Can I jump out of the cake yet?

Yesterday, due to the continual forward momentum the passage of time follows, I aged another year. Well I don't mean that I aged an entire year over the course of 24 hours; that would require some kind of wormhole in space. Or socery. Either way I know nothing relating to the manipulation of both. What I mean is that yesterday was that annual celebration (though some people would dispute it being a cause for celebration) of my birth.
I turned 22, on the 20/2, and the time of my birth was 2:22pm. That's an awful lot of twos, and I've take it as a sign that I am going to be killed by a set of identical twins. It seems like the most logical conclusion to come to. This leaves me with no choice but to be suspicious of every single set of identical twins I ever meet. So if you are an identical twin, and you run into me and I hurl bricks and obscenities at you I apologise in advance. By that point I'm fairly certain my paranoia will have driven me insane and I won't be able to be held accountable for my actions.
Turning 22 is really a non-event birthday. You went all wacky the year before, got drunk and spent half an hour wrestling with a hammock, so really the next year is just the wind-down. That's why yesterday was almost entirely uneventful. I say "almost" because there was ice cream cake at one point, and who the hell doesn't love ice cream cake? Well, lactose intolerant people I guess, but I ask you, are lactose intolerant people really people at all? Think about it.

Tap dancing into oblivion

Gene Kelly did it in the rain, it helped the Von-Trapps survive Word War II, and gang warfare on the west-side streets of New York City was plagued with it. So if it's good enough for them it should be good enough for me. That's right: I wish my life was a musical.

Growing up in a childhood filled with Disney's animated musicals, the Genie from Aladdin was right, I had never had a friend like him. But I'll be damned if I didn't want one. It had nothing to do with his ability to grant wished or the plethora of PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWERS he possessed, and everything to do with his habit of randomly breaking into over-the-top musical numbers filled with fireworks, wild animals and chorus lines. That is exactly what I wanted my life to be like, but sadly, being the uncoordinated child I was, all my attempts at breaking into impromptu song and dance numbers just ended in me falling over, hitting my head on the pool table and retreating to my bedroom in tears.

Where did it all go wrong? Why have I been unable to live a life where spontaneous dance routines breaking out on street corners and shopping malls are a common occurence, and I narrate my life's events through song? The Scarecrow didn't have a brain and The Tin Man didn't have a heart, yet they managed it fine. I have both, so shouldn't my life be twice as musical as theirs?

I blame this lack of a melody-infused existence on how I was raised. I was never fortunate enough to have a nanny float to my door clutching her umbrella and sing to me about then benifits of mixing sugar with your medicine. In fact, I never had a nanny at all. I was doomed from the beginning! Not to mention I had to endure a lifetime full of foul-tasting medicines.

Is it too late to start myself along a yellow brick road towards a musical life? I think not. I know that every person I pass on the street is just itching to break into the surprisingly well choreographed song and dance that somehow everybody knows, all they are waiting for is me to start things off. After all it is my life, they're just the backup. So I'll visit Chicago if I have to. I'll get myself some Cats and I'll start paying Rent. One way or another I'm going to start living the way I should be, and that's the Broadway. Now where's my top hat and cane?

The top 5 reasons why I'm not a REAL man

1. Cars, and my lack of knowledge and interest in anything remotely associated with them. My car moves, it gets me from point A to any other letter of the alphabet I require getting to. How it achieves this marvel of modern science is completely irrelevant to me. There may be a group of athletic midgets running on wheels under my bonnet for all I know or care, although if that was the case I would probably be much more interested. It's not my fault that when anything relating to the topic is brought up in conversation it sends me spiralling towards a coma, it's a medical condition I swear. And all you car lovers out there, feel free to laugh at me when you drive past me weeping over the bonet of my broken down car on the side of the highway.

2. If you ever utter the phrase "howdy sportsfan", you can rest assured it wasn't directed at me. It's not that I don't like sports at all, but I only have a mild interest. I keep up with who wins in things like the cricket and footy, and I'll watch major matches like Origin and the Finals, but if I otherwise watch an entire match it is most likely because I've been immobilised by a hangover. I can guarantee I will never be the one in the crowd at the cricket drunk and sporting a painted on jersey. I mean I might be drunk, but I'd be the one arguing which Marvel comic characters would make up the best cricket team. I'm pathetically geeky like that.

3. I've watched Gilmore Girls, and I've enjoyed it.

4. I have absolutely no porn on my computer. Not only does that go against me being a manly man, but also an internet geek. Just where the hell do I fit in? Some kind of free range wildlife park maybe? It not like I haven't seen it, let's face it, if you've got the internet you can't avoid it. It just kinda freaks me out. It's mostly a combination of slimy and angry, and if i wanted to see a camera zoomed in that closely on a vagina I'd go watch a fibre-optic cervix exam. Do those things even exist? Anyways, the fact remains that I have better things to do with 30 gig of my hard drive space. Who needs that much porn anyway?

