to his credit he did it. 

Child logic; sometimes it just makes sense.

(1) I confess these shower-based sessions are not a hundred percent effort from my end, for the rush and noise of water and my concentrating on cleaning my weirdly-shaped hirsute man body means I'm somewhat distracted. Chances are I will make non-committal statements like Really? Wow! Then what happened? Uh-uh and Sure! and hope that placates him enough to keep driving it along himself while I soap my fat not-so-little body.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Am I responsible for a litter of dead puppies?

I am deep within the throes of MAN FLU!, having started getting sick at 9.15 pm last night; my illness courtesy of theWife. Actually, according to the pharmacist, I have a cold, with my being inflicted with the full gamut of cold symptoms; stuffy nose, sore throat, headache and cough

I'm blowing my nose a lot and as such have already blown through the half-full box of tissues that is on the bookshelf in the end room, the box typically located behind the head of the ikea foldout bed. The box was from the good people at Kleenex—for I am presuming they are people and not some weird Cthuhu-esq malfusion of an Elder One who secretes wood pulp as it lies entombed within its dreaming and a worshipful cult that lovingly tends to the beast as it slumbers, prayerfully wiping down (presumably with Kleenex) its great ichor-slicked and heaving flanks each day—and the box's surface is littered with pics of sleeping or near-asleep cute-as-all-fuck puppies. So what will happen to the now empty box? Well if it's not repurposed for theBoy's craft stores then it will be binned, flattened then slotted into the manky filth-crudded recycling box, a semi-opaque white plastic storage crate we keep in the cupboard beneath the double sink in the kitchen.

Great, so not only do I bin a load of sleepy or sleeping puppies, I squish them first.

Wake up to yourself, Kleenex.

theBoy makes a Soylent Green joke

'Scooby, did you know Scooby Snacks are made out of Scoobys?'

Monday, August 27, 2012


(With thanks to Liz Lemon)

I have a cold. I caught it from theWife. I was fine at 9.15 pm. Now my nose is stuffed, I'm coughing and I've got a headache and a sore throat. I don't have man flu; I have MAN FLU EXTREME!

Stupid man flu and its weirdly efficiently quick onset. Which, as luck would have it, is the name of my fourteenth self-published album.

Where Mikey has a pee party at lunchtime

I am like a stinky cheese; I'm an acquired taste. I can, and do, rub people the wrong way. Whether it's my constant unyielding attempts at comedy shtick or even my choice of conversational subject matter, such as detailed provisions of information on the state of my colonic union, then people can and do get the shits with me (1). Some people avoid me. Some people at work even actively don't like me and consider me odd (slash) eccentric.

But now and then I do get to strike it lucky and meet new people that don't seem to mind my presence. At death-defying, and largely I think 'cos there's a lot of like-minded fun-in-mindset peeps there, I have managed to strike it lucky with getting to know people—and all people outside my usual social circle of nerd-game playing friends. 

And thanks to DD I met the Pees (2). By Pees of course I mean P--- and P---, who've I've done a few death-defying sessions with (3). We met for lunch today, and sat outside to eat and just shoot the shit. Mind you I did most of the shit-shooting, pumped up as I was with chocolate-fused caffeine from the über mochas theBoss and I chugged at around 10.30 of the am (4). I'm hoping my verbal diarrhoea didn't put them off, let alone the chunk of beetroot dip that I spat at P--- by mistake when I overly excitedly went on with a stream of consciousness riff about whatever I was blathering on with at the time my violently violet fluorescent spittle crossed the table to ping off his arm.

The lunch ended with an agreed way forward for a lad day of playing board games—such as Descent: Journeys in the Dark (which I'd not heard of) or Talisman—and I presume eating of the chips and the drinking of the soft drinks. Except in my case 'cos at the moment I can't do the latter. 

Anyhow it was nice to just be outside on a late-Winter's day in Canberra, hanging out with a pair of interesting guys and talking crap for an hour. Even if I did spit a chunk of purple-hued food at one of them.

Next time, other P---, next time.

(1) Pun intended! Pun intended! 
(2) Oh, and speaking of pee parties...(2a)(2b)
(2a) You've been earwormed, mutha-fucker. 
(2b) Oh, and another one! I seem to talk a lot about shits and wees on this blog. There's probably enough material in this blog for an entire psych conference (2c).
(2c) See from 6:10. Though really, to do Fawlty Towers justice, you should see the entire episode. Hell, see the series. It is one of the stand-out gems of TV comedy history and perfectly plotted sitcoms ever made; with plot neatly entwined with comedic acting. Fuck me, such awesome writing. Kudos, Mr Cleese, kudos.
(3) Death-defying, my name for the in the community activity I've been doing this year. It's mostly fun but occasionally intense. Sometimes even uncomfortable and untoward. 
(4) That was down to the fact theBoss put the same amount of coffee in the pot as we had for when we had four people in the team but only half the water as there were just two of us. The coffee was so strong it needed at least two heaped teaspoons of Cadbury's chocolate powder to take the edge off; the concept of the combo of chocolate powder and brewed coffee introduced to me by the dearly departed S--- whose absence has already been mournfully felt by both of us. Especially when a bunch of work rolled in. Damn you, Canberra-wide recruitment freeze!

