If you've known me, you would likely be aware of what I fondly refer to as my Freaky Leg Muscle. It's something I like to tell people stemmed from a fleeting, through prosperous, flirtation with competitive hopscotch, that required me to engage in a strict and labourious exercise regime which was localised entirely around my left leg (the Jack-In-The-Box leg, as I like to think it to be known in the sport).
Now, while certain elements of this story may have fallen short of the truth - those being all of them - it seemed an entertaining enough explanation when placed against the slightly more honest "I don't know, it's just like that," and one I always longed to find someone gullible enough to believe. But it would seem that medical fact had other plans not shared by my age or gender.
Because now into this story we introduce a lump - a soft, inobtrustive thing protruding ever so slightly from the back of my calf, as though it was one-breasted, pre-pubescent girl burgeoning slowly into lonely, one-breasted womanhood.
This lump had been there for as long as I could remember having legs, which stretches back to when I was thirteen - prior to that, I cannot speak with any great confidence in accounting for my appendages. With the lump seemingly having no designs on plotting my death in that period of time, it hardly seemed a concern. Suddenly though, last week, I wake up to find that the lump has solidified somewhat. The plot was suddenly thickening, as was, quite possibly, some of my blood.
What could it be? Had a spider laid its babies in there, waiting for them to spew forth from my leg in a scene designed to rob an arachnophobic of all their mental faculties? Possibly. But when lumps are involved, no matter how confident you are that it's nothing to be concerned about, the back of the mind still wanders to more sinister options, leaving you to convince yourself that it's not a tumor, in the manner that only the thick, Austrian-accented voice of a kindergarten teacher/cop can do justice to.
Now, let's take this moment to assure you, the anxious reader, that the conclusion to this tale is more immasculating than it is detrimental to my health. And now that you are finished being overcome with relief, we shall continue.
It seemed the time had come to make use of my own personal Medicare card, which, as of yet, had been doing nothing more than adorning the inside of wallet in nothing more than a decorative role. So off to the doctors I travelled, to the audible sighs of my finances, and after some squarely PG-rated leg fondling, I was referred to go and get an ultrasound on my leg (a lone tear ran down my finances' cheek). Ooh, exciting! Was it a boy? Was it a girl? I didn't know, but it looked like it was time to consider turning the garage into a nursery.
So as we fast-forward 24 hours, there I sit, pants leg hiked up to reveal a pasty, hairy thigh, as the ultrasoundist - which I admit may not be her official title - spread a cold gel up and down my leg in a manner that I have no doubt some fetishists enjoy. The moment of truth was here. What were the inner workings of Mysterious Lump.
A blood clot, brought on by thrombosis. Hmm, a little bit anticlimactic, don't you think? Ah, but here is where things - one of those being my dignity - take an interesting turn.
She continued ultrasounding my leg with quite the intrigued air lingering about her, staring at the grey, indistiguishable blobs on the screen. Then, in what I think could have been done as a far more dramatic gesture, stood and announced she would be back in a minute.
Now, some advice for any budding ultrasoundists out there: If you've already deduced already that what you've seen, regardless of how odd it may be, is nothing to madly panic over, do not do what this woman did. Because, you see, she returned with a radiologist - a fact I deduced from him saying "I'm the clinic's radiologist," and me extrapolating the information from that. So, as you may well imagine, when you're currently having a lump in your leg scanned, the introduction of a radiologist into this proceedings hardly does wonders for stress levels.
Now, while I do suspect that doctors get some kind of sick amusement out of these scenarios - which, yes, I would too if I were in their position - they at least didn't keep me wondering for too long. But how could you, when you had the chance to tell a 24-year-old male that it would seem that he has varicose veins.
That's funny, I don't remember turning into a 65-year-old woman.
I didn't watch too much Golden Girls as a child, so I'm not entirely sure how this happened. They say congenital, which basically means thanks a lot, family. But I can honestly say that I did not expect the cause of my Freaky Leg to be that it longs for bingo halls and supportive hosiery.
So where too now for me and Great Aunt Freaky Leg Muscle? Who knows. A return journey to the doctors tomorrow will enlighten me as to whether it's necessary for anything to be done about it. They don't really think too much would be necessary, being that it appears I've had a leg full of menopause for a long time with no adverse affects.
Personally, I'm good with that, because the extreme option to deal with it is that they strip the veins. As charming as that sounds, I only take my strip with a 'per' on the end of it, tossed a pair of tassles and centred around a pole, firetruck or paeleontology lecture.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
There Are Things To Be Learned From Naked, Golden Men
For whatever reason - be it laziness towards channel-changing, an act of self-loathing, or the film geek side of me taking control - I've been sitting here for a while, half-heartedly watching the Oscars. While I can't look at the screen for prolonged periods without being overwhelmed by Hollywood's desperate need to herd everyone together for mutual ass-slapping (albeit possibly a little too over-enthusiastic and going a little too deep with the fingers), yet, by the same design, I also cannot entirely look away.
But that's not to say it hasn't been an educational experience. Oh no, trust me, I feel much more enlightened by random thoughts and trivia running through my head. And, because I have nothing better to do but bore you with the inanity of what goes on in my brain, I thought I'd impart some of them upon you.
- John Travolta's head looks like a Chia Pet.
- Jack Nicholson's head is beginning to look like the same Chia Pet, 25 years later, after it contracted Lukemia.
- While we all think Camera Diaz is an irritating, ditzy blonde, there will come a time where she will show us all by opening that mouth of hers wide enough to swallow the Earth, with all of us on it.
- I don't know where Nicole Kidman found 56 kajillion diamonds, but she wrapped them around her neck in what I see as an obvious ploy to draw attention to the ever increasing size of her breasts (High-five pregnancy!). Well played, I say. Especially when her face is beginning to look more and more like this:
Only with less range in facial expression.
- It appears that if you're really, really old - no matter what job you have ever performed on a movie - you will eventually be awarded an honourary Oscar simply for managing to stave off death for another year. When all the other old guys are dead, it will be the decrepid Best Boy Grip's time to shine. And I, for one, will applaud his efforts, whatever the hell they were.
- When it comes down to the crunch - despite being made of gold and incredibly well-known - when Oscar gets the ladies home, there's no way they are able to look past his distinct lack of a penis. And that giant sword he's holding in front of himself? An embarrasing act of over-compensation.