5. I have sat in a room and watched Dirty Dancing with 3 girls. The jury is still out, but it might be the most immasculating moment of my life. My penis is yet to forgive me for the extensive exposure to Patrick Swayze in pants so tight they defy the laws of physics.

Too much Hoff can make you gassy

Well here we are with another one of The Hoff's (a.k.a "Australia's Favourite Son") entirely non-sensical Pepsi ads. While the last one managed to rock my socks off, this one has just left me feeling baffled, befuddled and slightly flummoxed. Not to mention just a little bit gay. I've been staring at the picture for hours hoping for some form of rational explanation regarding the conception of this ad to burst forth like a Magic Eye image. Sadly my search remains fruitless, and lacking any other form of produce for that matter. Where's the link between The Hoff on a tyre swing, in a scene that would not appear out of place in a Wham! film clip, and drinking Pepsi? Even the look on his face suggests that he is equally surprised and confused (but none the less, slightly aroused) with what the hell is going on.

The Cool, Refreshing taste of Hoff

I don't really think much needs to be said about this picture. It makes no sense and is totally awesome. And the way that Pepsi is spraying out, well...let's just say it suggests a correlation between pepsi and extreme virility.
What I find most interesting about this picture is that it's from an Australian Pepsi ad campaign. Did our country adopt Hoff at some point and I just missed the memo? I certainly have no problem if we did, but I am worried that it will start a war with Germany.

Cool Runnings!

Do you think Bobsledding and the Luge were created by people living in arctic temperatures who were just jealous over the fact that all there warterslide park ventures had proven unsuccessful?
"Ok Sven, this whole 'Wet 'n' Wild' idea doesn't seem to be panning out"
"Hmm...what about 'Frostbitten and Disoriented'?"
"Sven, you're a genius!"

Haven't made a post in a few days because, well, there's been nothing to tell. At the moment the life of a corpse is more interesting than my own. At least if you're a corpse there's always the possibility of being raised from the dead and going on a very slow-paced brain-eating rampage. Man, the undead sure do have the life...actually I guess technically they don't.

I'm sure everyone knows about all the insanity surrounding that published cartoon that all the Muslim extremist are up in arms about. You'd have to be living under a rock to not know, and even in that case it wouldn't be long before that rock was picked up and thrown at a Danish embassy. The debates have been raging, and of course the generalisations have been made regarding all Muslims, rather than just the extremists that have been engaging in all the fun kidnapping and violent games. Honestly, why couldn't they just write an angry letter to the editor? Some people need to realise that every major religion in the world is always going to be a target of jokes (without religion I'm pretty sure a large portion of the stand-up comedy would die in the arse), so while everyone has the right to be offended and angry at something, a joke can never be grounds for violent attacks...though that definately would make stand-up clubs far more interesting.
But I digress. I was more bringing this up because i was reading today that - acting on the age-old foundation of 'but they started it' - one of the major Iranian newspapers has started up a competition encouraging people to send in their best Holocaust cartoons. Now if that's not a mature and level-headed way of handling things then I don't know what is. You'd think it would make more sense if they were encouraging cartoons based upon all the other major religious figures rather than the mass slaughter of Jews in World War II, but hey, the same article told me that Iran's president has also claimed that the Holocaust is actually just a 'myth' used to justify the creation of Israel, so logic doesn't seem to be high up on the list of priorities there. Plus jokes about Jesus have been done to the death...then resurrected 3 days later. Ooh, now that was just plain bad. I'm now expecting riots based purely on the quality of that joke.

Shooting a man just to watch him die?...Now THAT's entertainment

Last night I attended me one of those moving picture shows that everyone raves about these days, to see 'Walk The Line', the Johnny Cash biopic. The verdict: I say quite good. Sure it adhered to the strict and predictable biopic formula, but it did it well, the performances were strong and not only did Reese Witherspoon prove she actually is talented, she also showed that in the right light and as a brunette, she can look surprisingly attractive. As opposed to typically having that evil look on her face that leads my to believe she'd stab you, light you on fire and steal your shoes if you turned your back.
I also enjoyed the music in the film and it's got me wanting to listen to a lot more Johnny Cash. That's right, I'm a shameless bandwagon jumper and I see no problem with that. If it takes a major motion picture based on a singer/songwriter's life to open my ears to their music, then so be it. The only real problem I had with the film, which - after also watching 'Ray' today - is moreso a problem with the genre than the film itself, is that the ending can't help but feel abrupt. But it can't be an easy thing deciding exactly where to bring a movie on someone's life to a close. So taking that into account, I find it hard to imagine a better moment to end it on. Unless of course there was a moment in Johnny Cash's life where he beat up godzilla with nothing but his bare fists. I think something like that would have been far more widely publicised though.