A theDad and theBoy moment

Our bedroom is not the master bedroom. Indeed in many houses we've lived in we've devoted the master bedroom to being instead a combined study (slash) mini-lounge (slash) robing station (1). That was the case with the last place we lived in as well.

The bedroom where we dwell is opposite the toilet. I was sitting on the end of the bed when I saw theBoy, pants around his knees, shuffling for the toilet, intending on doing a wee. Unfortunately for theBoy theDad was using it. Unfortunately for theDad he'd forgotten to lock the door.

So I got to see the delightful view of my theDad standing at the toilet in mid flow, his pants around his knees, with theBoy, also pants around his knees, standing behind him and then attempting to get to the side so he could go too. With much laughter I had to extract theBoy from the toilet so as to give theDad some peace so he could finish up. 

In retrospect I probably should have joined them. That way we'd have had three generations, all with pants around the knees, standing in line for the toilet.

Good times...

(1) So we still keep our clothes in the master bedroom, for it's often where the built in wardrobes are, and we get dressed there. But we sleep in one of the smaller rooms. Since we have a king-sized bed then the rooms often end up as BED ISLAND!, where the bed almost takes up the entire space. Indeed in the current arrangement I have to turn to my side to shuffle from the side of the bed to the door. We've been here nearly five years now. So there's a black line along the wall at full convex extension of my gut where my stomach has rubbed along the plastered wall as I've shuffled sideways to the exit.

Killbot limit expanded

When I got home today I once more took on the task of grappling with the TPC, a yet-to-be-paid for exercise bike semi-sold to me by Casso, a dark-hearted princess whose legions of evil stand poised to sweep across the earth from her faerie kingdom (1).

Recently my doctor told me my previous 21 minutes a day was nowhere near what I needed to do in order to make up for my white collar ways; it seems that regular exercise presumes some during-the-day activity of which us white collar types rarely perform. So he said I had to double it.

It's been a hard trot but two days running I've managed to meet this new 40 minute minimum. Today's viewing poison—watched through my tablet PC so as to take my mind away from the horror of physicality—was the last episode of The Colbert Report featuring the band The Flaming Lips, the episode being flaming awesome. And once that finished then I bunged on an ep of Craig Ferguson's The Late Late Show and watched most of an episode of that. 

Hooray! My Killbot limit has been expanded (2). I didn't get a massive exercise high this time but midway through the ride I did have a tranche of mildly pleasing exertion. Though now, an hour later, the region around my coccyx is somewhat tender and sore. I may have to rub in some numbing gel.

Because, after-all, there's always time for numbing gel (3).

(1) Though due to a problem with scale the entire horde was eaten by a small dog (1a)
(1a) I stole that from Douglas Adams. Suck it, giant science fiction comedy God cruelly cut down in his prime at 49. Actually that makes me sad. Damn it!
(2) Though the intensity of a 40 minute ride will undoubtedly elude me time and time again. I'm only a widdle boy!
(3) Just how awesome is Orlando Jones in that sequence? Comedy gold.

Where theDad goes to Costco

Costco, the giant warehouse style shopping barn from the US recently imported to Canberra, is a surreal place. The sheer size of it reminds me of pictures of Zeppelin hangers from the 1930s. It's a vast lit cavern of massive shelves teeming with items both large and small.

theDad was in town to see us before he trots overseas for my younger brother's wedding. So as a Canberran (1) experience we took him out to Costco.

Yeah, it was surreal. I showed him the giant over-sized trolleys, we experienced being carded at the door, and then he got to take in the vast well-lit cavernous surrounds. He chuckled at the sheer enormity of it all.

Then we hit the tasting stations with no less than five stations visited; skinless franks, bologna, apple pie, sirloin steak, and salted almonds. My dad being an ex-farmer and agronomist commented the thickness of their meat cuts was very much an American characteristic of butchering.

We had to wait a while at the bologna station, for the tasting station operator, who was cooking the meat dish there and then, had just run out when we were there. We waited ten minutes as the operator, just 24, talked about his life, where he'd been a cook, and how he'd once effectively run their family restaurant at the age of just 14. We were joined there by an elderly Canberran who volunteered the fact that he'd been in Canberra since 1947 and that back then the territory population was just 15 167 people.