- You know what, for an old broad, I'd be almost willing to sleep with Helen Mirren, if she was willing to lower her standards. If she inserted the word 'cajones' into every sentence, I'd be willing to cut out that 'almost'.
- Viggo Mortensen has a beard that makes him look like either a pirate or a rabbi. Can he be both? A yarmulke would work as a pirate hat, wouldn't it? I certainly hope so. Not to mention a Jewish pirate would be far more sensible with any treasure that came into his possession through whatever dastardly means.
- Martin Scorcese's eyebrows are seperate entities to the rest of his body. I believe that they are where all his directing talent is contained, and without them he is nothing more than a hollow shell that must feed on human hearts to live. In other words, an awesome party animal.
And I'm out.
But that's not to say it hasn't been an educational experience. Oh no, trust me, I feel much more enlightened by random thoughts and trivia running through my head. And, because I have nothing better to do but bore you with the inanity of what goes on in my brain, I thought I'd impart some of them upon you.
- John Travolta's head looks like a Chia Pet.
- Jack Nicholson's head is beginning to look like the same Chia Pet, 25 years later, after it contracted Lukemia.
- While we all think Camera Diaz is an irritating, ditzy blonde, there will come a time where she will show us all by opening that mouth of hers wide enough to swallow the Earth, with all of us on it.
- I don't know where Nicole Kidman found 56 kajillion diamonds, but she wrapped them around her neck in what I see as an obvious ploy to draw attention to the ever increasing size of her breasts (High-five pregnancy!). Well played, I say. Especially when her face is beginning to look more and more like this:
Only with less range in facial expression.
- It appears that if you're really, really old - no matter what job you have ever performed on a movie - you will eventually be awarded an honourary Oscar simply for managing to stave off death for another year. When all the other old guys are dead, it will be the decrepid Best Boy Grip's time to shine. And I, for one, will applaud his efforts, whatever the hell they were.
- When it comes down to the crunch - despite being made of gold and incredibly well-known - when Oscar gets the ladies home, there's no way they are able to look past his distinct lack of a penis. And that giant sword he's holding in front of himself? An embarrasing act of over-compensation.
- You know what, for an old broad, I'd be almost willing to sleep with Helen Mirren, if she was willing to lower her standards. If she inserted the word 'cajones' into every sentence, I'd be willing to cut out that 'almost'.
- Viggo Mortensen has a beard that makes him look like either a pirate or a rabbi. Can he be both? A yarmulke would work as a pirate hat, wouldn't it? I certainly hope so. Not to mention a Jewish pirate would be far more sensible with any treasure that came into his possession through whatever dastardly means.
- Martin Scorcese's eyebrows are seperate entities to the rest of his body. I believe that they are where all his directing talent is contained, and without them he is nothing more than a hollow shell that must feed on human hearts to live. In other words, an awesome party animal.
And I'm out.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Advertistosterone
We all know that Advertising is something that has taken over our everyday lives. After a lot of tears and hugging it out, we've accepted this. From the moment we wake up in the morning, advertising - much like Steve's crotch - is thrust in our faces, regardless of - again, much like Steve's crotch - we want it to be or not. It's unavoidable and is now tolerated with mild indifference.
I've also come to terms with the fact that, no matter what, some ads just plain won't make sense. For instance, as a male, I'm genetically programmed to never be able to understand tampon ads. It will always be as if a Sphinx shit out a Rubics cube and fashioned it into advertising form. Even if an ad was just flashing text on a screen saying "Buy Tampons! You Need Them For Your Period!!" I would still have no idea what it was getting at, at be left staring dumbfounded at the screen, like I was trying to translate hieroglyphics after 27 shots of tequila.
But there is one series of ads out there at the moment that, no matter how long I sit and stare at on my way to work - much to the frustration of those in traffic behind me - I cannot figure out any semblance of logical reasoning for how it came to be.
Seriously, at what point did Solo decide it was an especially manly drink?
If you've seen the ads, you should have an idea of what I'm talking about, with billboards implying we should use the testosterone-fuelled power of Solo to "Wash down some feelings" (Because feelings are some kind of infliction that only those sissy girly-boys have, when they're not to busy tucking their penises between their legs and pretending they have a vagina). Why, of all drinks, should we turn to Solo for this? Well, you fool, because it is "The Drink of Man Kind". Obviously.
Now, not even getting into the fact that it's basically saying that women, with their feeble fallopian tubes, cannot handle the raw manly power of what their advertising department apparently believes to be concentrated cock in a can, this is still a premise that borders on retardation. Never in my life have I considered citrus in any of its forms, or any flavours derived from it, particularly masculine. Sure, put a couple of lemons together and they look like a pair of oversized, yellow testicles, but that's the only concession I'm willing to make.
I'm not incinuating that it's necessarily effeminate either, I'm just saying that drinking lemon-flavoured soft drink has never resulted in me feeling like I've been slapped in the face with a giant dick.
Imagine you're sitting in a room with John Wayne, Clint Eastwood and Bruce Willis. You're sitting there eating steak, ogling breasts and punching each other in the face, just for shits and giggles. What do you suggest as the most refreshing way to wash down such an exercise in masculinity? "Here, guys, have a Solo. If you think you can handle it."...Fuck that. While, I admit, that sentence would required an incredible amount of balls to say without a hint of irony, it would still leave only one question, over which happens quicker - Your penis abandons your body and makes a break for the window, or the three of them force feed you your own ass cheeks?
So, sorry, Solo, but we all know you're overcompensating for something. Your own name deceives you, letting us all in on the fact that, at the end of the day, you're left alone, crying lemony, gender-neutral tears. So stop acting like such a dick, we're onto you.
Next time - have any of you actually seen Dr Pepper's medical licence?
I've also come to terms with the fact that, no matter what, some ads just plain won't make sense. For instance, as a male, I'm genetically programmed to never be able to understand tampon ads. It will always be as if a Sphinx shit out a Rubics cube and fashioned it into advertising form. Even if an ad was just flashing text on a screen saying "Buy Tampons! You Need Them For Your Period!!" I would still have no idea what it was getting at, at be left staring dumbfounded at the screen, like I was trying to translate hieroglyphics after 27 shots of tequila.