'Mortal Kombat: Annihilation' was on TV last night and my god was it dodgy. I'm still trying to decide whether it was the best or worst movie I've seen in years.

Farewells, Futons and Felonies

It's surprisingly easy to break into a house without anyone noticing.

Now before you go getting carried away, calling the police and having them kick down my door, pepper spray me in the face, bludgeon me with their nightsticks and arrest me, you need to understand some things first. So let's all take a deep breath and stop judging me. This is not some kind of confession of my illustrious career as the most notorious cat burgular in Paris. For one thing, I've never even been to Paris. Last night during the going away party for my friend that I attended, someone made the "brilliant" suggestion of heading out, something both me and my wallet were not in the mood for. I was quite content hanging out and drinking with friends at the house, but hey, I couldn't argue with the majority.
The amatuer criminal behaviour comes into play up returning from going out, where it was only me and two of my other friends as the group managed to get dispersed quite quickly upon making it out. Now we had returned to the first house as we needed to pick up our stuff that we had left there, with the words "i'm pretty sure one of the doors is unlocked" ringing in our heads. Either these words were an elaborate ruse to make us look the fools (which I can honestly think of easier methods of doing), or they were too drunk to have any idea what they were saying. Both are valid options. Suffice to say there was no unlocked doors, and seeing as the front window was open i decided to remove the screen and climb on in. While it seemed like a perfectly logical thing for me to do at the time, it didn't actually dawn on me until later that, seeing as the window faced the street, it would have been quite simple for someone to see us and call the cops. Ah hindsight, you serve me well. Having achieved my first count of breaking & entering for the night, we continued down the street to the next friends house where we were to be sleeping for the night, as there we many comfortable options of mattresses and fold out futons on offer. Again we were greeted by lock doors, and after getting over the fact that inanimate doors were acknowledging us with pleasantries, I found a back window that was open and thought to myself "why stop now with the felonies?". Obviously there are many logical and reasonable answers to that question, but I was having none of that at the time. So we made it in, and without waking any of the sleeping residents of the house either.
It's really quite disconcerting how simple it all was. Imagine if we actually had been theives? We could have been heading on our merry way drink driving down the highway with a futon inconspicuously tied to the top of the car. I need to tell them to be more wary of locking up their houses. It may not serve me well next time I need somewhere to sleep at 2:30 in the morning, but I guess I just have to make these sacrafices so they don't get robbed. How's that for chilvalry?

Sir, you're over the limit

Well it's the 4th post and I'm already drunk. A sign of future problems with alcoholism? You be the judge.

As I have the house to my own handsome self for the next few days, I had some people who I like to call my friends over this evening (they might not like it when I implicate them as part of my social circle, but that's their problem). There was poker playing, there was drinking and there was the listening of music. Prince is a shory but funky man. He reminds me of myself, except i lack the musical talent, and also the finely groomed facial hair.

A friend of mine has just discovered she has to leave for Switzerland on Tuesday. She's going for a year to be an Au Pair. It'll be an absolutely awesome experience for her (and I expect excruciatingly detailed reports of all the hot Swiss chicks she sees over there), but it is still very short notice. There was all these problems with her original - far more organised - plans of going over there, and now she has been left with very little notice of when she needs to be there. It has really left her with a small amount of time to come to terms with being away with everyone she cares about for a year, and honestly, I really haven't seen her recently as much as I would have liked to considering I won't be able to for the next 12 months. She is an absolutlely wonderful girl, and although admittedly we have only become close friends within the last 8 months or so, I still care about her dearly (in fact she is my future wife, according to thee vague agreement we came to under the condition that neither of us are married by the time we are 40).
So Eve, while - along with the rest of the world's population - you may not read this, I wish you the best of luck with your sexy Swiss experiences. I'm sure I will drunkenly say all of this to you tomorrow night, but you are an amazing girl, actually let me rephrase, an Amazingly Terrific (and dreamy) Woman, and you will be sorely missed in you absence. I'm lucky to know you, and you're lucky to know me (because let's face it, I'm a dreamboat) and I'd better hear from you frequently while you're gone. We're all gonna miss you, and we shall count the days until your triumphant return.

OK, well that's enough of me being an emotional, soppy bastard for now. To re-affirm my masculinity, I LIKE BOOBS, and steak. Well I'm done now, and custard pies are going out of fashion.

I wake up everyday and I'm Bill Murray

Apparently today is Groundhog Day in America, who knew? My sympathies go out to Bill Murray for the guaranteed plethora of horrible jokes he must have to suffer through. Then he'll wake up the next morning and have to suffer through them all over again...I'm sorry Bill, i couldn't resist. I guess this puts a premature end to our promising future friendship?