We talked a bit about Costco and Bologna man enthusiastically talked about what it was like to work for Costco and the benefit they had from requiring membership—including noting how membership and the checking of receipts at the door reduced shoplifting to practically zero. It was actually gratifying to hear a service delivery person talk with passion and joy about where they worked, a rare experience for me.

As we walked past the food preparation window, for you can see the vast prepared meals being prepared through the viewing gallery behind the food displays, we noticed how hard core their hygiene was. The cooks wore face masks (or beard masks in the case of one guy) in addition to hair nets and gloves.

Christmas decs are for sale already there and, true to Costco form, some of the decoration options were massive. Including a six foot tall ceramic nutcracker soldier complete with the gritted together teeth. Only it didn't actually crack nuts, which I call a fail on. Fathers day also got a look in with a station set up selling bottles of Jack Daniels where you could get the bottle engraved with a personal message there and then, the message scribed onto the glass by a Costco operator. It's a shame though the bottles with sample messages upon them had the commonly inflicted typo of 'Father's day' (2). 

theDad's biggest guffaw was reserved for the bakery section, especially upon seeing the giant 2.3 kg apple pie that Costco sells (and whose size precludes entry in a typical oven). The item that caught his eye the most though was the head-sized Black Forrest Cake; 2.4 kg of cake action for $21.95. He mused for a moment about getting one and trying to esky-carry it back to his hometown.

It was an experience taking theDad there and it was awesome being able to spend some quality time with him as I hung shit on the surreal elements of Costco, while at the same time admiring the fuck out of their product range and service delivery.

You won this round, Costco...

(1) As we drive along to see a local exhibition my dad asked what the origin of Mugga was in regards to Canberra, for the name is used on many things such as the Mugga Lane Recycling place. I believe it's named after the tree. But as I searched Wikipedia, trying to enter data into my loaner iPhone Safari as I sat in the back of our small car with theBoy, I also checked out Canberra's wiki. One apocryphal tale claims Canberra is an Anglicization of the local indigenous word for the 'hollow between a woman's breasts'. Which totally suits Canberra—we are the boob cleft between Melbourne and Sydney!
(2) The typo also seen on branding at Target (2a), Newspower, Dick Smith and ALDI.
(2a) However go Target for having branding of two dads and a kid with the tagline 'for all kinds of dads'. What a massively progressive thing to do and what an awesome fuck you to homophobic fucktards. Go Target!

Friday, August 24, 2012


I got the exercise high again. I rode the bitch out of the TPC as steadily fast as I could for the last six minutes. And I got the same sensation of deeper, heavier breathing, and the same faster but comfortable heart pound. And my arse, while sore in the middle where my unploughed furrow lies, has a mildly pleasant ache in the flanks.

I have always hated exercise. So this this weird double bout of exertion enjoyment is an unusual experience for ole Mikey.

Its occurence may also have something to with feeling generally a little better from my attempts at changing what I eat and drink.

I'm off dairy (1) for at least six weeks at least to see if my body can relearn tolerance for it since recent attempts at consumption left my bowels screamingly inflamed. Down at the coast, during one such bout my body bloated with gas so much that I felt as if I would float off the floor where I lay in crippled agony (2).

That and I've given given up carbonated beverages—including my beloved Diet Coke—to see if that also helps dial back my richly layered abdominal pain. It's been nearly a week since I last had anything fizzy. How long I will hold out against my desire for my dark liquid master I know not.

It's been tough but I had help with an exclusion pact with a friend. She was going off chocolate and suggested I try the same with DC. It timed well with the holiday mini-break as that refreshed my head space enough to give me a chance to do it. She had a close call with her attempt the other night---nearly making up a batch of chocolate icing to break her fast with---the only chocolate-like substance in the house being cocoa—but she stayed strong. And I admit to more than once this week gazing in lust at the single can of DC I had left at work in the downstairs fridge. Anyway the point is it massively helped having a bud along for the aesthetic ride and I know I wouldn't have even bothered the attempt without her kind offer to join her in proactive self-denial.

Will this trend continue? All signs point to probably not—based on my sorry history of failure at self-discipline—but, well, you never know.

Mikey Riding-high signing off.

(1) Save for A2 milk whose protein structure differs enough not to have an effect.
(2) I have had incidental dairy over the week from where it was cooked into things I consumed but tried to avoid it where possible. However I did have pizza today and I tried to scrape away the cheese. I thought it had worked but by 4.30 pm I suffered bloating and a delicious incident of explosive runs. Yay...