But there is one series of ads out there at the moment that, no matter how long I sit and stare at on my way to work - much to the frustration of those in traffic behind me - I cannot figure out any semblance of logical reasoning for how it came to be.
Seriously, at what point did Solo decide it was an especially manly drink?
If you've seen the ads, you should have an idea of what I'm talking about, with billboards implying we should use the testosterone-fuelled power of Solo to "Wash down some feelings" (Because feelings are some kind of infliction that only those sissy girly-boys have, when they're not to busy tucking their penises between their legs and pretending they have a vagina). Why, of all drinks, should we turn to Solo for this? Well, you fool, because it is "The Drink of Man Kind". Obviously.
Now, not even getting into the fact that it's basically saying that women, with their feeble fallopian tubes, cannot handle the raw manly power of what their advertising department apparently believes to be concentrated cock in a can, this is still a premise that borders on retardation. Never in my life have I considered citrus in any of its forms, or any flavours derived from it, particularly masculine. Sure, put a couple of lemons together and they look like a pair of oversized, yellow testicles, but that's the only concession I'm willing to make.
I'm not incinuating that it's necessarily effeminate either, I'm just saying that drinking lemon-flavoured soft drink has never resulted in me feeling like I've been slapped in the face with a giant dick.
Imagine you're sitting in a room with John Wayne, Clint Eastwood and Bruce Willis. You're sitting there eating steak, ogling breasts and punching each other in the face, just for shits and giggles. What do you suggest as the most refreshing way to wash down such an exercise in masculinity? "Here, guys, have a Solo. If you think you can handle it."...Fuck that. While, I admit, that sentence would required an incredible amount of balls to say without a hint of irony, it would still leave only one question, over which happens quicker - Your penis abandons your body and makes a break for the window, or the three of them force feed you your own ass cheeks?
So, sorry, Solo, but we all know you're overcompensating for something. Your own name deceives you, letting us all in on the fact that, at the end of the day, you're left alone, crying lemony, gender-neutral tears. So stop acting like such a dick, we're onto you.
Next time - have any of you actually seen Dr Pepper's medical licence?
Saturday, February 02, 2008
This Unsporting Life
I am not a sports fan. Nor am I a sportsman. In fact, if the word 'sport' is being used to describe something in any way, you can rest assured knowing that I'm not the one being spoken about. I will never be hunted for sport, not because of an innate objection towards being tracked down and killed, but moreso because I fear that it would be an elaborate ruse to sucker me into a game of lacrosse. Upon being called a 'good sport', I punch people in the face as a reflex action because I am unsure as to what they are saying about me. Am I getting my point across here?
It wasn't always the way. Like all young boys, I had my love of sports. It's just that mine was just a brief flirtation, rather than something that turned into a lifelong pursuit. Maybe it was my spectacular failures in a number of sports - AFL, basketball (two sports not generally designed for abnormally small boys to excel in), tennis, Karate, to name a few - that contributed towards the downfall of sporting enthusiasm in my life, or maybe I fell into a giant vat of ovaries, who knows? All I do know is that my level of enthusiasm for sports began to descend around about the same time as my testicles did.
Nowadays, me and sports have an amicable relationship. We exchange passing pleasantries in the hallways, but extended exposure leaves us awkwardly wondering how to deal with the other. To me, sports is that aquaintance you only have through another friend. They're all well and good until you come across them without the mutual friend as a buffer. Then you've got about 3 minutes of conversation before you're looking around the room, wondering just how many floors you'd have to fall if you ran and jumped out of the window.
Luckily, having a job that centres around the news has afforded me a passable, if not mostly superficial, degree of sporting knowledge. I'm constantly armed with a survival kit should I ever find myself caught in the stereotypical blokey conversation - the kind where an inability to talk about (insert popular sport and team) could risk soon spiralling into accusations of having The Gay. Of course, if the conversation moves onto cars, fuck it, I'm painting a rainbow on my chest and slapping on a pair of assless chaps. I'm not willing to suffer through that shit.
But what does this have to do with anything, apart from casting lingering doubts on my already highly debatable level of masculinity? Well, good sirs and sirettes, this has all been a labourious exercise in irony, because I am going to the cricket tomorrow.
Yes, that's right, the kind with the bat and balls, the dry pitch, the keys in the cracks, getting caught behind....Holy shit, reading back on that, cricket is the filthiest fucking sport ever conceived. But where was I? Oh, yes, my delightful hypocrisy. You see, despite my sporting ambivalence, I actually enjoy going to sporting events themselves, as long as I know what's going on and the sport is mildly entertaining. What I mean by that is that you will never catch me at a game of Golf. You can take that 3-Wood to my genitals with great fervor before I do that.
Attending a match of something - cricket the obvious example in this instance - for me, is purely a social escapade. The combination of hanging out with mates, the atmosphere of a large crowd and bucketloads of booze all add up to create an altogether enjoyable day out. Sports partially exist as a means to provide the populace something that they can collectively gather around with friends and get rowdy over, regardless of how much they really like what's in front of them. Honestly, do you really think, centuries ago, that people went to public executions because they were big fans of the death? Fuck no. They were just there to get drunk and yell a lot. They can't be held responsible if their options were slim. Same went for witch burnings. You can't tell me that, with a few drinks in you, you wouldn't get caught up in the whole tide of screaming "BURN HER!!!"
Having likened sporting events to people gathered around to watch someone be mercilessly slain, I feel there's really nowhere I can go from here. Now there's nothing to do but wait til tomorrow. You'll see me at the slaughter, folks!
It wasn't always the way. Like all young boys, I had my love of sports. It's just that mine was just a brief flirtation, rather than something that turned into a lifelong pursuit. Maybe it was my spectacular failures in a number of sports - AFL, basketball (two sports not generally designed for abnormally small boys to excel in), tennis, Karate, to name a few - that contributed towards the downfall of sporting enthusiasm in my life, or maybe I fell into a giant vat of ovaries, who knows? All I do know is that my level of enthusiasm for sports began to descend around about the same time as my testicles did.