What did the bucket do to deserve this?

Where the hell did the euphemism for death, 'kicking the bucket', arise from?

Honestly, at what point did someone decide there was a correlation between dying and punting a container more commonly used for holding water? 'Pushing up daisies' I can understand. 'Gone to that big place in the sky' also has some logic to it. But this bucket kicking business has got me stumped. I know that through all the time I have spent playing games of Bucket Soccer and Bucket Hackysack (which is a lot, mind you) I have never once thought to myself "you know, this reminds me a lot of someone dying". Maybe it's just the way my mind works. Maybe I lack the intellectually athletic ability to make that leap in logic. Though I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not the only one.
Can you imagine using that turn of phrase in conversation with someone who had no idea of its meaning?

"Doctor, how is my husband?"
"Oh I'm sorry to tell you ma'am, he kicked the bucket."
"What!?! I Brought him in here with a severe bout of pnuemonia and you've got him playing football with a bucket? What kind of hospital is this?
"No you see ma'am, what I mean is that he has died."
"DEAD! Well maybe if you spent more time treating his condition rather that letting him play that ludicrous bucket football game this wouldn't have happened! I'm suing. Honestly, a bucket..."

I'm sure if I was bothered enough to do some kind of research I'd manage to find some 17th Century tradition from which the phrase is derived from. Something to do with how the kicking over of the bucket to spill its contents represents the soul being poured out of the body in death. But remember this: In the 17th Century, people shit in buckets, so using that kind of genesis, the soul is also likened to a steaming turd. Call me crazy, but I don't think it's the poo inside us all that makes us human.

Now there is some relevance to why I was dwelling on the ridiculousness of particular death euphemisms. You see, my Pa died yesterday (that's my Granddad on my mum's side for those of you trying to trace my family history). The thing is, when informed of this, I didn't really feel anything. Sure, there were the thoughts of "well that sucks", but it didn't affect me emotionally at all.
Now I know there's probably some people now thinking "you sir are a horrible, horrible man!" as you go around grabbing materials in preparation to crucify me, but Number 1. Calm the fuck down, you're acting a little over-dramatic, and Number 2. I didn't really know him that well. The last time I saw him was when we still lived in South Australia, and considering i was 8 years old when we moved to Queensland that makes it around 13 years since there was any contact with him. Even when we lived down there we didn't have too much contact with him, so it doesn't come as any big surprise that I wasn't affected by the death. In fact the only real memory I have of him is that he had a lot of cats, and I mean a lot. It's not like I went round his house doing a tally count and roll call at the age of 8, but at a rough estimation there would've been a good 30 cats roaming around his house, at least. As for the smell, well, what do you think a house ful of cats is going to smell like? Those cats certainly weren't shitting potpurri.
So what was I getting at with all of this? Well basically that it's just a very odd sensation to have when a family member dies and you don't feel anything, even though it seems like you should. I guess it's hard to miss someone you never actually see.

Friends, Romans and Countrymen, watch those phrasebooks. They can be dangerous when used unwisely.

Scott

It Begins...God help us all

So here I am. After years of sitting in front of my computer, browsing the internet while I create an ever-increasing list of unsuccessful stories attempting to the disguise the fact that I am looking at pornography, I have joined the ranks of people with blogs. Yes, my mother would be so proud, although if i were to gleefully proclaim to her "Look Ma, I'm Blogging!" she would undoubtedly tell me that I was disgusting, to put it back in my pants and that it was entirely inappropriate behaviour for a dinner party. Which I guess is fair enough, blogging does sound like what you do when you're all alone and want to make Baby Jesus cry, but personally in that situation i'm more concerned about why she didn't question the fact that her son was talking like a redneck.

I admit this entire experiment is purely for my own selfish means. I have absolutely no intentions of making an attempt to entertain anyone (although the idea that I could if I tried is quite an amusing concept in itself), this is just a way for me to regularly write, because I want to make sure I keep myself in the habit of writing. It doesn't matter specifically what I write - be it a detailed account of the makings of my mundane (yet undeniably handsome) existance, or a written trascript of the most recent episode of Huey's Cooking Adventures - just as long as it keeps my mind ticking until it explodes in a messy, yet assuredly memorable departure from this world. Remember kids, a land mine is not a stackhat.

So who wants to start placing bets as to how long I manage to keep this thing going? Two, maybe three days? Nah I'll give myself longer than that. Hell, it'll probably take that long til I at least manage to post again. Start pooling your betting money though people, then leave it completely unguarded so that I may steal it and reap the rewards. But for now I will focus on the more important questions, such as who the hell am I talking to? Seriously, no one even knows about this thing yet.

Thats the first one over and out folks,

(Insert My Name Here)