Let the grave robbing begin!

There's a tradition in the public service that when someone leaves you raid their drawers for what was left behind. Down on pens? Rob the body. Need scissors? Pat that corpse down.

And for those who leave who had non-standard software then you can raid that too in the form of transferring their licences to worthy (or unworthy) donors.

We recently lost two of our guys. I had the sad duty of escorting each of them to the door and taking their pass away.

As I got D---'s pass I realised his pass retractor cord was still intact, the protective sheathe still in place. 

Mine on the other hand was almost stuffed, from years of theBoy grabbing my pass, running the cord out to full extension and then letting it go so it snapped against my chest or face. 

So I happily de-hooked D---'s from his pass and clipped his retractor in place of mine.

Now that's grave robbing; I literally stole the last thing he had from working here.

Wait, that's not true. He had some awesome stationary tat in his drawers. 

So now I have that as well.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

An addition to Storyverse

Last night theBoy endowed Storyverse with a new character—Bumpty. He decided Bumpty was Humpty and Stumpty's brother. Bumpty didn't live in Storyverse—instead theBoy decided he lived in New Zealand and that Bumpty was a costume designer. I know it's massively stereotypical to suggest it but I asked theBoy if Bumpty was gay, for oddly theBoy is across the idea of same-sex orientation (1)(2). He agreed it was so. And on a whim I decided Bumpty worked for Weta

So Bumpty visited home for the first time in a long time (3) from his home in New Zealand. Only I decided he didn't physically arrive but rather he'd astrally projected in. I explained to theBoy the Lovecraftian concept of The Dreamlands and that Bumpty had entered entered via his sleep, dreaming his way to Storyverse. And, as a result of his being an astral traveller, Bumpty had a silver cord trailing out of his back like a kinked-upward cat's tail, the end point of which seemingly vanished into nothing.

theBoy liked this idea of Bumpty dreaming his way in and he then made an arrangement to fly to New Zealand at a later date and visit Bumpty in person in the real world. However a couple of times during the Storyverse session theBoy did try and yank on Bumpty's silver cord. 

And Bumpty's voice? Well I confess I went down the stereotypical path a little bit, adding a slight 'gay' inflection (4) to the character's speech patterns. But that was as far as I went. Save of course for adding in chunks of innuendo, Mr Humphries style. 

Oh 1970s BBC television, you have ruined me.

Still it was a totally cool shared story moment; the birth of a new character. I wonder if in the future theBoy will remember Bumpty's entry? We shall see...

(1) I used to describe homosexuality as being same-sex preferred. But I didn't realise that label was considered offensive because it indicated it was a choice not a biological determined sexuality. Thanks NPR for the heads up!
(2) I said 'Chooky, you know how when people get older then boys like girls and they end up together? Well there are some girls that like girls and boys that like boys that way. Can he like boys?' theBoy said 'Yes!'. 
(3) Technically it was his first actual appearance in Storyverse since theBoy created him that night but, in back story terms, he was from there originally and thus had returned. 
(4) I know, it sounds totally sketchy to say 'gay' inflection.

My scar tissue glistens in the light of the red

As regular readers know I ride an exercise bike—known as the TPC—for exercise. I used to have a daily walk—typically 20 minutes but sometimes shorter or longer—but when I discovered my left hip needed almost instant replacement I switched over to the exercise bike. A bike now semi-owned by me in that I borrowed it from Casso, agreed to pay what she paid for it, but have yet to actually hand over the cash.

The bike is set up in the free-standing shed out the back of the house, the shed being technically an illegal construct in that a previous owner of the house built it without approval. Next to the bike on the right is a white wooden bookshelf I purchased for theWife back when we were students and she was moving into my then share house. On there goes my Beloved, my Toshiba tablet, which I then jack into portable speakers.

To the front left is the halogen bar heater, which casts forth a bright ruddy glow at varying intensity. Varying in that it has buttons that allows you to vary the intensity.

Last night, as I rode, I got a little warm. It’s hard to break your circular motion stride when atop the TPC. That and once you’re on you really don’t want to get off because getting off may make you not want to get on again. So instead of getting off to turn down the heater I stripped off down to my waist.

My stomach is engraved with surgical scar tissue. I have a 20 cm long open surgery scar across my right side, the scar just above my belly button, and another keyhole scar on my left side. There's a couple more keyhole entry points dotted around my torso.

I generally have the overhead lights in the shed turned off when I ride, with just the screen of the tablet and the ruddy glow of the heater lighting up the area.

So I couldn’t help but notice how the upper left keyhole scar glistened in the glow of the heater, almost shining up at me as I rode; an odd little beacon of glimmer on a shaggy bloated body.