Nowadays, me and sports have an amicable relationship. We exchange passing pleasantries in the hallways, but extended exposure leaves us awkwardly wondering how to deal with the other. To me, sports is that aquaintance you only have through another friend. They're all well and good until you come across them without the mutual friend as a buffer. Then you've got about 3 minutes of conversation before you're looking around the room, wondering just how many floors you'd have to fall if you ran and jumped out of the window.
Luckily, having a job that centres around the news has afforded me a passable, if not mostly superficial, degree of sporting knowledge. I'm constantly armed with a survival kit should I ever find myself caught in the stereotypical blokey conversation - the kind where an inability to talk about (insert popular sport and team) could risk soon spiralling into accusations of having The Gay. Of course, if the conversation moves onto cars, fuck it, I'm painting a rainbow on my chest and slapping on a pair of assless chaps. I'm not willing to suffer through that shit.
But what does this have to do with anything, apart from casting lingering doubts on my already highly debatable level of masculinity? Well, good sirs and sirettes, this has all been a labourious exercise in irony, because I am going to the cricket tomorrow.
Yes, that's right, the kind with the bat and balls, the dry pitch, the keys in the cracks, getting caught behind....Holy shit, reading back on that, cricket is the filthiest fucking sport ever conceived. But where was I? Oh, yes, my delightful hypocrisy. You see, despite my sporting ambivalence, I actually enjoy going to sporting events themselves, as long as I know what's going on and the sport is mildly entertaining. What I mean by that is that you will never catch me at a game of Golf. You can take that 3-Wood to my genitals with great fervor before I do that.
Attending a match of something - cricket the obvious example in this instance - for me, is purely a social escapade. The combination of hanging out with mates, the atmosphere of a large crowd and bucketloads of booze all add up to create an altogether enjoyable day out. Sports partially exist as a means to provide the populace something that they can collectively gather around with friends and get rowdy over, regardless of how much they really like what's in front of them. Honestly, do you really think, centuries ago, that people went to public executions because they were big fans of the death? Fuck no. They were just there to get drunk and yell a lot. They can't be held responsible if their options were slim. Same went for witch burnings. You can't tell me that, with a few drinks in you, you wouldn't get caught up in the whole tide of screaming "BURN HER!!!"
Having likened sporting events to people gathered around to watch someone be mercilessly slain, I feel there's really nowhere I can go from here. Now there's nothing to do but wait til tomorrow. You'll see me at the slaughter, folks!
Monday, August 27, 2007
The Consequences of Chronology
I'm getting old. There is now irrefutable proof of this fact and denial is no longer an option.
I know, to look at me you wouldn't think it. I'm still filled with a childish exuberance and have the ruggedly handsome appearance of a young Don Rickles. But, nevertheless, it is true. The fact didn't so much dawn on me, as it was thrust upon me, sneaking up on me in my sleep, grabbing me by the testicles and tossing me out the window. In that situation, as metaphorical as it may be, it's hard to escape the ravages of age with balls that sore. So instead I lay back on the driveway and concede to the fact that, yes, against all odds of it ever happening, I am officially an adult.
What could it possibly have been that launched this realisation upon me out of the darkness, like a spider monkey wearing night-vision goggles? Could it have been looking at the date on my birth certificate and doing a simple mathematical equasion to calculate the years passed between now and then? Sure, if you want to base it on such rudimentary evidence. And, anyways, what has maths really done for me lately? Where's maths after I get home from a long day at work? Suspiciously absent, that's where. I don't trust maths at all, no siree. See, for me, it comes from something far simpler. Or maybe it's less simple. Honestly, I'm not sure what the rating scale is for these things. But suffice to say, the point that I'm taking my time getting to is this: The first of my friends got engaged.
Now, to me, that's just a complete "Holy shit" moment. I've reached that age where the ball begins rolling and people around me are going to start getting married. Which can only lead one to begin to wonder, how long until I find myself attending a baby shower, staring at tiny clothes and getting freaked out, not least of all because, shit, those clothes could almost fit me.
It's not like this is the first person I know to reach either an 'engaged' or 'pregnancy' milestone. Many people I went to high school with have managed it. Hell, I'm from Caboolture, unplanned pregnancy is in the top five teenage past-times in that place. But this is the first of my actual friends that anything like this has happened to. I've never seen myself coming from a circle of friends that this would happen in at a young age. Why? Because we're better than you are (note: we're probably not, I just felt a strong desire to be incredibly arrogant. That and you suck. Seriously.). So this happening really signifies that I'm kickin' it in the adulthood.
The steps were all there leading up to it - the full-time jobs and everyone having to go in separate directions because of them, me angrily and pointlessly abusing the mailbox because it contains bills I don't want to pay, friends actually considering and going ahead with buying houses. These are none-too-subtle signs of the adult world. But come on, you have to admit, if you were standing next to me and the adult world opened its doors and started beckoning me in, you'd be looking around, going "Really? Him? Are you sure you know what you're saying?" I still half suspect that if I went to a public pool, they'd order me to wear floaties. Would this be before or after that order me to wear some - any - sort of swimsuit? I don't know.
Of course, this isn't a bad thing, and I'm incredibly happy for the friend in question. It's just the fact that this was the thing the turned into the big, neon 'You Are Here' sign in my life. And I'm glad all those lights were working, because if it turned into a big 'You Are Her' sign, things may have gotten confusing.
And another thing. This means I'm going to have to go to a wedding at some point. I don't even own a fuckin' suit. Shit.
I know, to look at me you wouldn't think it. I'm still filled with a childish exuberance and have the ruggedly handsome appearance of a young Don Rickles. But, nevertheless, it is true. The fact didn't so much dawn on me, as it was thrust upon me, sneaking up on me in my sleep, grabbing me by the testicles and tossing me out the window. In that situation, as metaphorical as it may be, it's hard to escape the ravages of age with balls that sore. So instead I lay back on the driveway and concede to the fact that, yes, against all odds of it ever happening, I am officially an adult.
What could it possibly have been that launched this realisation upon me out of the darkness, like a spider monkey wearing night-vision goggles? Could it have been looking at the date on my birth certificate and doing a simple mathematical equasion to calculate the years passed between now and then? Sure, if you want to base it on such rudimentary evidence. And, anyways, what has maths really done for me lately? Where's maths after I get home from a long day at work? Suspiciously absent, that's where. I don't trust maths at all, no siree. See, for me, it comes from something far simpler. Or maybe it's less simple. Honestly, I'm not sure what the rating scale is for these things. But suffice to say, the point that I'm taking my time getting to is this: The first of my friends got engaged.
Now, to me, that's just a complete "Holy shit" moment. I've reached that age where the ball begins rolling and people around me are going to start getting married. Which can only lead one to begin to wonder, how long until I find myself attending a baby shower, staring at tiny clothes and getting freaked out, not least of all because, shit, those clothes could almost fit me.
It's not like this is the first person I know to reach either an 'engaged' or 'pregnancy' milestone. Many people I went to high school with have managed it. Hell, I'm from Caboolture, unplanned pregnancy is in the top five teenage past-times in that place. But this is the first of my actual friends that anything like this has happened to. I've never seen myself coming from a circle of friends that this would happen in at a young age. Why? Because we're better than you are (note: we're probably not, I just felt a strong desire to be incredibly arrogant. That and you suck. Seriously.). So this happening really signifies that I'm kickin' it in the adulthood.
The steps were all there leading up to it - the full-time jobs and everyone having to go in separate directions because of them, me angrily and pointlessly abusing the mailbox because it contains bills I don't want to pay, friends actually considering and going ahead with buying houses. These are none-too-subtle signs of the adult world. But come on, you have to admit, if you were standing next to me and the adult world opened its doors and started beckoning me in, you'd be looking around, going "Really? Him? Are you sure you know what you're saying?" I still half suspect that if I went to a public pool, they'd order me to wear floaties. Would this be before or after that order me to wear some - any - sort of swimsuit? I don't know.
Of course, this isn't a bad thing, and I'm incredibly happy for the friend in question. It's just the fact that this was the thing the turned into the big, neon 'You Are Here' sign in my life. And I'm glad all those lights were working, because if it turned into a big 'You Are Her' sign, things may have gotten confusing.
And another thing. This means I'm going to have to go to a wedding at some point. I don't even own a fuckin' suit. Shit.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
My New Word For The Day
Colon-isation: (n) - After a person states "Your ass is mine", it is the process in which said person proceeds to, in fact, make the aforementioned ass theirs. Can be used in a sexual or physically violent context.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Alright, Proceed
On Thursday night, the OK Go Concert was attended.
The votes have been collected, serveys filled out, results tallied, DNA samples tested and the consensus appears to be unanimous - it was kickin' rad. Which, for those of you unfamiliar with the Universal Scale of Radness, is pretty fucking rad.
Admittedly, with the length of time it had been between gigs for me, the band could have came out on stage with nothing but a jug and a kazoo, played a selection of off-key Echo and the Bunnymen covers and, for an encore, took turns kicking me in the crotch and I'd still be sitting here praising it as a shining example of showmanship. So I guess you could be advised to take my opinion with a large and tightly packed ball of salt. Then, proceeding that, you could be advised to see your doctor, because there is no way such a quantity of salt can be good for your heart. What the hell were you thinking?
After letting Amy and Jennie go to town on my hair with a straightener - a rather fruitless task being that I'd had a haircut two days previous, but who am I to spoil their fun? - and sporting the resulting style, affectionately dubbed 'the sex-hawk', we ventured forth into the unknown with a few drinks each under our belts. I honestly thought it would have been more wise for them to be in our stomachs, but what do know? But really not to sound like an alcoholic or anything (would you quit it with the intervention attempts? Seriously) but drinking at concerts really gets you into an even more enthusiastic rocking-out mood. The flip side being that it also leaves you more prone to rock-related injuries, but these are the risks one must take.
Upon arrival, the sex-hawk itself had realised the irony of being atop my head and abandoned it in search of greener pastures, but this was to leave no-one disparaged! In an obviously display of different goals, the girls made a beeline for the merch stand to get T-shirts, whereas me and Steve seemed to find ourselves heading more in the direction of the bar, as if drawn there by some unseen force, suggesting that this was divine intervention. Who are we to argue when faced with the will of the Gods?
Speaking of the Gods, the OK Gods (see what I did there? I'm spectacular) appeared to be frowning upon Amy, who missed out on getting a T-shirt because they sold out. But I think she's dealing with that in a healthy way, repressing her rage until it can no longer be contained and she lashes out at the first person she sees wearing an OK Go shirt in a flurry of violence, profanity and sexual innuendo (the innuendo coming from me, as I stand by and watch the situation play itself out).
The support band for the show now find themselves with the distinguished honour of being the best opening act I have ever seen, closely followed by the secondary honour of being that band whose name I can't remember. Which seems to be to be about right, doesn't it? You go to concerts throughout your life, wading through the plethora of shit support bands who seem to exists solely to prolong your wait to see the band you are actually there for (I'm looking at you Wolf & Cub. You're extended, distortion filled, guitar-wank sessions robbed me of precious time that could have been better spent staring into the sun), plus the occasional decent one scattered throughout, but then when you come across one that you really enjoy, your mind is in such a state of shock that this event is occurring - much like a Solar Eclipse really - that it forgets to recall the name. My ticket, sporting the vague phrase 'Plus Special Guests' is enjoying this, I'm sure. Quietly mocking me and laughing in the spiteful way that only a small piece of paper can. That is to say, not at all. I think I'm hallucinating.
But onto the main event, which is why we were there, and you are here, in the first place. Except for those of you that stumbled across here by accident and are now frantically trying to find your way out, but in a blind panic have forgotten how to use the Internet.
OK Go really were a good act, but I think part of it also comes down to the venue. I'd never been to the Zoo before, only that is a complete lie. I figured I'd throw you a curveball there. Gotta keep 'em guessing, otherwise they might start to like what they're reading, instead of being mildly irritated by it. I had been to The Zoo once (and for those of you thinking I lived a deprived childhood, robbed of the opportunity of seeing caged animals, I'm talking about a concert venue called The Zoo. Idiot) but it was for this small show with a few little-known - and little-remembered - bands, so I wasn't sure how it would be with a real concert. That's right, I'm being completely condescending towards small, local artists. Take that!