This morning I had to ride before work since I am going out afterwards. Part way into the ride I once more stripped down to my waist and again the scar glowed below me. I was also dosed up on Codeine—I’d had bad guts that morning—so it also made the exercise agony a little easier to cope with.

At the 20 minute mark though something weird happened—I got an exercise high. Maybe it was because I was rested before I started, instead of the usual dragging myself into the shed after being at work? Maybe it was that combined with the pain killers? But at that 20 minute mark I sped up, maintained a fast speed, and the high kicked in. For fully more eight minutes I rode at the frenetic pace, my heart pounding strong and steady, my breathing laboured but not unduly, and my left scar glistening up at me in the red glow of the heater. Sweat rolled off my head and dripped onto my chest, the beads then rolling down the convex of my gut, their path diverted here and there by knots of furred chest hair.

I made it to my chosen killbot limit (1)—the end of the episode of The Colbert Report I was watching—then stopped, sliding from the chair to stand-straddle over the pedals. I stood there for a few moments, heart still thump-thudding with recent exertion, as the exercise high continued. In fact the high didn’t really ebb until after I stepped out of the shower following my house re-entry.

The exercise high. Always a weird appearanceespecially for a man for who exercise is a necessity not a pleasure. 

Anyway, it was a nice change from the usual post-ride crud of having a numbed anus.

(1) Killbot limit is Mikey code for an end or cease point. Its origin? Futurama.


I’ve been travelling a bit yuck of late. A combo of ill-health, a health-mandated change to my diet, and work crap landed all at once and it left me a bit teary. It didn’t help watching The Colbert Report where they had a band on that played a mournful ditty that caused me to weep a tad as I rode the punishing TPC.

I was still sad and teary and feeling pretty yuck when theBoy rolled in with some stories to be read. It was regular story time—as opposed to Storyverse where we share a universe of original and looted characters and do free-ranging stories with each other—and he came in with the three paper books to be read as part of the pre-bed ritual, having been denied the opportunity to keep going with our Storyverse session.

Only, he’s sneaky. So when he’s denied further Storyverse he’ll try and infuse Storyverse elements within the regular stories he’s been mandated to receive. Such as deciding that the character in one of these regular stories has been replaced by a Storyverse and/or loaner guest star character; ‘The Zebra is Humpty and the Lion is Rat’.

He thrust a book into my hands. There was a character in the book that was a cat pretending to be a shark.

‘That shark cat is Fred,’ announced theBoy happily, rebadging the cat after loaner guest star Fred of Mystery Inc., with the Scooby-Do gang frequent guest stars in Storyverse (1).

I cleared my throat and then attempted a fusion of Fred from Scooby-Do, a shark, and a cat. ‘Meeeoowwww raarrrrghhhh, I solved the mystery!’ I mew-snarled as the Fred Shark Cat.

Then I started laughing, great peals of hysterical laughter, but crying at the same time from all the yuck of late.

And what of theBoy as all this happened?

He grinned, bouncing on his knees as I laugh-cried at my inability to do a Fred Shark Cat.

Catharsis; sometimes you just need to laugh-cry.

(1) I’ve had to on more than one occasion voice all the gang members during a Storyverse session. And sometimes I use the wrong voice for that character, dropping some Shaggy beats where Fred's voice should be. theBoy instantly correct it too; 'No, that's Shaggy. I meant FRED!'. Still it is pretty kewl that he's able to distinguish between all those characters when I do voice them. So it might be that my impressions are actually semi-passable ... to a five-year-old. Go me! 

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Tony V Tony

Abbott stood up in parliament the other day to rail against Gillard's "lies" for her introducing a carbon tax when, prior to the election that resulted in a minority government, she should not do so. You think the reality that it is a minority government and therefore had to deal on that stance and cave would be obvious to everyone.

It's an old righty trick of course. You bellow and you haw and you carry on, hitting the same few policy-free notes each time you do, and you rely on the fact that the broader public is mostly not engaged with politics and that they'll take in your crap by osmosis via the nine seconds of politics they may see on that night's news broadcast. If, that is, they even watch the news broadcast (1).

So Abbott stood up in parliament, railed mightily and then sat down.

Tony Windsor, independent member for New England and an independent, responded.

''There's been a lot of discussion today about history,'' he began. ''This is a hung Parliament. The decision to do something about climate change … to put a price on carbon, was a condition of the formation of government.

''The Leader of the Opposition knows that very well, because on a number of occasions, he actually begged for the [prime ministerial] job. Begged for the job. You've never denied that, Tony, and you won't.

''He begged for the job, and he made the point, not only to me but to others who were in that negotiating period, that he would do anything to get that job. Anything to get that job.

Windsor then stated his belief that Abbott would have also introduced a Carbon Tax had the idea been pitched to him during the negotiation phase between the independents and the major parties over who as to win government.

Windsor ended his response with labelling Abbott a disgrace. 

And indeed he is. 

Nice work, Mr W.

(1) I can however see the attraction in not giving a tinkers about politics. You look at the hawing and the shouting and the turtles muscling up to each other to ineffectually windmill slap and it's pretty disheartening. But they're not all the same; there are FUNDAMENTAL differences between the parties, especially the major parties.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

I'm not *the* God ... I don't think

With thanks to Groundhog Day

I came of age in a time where we have all become like gods. Kids today ... with their music ... will never know what it is to have paucity of knowledge. To be forced to physically engage with the acquisition of information—such as going to a library—each time you needed something. To have to be present in front of a live broadcast to see an event like the moon landing. Nor will they know of having to send all letters by hand and which were then carried by man and machine to arrive at the place you needed it sent, arriving days or weeks later.

The power we have to instantly learn,  perfectly recall, or instantly connect with someone no matter where they are on the globe makes us akin to gods of myth.

Now if they can just do the flying cars then that would be peachy. Plus I could do with a complete body reno, why not already?

Monday, August 20, 2012

A mini-break

We had a mini-break. We travelled down to the coast on the Friday night and stayed Saturday night as well with a late checkout. 

So, stand out moments from the break.

The place where we stayed has free-ranging roos. They're pretty fearless. Indeed I was more fearful of them ... the way they languidly lay as their heads turned, eyes unblinking to follow my passage past. One of the roos bounded up while theWife was cooking breakfast as I lay asleep. theBoy threw the roo some bacon and it gobbled the bacon down. So there you have it.That was when the roos tasted flesh and rose up against us. A shard of bacon fat was left on he ground from the meat eating roo encounter and the ants got to the shard. As we left that afternoon the bacon shard was ringed in black of  tightly pressed ant bodies.

Walking on the beach. I don't like the beach. I don't like the way the sand moves under my feet. I don't like the way the sand feels on my feet. But I sucked it up and off I went. And it was fun. I walked on the firm-yet-damp section and theBoy spent some merry minutes attempting to push me into the ocean. The previous day as we strode along a boardwalk he tried to push me off that. I am detecting a pattern here.

Swimming in the indoor pool at the place where we stayed. The water was clean and warm. While theBoy cannot yet swim independently he still loves the swimming pool, clinging as a baby turtle to his mummy turtle. There was a hot tub there too. I tried it out. I floating on my stomach with my limbs hanging below me like I was a water-suspended sloth. I liked it. I can see why people have hot tubs now. 

The walk back to the apartment when it was cold outside and I was wearing water soaked short trouser style swimmers. A breeze blew in against the sagging flaps of sodden cloth between my legs. You know about coolgardie safes, right? Same principle only against my junk. 

Playing the new fourth edition of Talisman. I played the Wizard (1). The new edition of Talisman is much the same as the third edition save that this edition has fate points; basically a re-roll of a single d6 for whatever reason. I made use of mine that's for sure. theWife and I ended up in the Crown of Command space duking it out for supremacy. I stole her mule so as to force her to drop all but four objects, thus removing some of her Strength or Craft adding items, and she claimed she had a second mule. I found out after she died, with my killing her character with but a single life of my own left, that she'd lied and it was her only mule. What a mol. Anyway, Talisman fourth edition, totally worth it. The art is beautiful, they've cleaned the rules up, they use stackable cones to track character values and they have plastic minis for the characters instead of the old cardboard pic stuck in a stand. The only negative I had for it is the Prophetess character is still in the core game even though her powers are way too powerful. Boo! (1, again)

Lying in front of the heater, about three feet from the vents, reading an awesome loaner book Confederates in the Attic and marvelling at what it is to be from the South in the US.

The hilarious drive there and back with theBoy and theWife. Lots of laughs, especially in the last ten kays from home when traffic banked up. And even though there's music and chatting back and forth I typically fall into a delightful meditative near or actual sleep. I love to sleep in moving vehicles. I think its because I subconsciously feel safe because I'm on the move and no one can attack me. Even though my chance of immediate death and/or injury is far, far higher when in moving transport. Go figure. I also put it down to soothing vibrations and the soporific effect of engine noise. Even when I used to drive I'd get sleepy really quickly and be yawning constantly when at the wheel. So it's probably good I don't really drive any more.

Asking theBoy what his favourite part of the museum visit was and for him to answer 'the stairwell!' In his defence it was a pretty fucking cool stairwell.