As it happens, it's great. By far the best venue I've ever been to. It just seems to have this laid-back vibe to it, which is something I haven't experienced. There was little to no discernible security, allowing people to not only to get up close to the stage (and probably peddle illicit drugs in darkened corners) but also allowed the band to interact more with the crowd. Several times the singer was in amongst the crowd and it seemed that everyone in the crowd actually stuck to a certain code of decency - something I like to affectionately refer to as the "Don't Be A Fuckin' Douchebag" code - meaning that they didn't try swamp him, no one tried storming the stage and there wasn't an out of control mosh pit with people getting crushed and pushed around. And by 'people', I obviously mean me. This also allowed for what was basically the highlight of the show - the band actually coming into the crowd (...wait...) and playing a couple of acoustic numbers right next to where we were standing. It put me entirely within a distance at which I could have touched them inappropriately. I, of course, refrained, as the 'no sexual molestation' rule is somewhat inherent in the code I was referring to earlier.
And, to cap off the evening, the arrival home ended with a failed attempt at five people sleeping in my bed. Don't ask me why anyone thought this would be successful in the first place. But please also let it be noted, especially by all you supermodels out there reading this, this does not mean I'm not willing to give it another go. After all, failure is just another step towards success.
The votes have been collected, serveys filled out, results tallied, DNA samples tested and the consensus appears to be unanimous - it was kickin' rad. Which, for those of you unfamiliar with the Universal Scale of Radness, is pretty fucking rad.
Admittedly, with the length of time it had been between gigs for me, the band could have came out on stage with nothing but a jug and a kazoo, played a selection of off-key Echo and the Bunnymen covers and, for an encore, took turns kicking me in the crotch and I'd still be sitting here praising it as a shining example of showmanship. So I guess you could be advised to take my opinion with a large and tightly packed ball of salt. Then, proceeding that, you could be advised to see your doctor, because there is no way such a quantity of salt can be good for your heart. What the hell were you thinking?
After letting Amy and Jennie go to town on my hair with a straightener - a rather fruitless task being that I'd had a haircut two days previous, but who am I to spoil their fun? - and sporting the resulting style, affectionately dubbed 'the sex-hawk', we ventured forth into the unknown with a few drinks each under our belts. I honestly thought it would have been more wise for them to be in our stomachs, but what do know? But really not to sound like an alcoholic or anything (would you quit it with the intervention attempts? Seriously) but drinking at concerts really gets you into an even more enthusiastic rocking-out mood. The flip side being that it also leaves you more prone to rock-related injuries, but these are the risks one must take.
Upon arrival, the sex-hawk itself had realised the irony of being atop my head and abandoned it in search of greener pastures, but this was to leave no-one disparaged! In an obviously display of different goals, the girls made a beeline for the merch stand to get T-shirts, whereas me and Steve seemed to find ourselves heading more in the direction of the bar, as if drawn there by some unseen force, suggesting that this was divine intervention. Who are we to argue when faced with the will of the Gods?
Speaking of the Gods, the OK Gods (see what I did there? I'm spectacular) appeared to be frowning upon Amy, who missed out on getting a T-shirt because they sold out. But I think she's dealing with that in a healthy way, repressing her rage until it can no longer be contained and she lashes out at the first person she sees wearing an OK Go shirt in a flurry of violence, profanity and sexual innuendo (the innuendo coming from me, as I stand by and watch the situation play itself out).
The support band for the show now find themselves with the distinguished honour of being the best opening act I have ever seen, closely followed by the secondary honour of being that band whose name I can't remember. Which seems to be to be about right, doesn't it? You go to concerts throughout your life, wading through the plethora of shit support bands who seem to exists solely to prolong your wait to see the band you are actually there for (I'm looking at you Wolf & Cub. You're extended, distortion filled, guitar-wank sessions robbed me of precious time that could have been better spent staring into the sun), plus the occasional decent one scattered throughout, but then when you come across one that you really enjoy, your mind is in such a state of shock that this event is occurring - much like a Solar Eclipse really - that it forgets to recall the name. My ticket, sporting the vague phrase 'Plus Special Guests' is enjoying this, I'm sure. Quietly mocking me and laughing in the spiteful way that only a small piece of paper can. That is to say, not at all. I think I'm hallucinating.
But onto the main event, which is why we were there, and you are here, in the first place. Except for those of you that stumbled across here by accident and are now frantically trying to find your way out, but in a blind panic have forgotten how to use the Internet.
OK Go really were a good act, but I think part of it also comes down to the venue. I'd never been to the Zoo before, only that is a complete lie. I figured I'd throw you a curveball there. Gotta keep 'em guessing, otherwise they might start to like what they're reading, instead of being mildly irritated by it. I had been to The Zoo once (and for those of you thinking I lived a deprived childhood, robbed of the opportunity of seeing caged animals, I'm talking about a concert venue called The Zoo. Idiot) but it was for this small show with a few little-known - and little-remembered - bands, so I wasn't sure how it would be with a real concert. That's right, I'm being completely condescending towards small, local artists. Take that!
As it happens, it's great. By far the best venue I've ever been to. It just seems to have this laid-back vibe to it, which is something I haven't experienced. There was little to no discernible security, allowing people to not only to get up close to the stage (and probably peddle illicit drugs in darkened corners) but also allowed the band to interact more with the crowd. Several times the singer was in amongst the crowd and it seemed that everyone in the crowd actually stuck to a certain code of decency - something I like to affectionately refer to as the "Don't Be A Fuckin' Douchebag" code - meaning that they didn't try swamp him, no one tried storming the stage and there wasn't an out of control mosh pit with people getting crushed and pushed around. And by 'people', I obviously mean me. This also allowed for what was basically the highlight of the show - the band actually coming into the crowd (...wait...) and playing a couple of acoustic numbers right next to where we were standing. It put me entirely within a distance at which I could have touched them inappropriately. I, of course, refrained, as the 'no sexual molestation' rule is somewhat inherent in the code I was referring to earlier.
And, to cap off the evening, the arrival home ended with a failed attempt at five people sleeping in my bed. Don't ask me why anyone thought this would be successful in the first place. But please also let it be noted, especially by all you supermodels out there reading this, this does not mean I'm not willing to give it another go. After all, failure is just another step towards success.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Death's Bedfellow
I love tax time.