Cruising along a markets replete with marquees with snapping pennants briskly cracking in the wind. I got some old sci-fi books, theWife got a scarf, and theBoy got some toys. Yay markets!

Watching theBoy wearing nothing but crocs dancing in the two shower headed shower, both rosettes splashing him with water as he gleefully danced in a kind of almost naked soft shoe shuffle. 

Walking in the rain with the umbrella gripped double handed against the power of the wind only for the rain and wind to immediately fade away when I made it back to the unit. 

Watching Arrested Development from season one and anticipating with glee moment after moment of perfectly written and delivered lines. It is for me one of the stand out television series of the past 20 years and I marvel at the short sighted decision of the network suits to let that series die. Yay for the promised nine eps plus a movie to properly conclude it. I hope it happens. Don't make me do the sad walk, Hurwitz!

Lying in theBoy's room on the bed opposite his and watching him skip back and forth between the beds in the throes of a largely self-delivered Humpty and Stumpty session.

Looking out across the ocean on a simply fine day. 

(1) Our character selection method is each player is dealt three character cards. They then choose from those three options on who they'll play. That way there's no mad scramble for the fucking Prophetess!

Thursday, August 16, 2012

It's been nearly a week

My mad cap days of constant daily blogging—sometimes up to six times a day—have largely ended it seems. It’s harder now to devote the time to do it and while the anger still drives me to carp and moan about stuff I used to blog about—such as posts about Tony Abbott and his merry crew of arsehats— then chances are it’s an in-the-moment invective spray at the situation as I encounter it and then I can’t be arsed to actually put it in print.

Anyway, that aside, since this blog is effectively my journal—save for the silver head box stuff—I have to at least plug in something from over the last week.

I got the workhouse blues
We lose two people from my work soon, victims of the budget crunch that has near-crippled Canberra—a crippling as evidenced by the contraction of job ads for the public service since the budget was announced. I’ve been through resource scarcity times before as well as times of plenty—it’s almost biblical at times!—but this is the worst I've seen it. The saddest thing is how real actual public helping work gets impacted.

I’ve been semi-lucky in the public service in that I’ve usually had one or two people I work with that I genuinely enjoy the company of. But eventually they move on and if I am lucky someone else I enjoy working with comes along.

So I totally scored big time with these guys. It’s probably been one of the best working environment (slash) small team dynamics I’ve experienced in my entire working life. And the work they've done—which I contributed to—is exceptional and they should be proud of what they did. But, alas, they fell victim to the crap and the crud of higher-level mandated staffing restrictions even though their work still needs to be done and the work they did was of high quality.

Sometimes it does just seem so unfair. I'm going to wretchedly miss them and even now the sadness of their soon-to-be-passing is somewhat overwhelming. It's rare to meet people you just click with and whose company you simply delight in being near. And now they're going. It's almost like my organisation's response to the budget crunch is Mola Ram and he just stuck his hand in my chest to pull forth my still-beating heart. 

(looks to heavens) MOLA RAAAAAAAAAAAM!

No dairy for you!
My dairy issue continues. I’ve tried A2 milk and it seems to cause less symptoms of bloating and cramping. But food is the one true love I’ve always had and I’ve always, always loved dairy. I crave it even though I can’t have it; perhaps, because I can’t have it. Ice-cream, oh God, ice-ceam. I love you and I cherish you.

I know it’s pretty pathetic for an overly fed westerner to whine about what sliver of tuck he’s no longer allowed to cram in his large gob but, well, it’s my sad party and I can kvetch if I want to. You would kvetch too if it happened to you!

The other day I was at Casso’s for a nerd night. She had takeaway for dinner, purchased from a local Turkish joint. They do these cheese straws which are essentially tubes of deep fried feta. They are, as you can imagine, the tasty shizzle. And with my sans dairy attempts that’s now a Neddy No.

I swear Casso taunted me as she ate them, savouring each tube as it deftly parted her lips, her hair thrown back and billowing as per a shampoo commercial, and joy radiating from her like the nimbus of an angel; the shameless hussy!

Scooby, Scooby-Doo!
theBoy’s love of the Scooby-Doo gang continues. When we do a Storyverse session then lately it’s almost certain the gang will be feature players. Fred lives alone, with a decoy mannequin of himself  left on his bed to fool would-be assassins. Velma and Daphne are in a committed relationship and, if they play hide and seek, they hide together and then commence indulging in semi-secret making out. Shaggy and Scooby-Doo live together in a panic room off which theBoy has his a collecting room. In there theBoy stores bones and robot parts. 

Fred likes to “solve” ridiculously easy mysterious which annoys theBoy. A typical scenario is Fred losing his toothbrush and then, when he finds it, declares the solution has been discovered; ‘I’ve solved the mystery!’ To which theBoy will wearily respond ‘Fred, that’s not a mystery.’

The other day the gang, some of who live together upstairs from their landlady Mrs Makay, had a giant tentacle burst through their floor from below and attack them. They jumped out the window onto the Mystery Machine and took off, a tentacle monster erupting out from the ground floor where Mrs Makay lives, having smashed out through the wall to chase after them. theBoy got the Mystery Machine to stop and he confronted the tentacle monster and pulled the monster’s mask off, revealing a window. Through the window could be seen Humpty and Stumpty. They’d donned a tentacle monster costume over their vehicle—a small pink coloured motorized corner store—and then scared (slash) chased after the gang because one of them did something annoying. I think Shaggy ate Stumpty’s stinky cheese collection.

Anyway as the reveal was going down theBoy decided another vehicle-sized tentacle monster attacked. He unmasked that one only to find it was Rat, also in some sort of a vehicle, and he’d attacked them because they had dissed Rat’s infusing all the food and drinks at his Ich Bin Ein Ladybird café with ladybirds. ‘They’re nutritious and delicious, delicious!’ said Rat.

Only, yep, another tentacle monster turned up. This time theBoy said it was Humpty and Stumpty’s dad. Humpty’s dad’s voice is that of a Yorkshire man-type farmer character. He was upset because theBoy had used his toothbrush. theBoy claimed it wasn’t him and that it was Bookaboo, the book obsessed rock and roll puppy dog from the TV series. So Humpty’s dad left … only for Humpty’s mum, also in a vehicle disguised as a tentacle monster, to likewise turn up to scare people, get caught and then be interrogated. She’d attacked because of the toothbrush claiming she knew it was theBoy because she’d found a pair of theBoy’s underpants left at the scene of the crime. theBoy cried he’d been framed by Bookaboo; ‘He stole my underpants and left them there. He framed me!’

Then the most enormous tentacle monster turned up, towering over the previous tentacle monster covered vehicles that had been assembled in a kind of Cthulhu-esque car park as the various occupants of the revealed vehicles were complaining about who did what to who. They all fled for their respective monstrously-depicted transports and drove off, a series of ever-larger tentacle monsters roaring off down the darkened road, their headlights—I presume beamed out of the monster’s eye-stalks—slicing the night as they fled.

Yes … the super large tentacle monster turned out to be a costume covered mobile home… a mobile home belonging to Bookaboo. After his mask was pulled off he confessed to framing theBoy. And he would have got away with it if it hadn't been for that meddling kid!

Father’s Day is coming up. theBoy couldn’t wait to tell me what he was making.

It’s an ascot, like Fred wears, only theBoy’s going to put a love heart on it.

That’s pretty awesome.  

Wikfins—A Founding Father and a wrestling vampire
Dr Benjamin Rush is one of the Founding Fathers of the United States. A medical doctor in a time where actual medical knowledge was still very much embryonic, he served as Surgeon General in the continental army. His wiki is a rich vein of both historical cool, weird 'they thought what?!' and the just utterly odd. He's was also the founding father of better treatment of mental illness in the new nation.

A sampling from his wiki; 

In 1803, Thomas Jefferson sent Meriwether Lewis to Philadelphia to prepare for the Lewis and Clark Expedition under the tutelage of Rush, who taught Lewis about frontier illnesses and the performance of bloodletting. Rush provided the corps with a medical kit that included:

Turkish opium for nervousness
emetics to induce vomiting
medicinal wine
fifty dozen of Dr. Rush's Bilious Pills, laxatives containing more than 50% mercury, which the corps called "thunderclappers". Their meat-rich diet and lack of clean water during the expedition gave the men cause to use them frequently. Though their efficacy is questionable, their high mercury content provided an excellent tracer by which archaeologists have been able to track the corps' actual route to the Pacific.

Some time later I was cruising through the wiki for perennial candidates. A perennial candidate is someone who is one who runs for public office with a record of success that is infrequent, if existent at all. The wikfin was originally listed on this page, but the link seems to have gone, however when it was there the link led me to one Jonathon Sharkey. Sharkey is a wrestler who also indulges in consensual  vampirism in addition to threatening public figures with impaling. He was subsequently investigated by the Secret Service for making that threat in relation to George W Bush. Later he was jailed for threatening a judge and had two rifles and a wooden stake confiscated. Sharkey's wiki is simply a delight and if you need a Wikfin pick-me-up then have a look. WARNING: You could be attracted to consensual vampirism.

Well thanks journal (slash) diary. Time's gotten away from me once more and thus it is time to away ere break of night.