Or, more specifically, I love tax time this year. I'd heard rumours in the past of people receiving substantial tax returns, but I refused to believe it and could not understand why people would tell me such blatant lies. I had yet to experience this myth and therefore it could simply not exist. Such is the 'If I can't see it, it's not there' manner in which I live my life.
Then, something miraculous happened - I found myself in the unfamiliar position of having a job where they actually knew how to tax my income properly. I has resigned myself to the fact that financial ineptitude of my superiors was just a normal part of employed life. How was I to know there was a whole other world out there? Sure, I'd heard whispers in the wind, but I simply took that as signs of a burgeoning mental breakdown.
So as a sat myself down for an entertaining evening of tax return-related frivolity, little did I know the revelations in store for me. For, as I reached its conclusion, prepared for the inevitable "You get $100", or "Hey, you owe us money, you bastard", I found myself presented with the taxation equivalent of a omnipresent figure tossing a sack with a dollar sign on it at me. For those who don't understand the symbolism, the sack represents money. I know, it's sometimes difficult decipher the poetry in my words.
Now, I'm not letting the fact that it's actually my money that I'm receiving put a dampner on things. Although, the fact that I wasn't presented with a novelty sized cheque to mark to occasion is a slight sore point, I will admit.
I managed to even be smart about it too. I put away the majority of the cash into my savings before, in all the fiscal excitement, I went crazy and bought several dozen collectible plates. Or a chandelier. Or an extensive supply of fancy toilet paper and ornamental soaps. But with the money I did allow myself to use for shameless splurging, I did something that anyone who knows me will be shocked, gasping and fainting to the floor, over how out of character it was. I donated it to an orphanage.
Hahaha...no. I went on a DVD binge.
I know I must treasure these precious, joyful tax memories, because I'm sure next year I'll be cursing the existence of Australian economic law and calling into question the Queen's honour with a colourful turn of phrase (hint: rhymes with whore...wait...).
Or, more specifically, I love tax time this year. I'd heard rumours in the past of people receiving substantial tax returns, but I refused to believe it and could not understand why people would tell me such blatant lies. I had yet to experience this myth and therefore it could simply not exist. Such is the 'If I can't see it, it's not there' manner in which I live my life.
Then, something miraculous happened - I found myself in the unfamiliar position of having a job where they actually knew how to tax my income properly. I has resigned myself to the fact that financial ineptitude of my superiors was just a normal part of employed life. How was I to know there was a whole other world out there? Sure, I'd heard whispers in the wind, but I simply took that as signs of a burgeoning mental breakdown.
So as a sat myself down for an entertaining evening of tax return-related frivolity, little did I know the revelations in store for me. For, as I reached its conclusion, prepared for the inevitable "You get $100", or "Hey, you owe us money, you bastard", I found myself presented with the taxation equivalent of a omnipresent figure tossing a sack with a dollar sign on it at me. For those who don't understand the symbolism, the sack represents money. I know, it's sometimes difficult decipher the poetry in my words.
Now, I'm not letting the fact that it's actually my money that I'm receiving put a dampner on things. Although, the fact that I wasn't presented with a novelty sized cheque to mark to occasion is a slight sore point, I will admit.
I managed to even be smart about it too. I put away the majority of the cash into my savings before, in all the fiscal excitement, I went crazy and bought several dozen collectible plates. Or a chandelier. Or an extensive supply of fancy toilet paper and ornamental soaps. But with the money I did allow myself to use for shameless splurging, I did something that anyone who knows me will be shocked, gasping and fainting to the floor, over how out of character it was. I donated it to an orphanage.
Hahaha...no. I went on a DVD binge.
I know I must treasure these precious, joyful tax memories, because I'm sure next year I'll be cursing the existence of Australian economic law and calling into question the Queen's honour with a colourful turn of phrase (hint: rhymes with whore...wait...).
Friday, July 27, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Tennessee Williams Broke My Heart
You son of a bitch, Tennessee Williams, you son of a bitch.
I saw a play today. You know, actors and a stage coming together in unison, all for the sake of a performance. It was The Glass Menagerie, written by Tennessee Williams close to over 60 years ago. And dammit if that bastard didn't reach his cold, dead hand out from beyond the grave and drag the emotional vulnerability right out of me. Well played, you devious playwright ghoul.
It's as though the play was doing it's darndest to get to me, poking me in the side and going "Come on, you pansy, you can't deny it. Let's face it, you weren't very manly in the first place. Gonna squirt a few, are you?" But the jokes on you, weird, disembodied personification of a play, I didn't squirt a few, or any for that matter. But, even though I wasn't even able to devote my full attention to the performance - I was word checking and editing the script for work, that's the reason I was seeing the play at all - and I could only see half the stage from where I was sitting, at the end I was still left sitting there, cursing death upon Mr Williams for putting a dint in my typically manly and stoic visage. Turns out he's a clever one though and died in 1989 as a pre-emptive strike.
I don't think I can be held responsible for any of this though. The play was carefully orchestrated to manipulate me, I'm sure of it. If you weave me the tale which, at its core, features a beautiful, yet painfully shy and reserved girl, completely - and unjustifiably - lacking in confidence, who also just happens to be a southern belle, then I'm doomed from the beginning. There's something about that accent, not even something I could accurately pinpoint, but something indefinably attractive about it. A girl with that voice could rob me blind and I'd be standing on a street corner, wearing a barrel and eating a piece of cardboard, before I realised it had happened. And even then, I'd probably be cool with it. So check next week's news for stories of me being robbed by a group of women posing as 1930s Southern Belles, and also write in your answers to the readers' question of "Why the hell didn't he see it coming?"
I have to give credit to the actress in the role, she was impressive, to say the least. As much was conveyed in looks and body language as with actual spoken words. By the end of it, after the one brief connection she makes with someone is just as quickly taken away, I was pretty much on the verge of jumping down of the balcony, punching some people in the face and going, "That's it, I'm taking you home". Luckily, seeing as I value my job and my clean arrest record, I managed to suppress that urge. For now...
So there you have it, I've given you all the ammunition you need to label me a big, fat sissy. But seriously, what's with the weight comments? You know I've got a better figure than you, so quit projecting. I've still got to see the show two more times over the weekend for the actual captioned performances, so by the end of the week I'll probably be watching Oprah, knitting some decorative cushion covers and adjusting to life with my newfound vagina. Ch-ch-ch-changes!
I saw a play today. You know, actors and a stage coming together in unison, all for the sake of a performance. It was The Glass Menagerie, written by Tennessee Williams close to over 60 years ago. And dammit if that bastard didn't reach his cold, dead hand out from beyond the grave and drag the emotional vulnerability right out of me. Well played, you devious playwright ghoul.
It's as though the play was doing it's darndest to get to me, poking me in the side and going "Come on, you pansy, you can't deny it. Let's face it, you weren't very manly in the first place. Gonna squirt a few, are you?" But the jokes on you, weird, disembodied personification of a play, I didn't squirt a few, or any for that matter. But, even though I wasn't even able to devote my full attention to the performance - I was word checking and editing the script for work, that's the reason I was seeing the play at all - and I could only see half the stage from where I was sitting, at the end I was still left sitting there, cursing death upon Mr Williams for putting a dint in my typically manly and stoic visage. Turns out he's a clever one though and died in 1989 as a pre-emptive strike.
I don't think I can be held responsible for any of this though. The play was carefully orchestrated to manipulate me, I'm sure of it. If you weave me the tale which, at its core, features a beautiful, yet painfully shy and reserved girl, completely - and unjustifiably - lacking in confidence, who also just happens to be a southern belle, then I'm doomed from the beginning. There's something about that accent, not even something I could accurately pinpoint, but something indefinably attractive about it. A girl with that voice could rob me blind and I'd be standing on a street corner, wearing a barrel and eating a piece of cardboard, before I realised it had happened. And even then, I'd probably be cool with it. So check next week's news for stories of me being robbed by a group of women posing as 1930s Southern Belles, and also write in your answers to the readers' question of "Why the hell didn't he see it coming?"
I have to give credit to the actress in the role, she was impressive, to say the least. As much was conveyed in looks and body language as with actual spoken words. By the end of it, after the one brief connection she makes with someone is just as quickly taken away, I was pretty much on the verge of jumping down of the balcony, punching some people in the face and going, "That's it, I'm taking you home". Luckily, seeing as I value my job and my clean arrest record, I managed to suppress that urge. For now...
So there you have it, I've given you all the ammunition you need to label me a big, fat sissy. But seriously, what's with the weight comments? You know I've got a better figure than you, so quit projecting. I've still got to see the show two more times over the weekend for the actual captioned performances, so by the end of the week I'll probably be watching Oprah, knitting some decorative cushion covers and adjusting to life with my newfound vagina. Ch-ch-ch-changes!
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
With My Rooster Out
There are many things that have been missing from my life in recent times. A bevy of supermodels in my bed, a fortune in gold dubloons stashed in my ceiling, spectacular acts of death-defying heroism and female interaction to name but a few.
Those things? Maybe not so easily rectified without delving into flights of fancy or large quantities of chloroform. But there was something of which the absence could be easily rectified, all it required was a time and a place. In fact, time and place are prime components of this particular thing, of which I will now dispense with the vague and evasive references and admit to be Live Music.
I am a musical man. Not The Music Man, I do not come from far enough away for that, but music is definitely something I tend to submerge myself in. If I'm not listening to it, I am likely to be found singing some kind of tune that is likely to be as off-key as it is completely made up. But it has been a while since I have been to a concert. Rapidly approaching its way towards a year, in fact. On one side, I can trace this phenomenon to the fact that two of my friends who I would be likely to go to see a show with have relocated themselves to parts of the world which create great difficulties in organising a musical rendezvous. If you can find a friend who's willing to fly back from Poland just to attend a concert with you, they your friends have way too much disposable income and I hate you.
So I've been getting the itch. I've been getting it for the past few months. I even went to the doctor and he assured me that it was in no way related to an STD, which was informative, yet odd, considering I went to see him about a cough. But first, there was no one worthwhile touring. And just because I wanted to see a show does not mean I'm shelling out cash for someone like James Blunt just because I now have a job, and therefore the income to do so. Then there was the issue of finding someone to go with. While I am willing to do things like movies on my own, a concert is something at which I require the company of others. There's something about it which makes me feel as though it should be a shared experience. So you can talk about it afterwards, which songs you liked, how there was that drunk, hot chick you saw wandering around in the crowd and, of course, you always need someone with whom you can make fun of all the people who are making their most sad and desperate attempts to convince everyone at the concert of how trendy they are. Plus there's always that safety blanket I need of having somewhere there to drag my tiny and frail body out if I somehow manage to get sucked into the mosh pit.
Then, tonight, the musical Gods aligned in my favour. I found the concert and the company, so on August 2, I am going to see Ok Go, at the Zoo, with Caragh and Amy. High Fives all round (which translates to an only mildly depressing self-five, considering there's no one else here). The chance for me to once again rock out is nigh! While playing Guitar Hero a lot of late has helped to sate my hunger for rocking myself retarded with great enthusiasm, there is only so far bounding around your living room with a plastic, imitation guitar can get you.
Now all there is for me to do is pick out my best concert outfit - which just might include a pair of pants - practice all my awkward, disjointed dance moves and hope that the band bring their treadmills with them. Because, let's face it, my last concert night started with me drunkenly headbanging to The Living End - so much so that it could have easily been mistaken for a particularly vicious seizure and had people trying to stop me choking on my own tongue - and ended with me falling asleep in a strip club. That's a raising of the bar right there. I'm personally setting Ok Go the challenge to beat that. Of course, they will never actually be aware of this challenge, so I'll be happy enough if they show up with their guitars.
Those things? Maybe not so easily rectified without delving into flights of fancy or large quantities of chloroform. But there was something of which the absence could be easily rectified, all it required was a time and a place. In fact, time and place are prime components of this particular thing, of which I will now dispense with the vague and evasive references and admit to be Live Music.
I am a musical man. Not The Music Man, I do not come from far enough away for that, but music is definitely something I tend to submerge myself in. If I'm not listening to it, I am likely to be found singing some kind of tune that is likely to be as off-key as it is completely made up. But it has been a while since I have been to a concert. Rapidly approaching its way towards a year, in fact. On one side, I can trace this phenomenon to the fact that two of my friends who I would be likely to go to see a show with have relocated themselves to parts of the world which create great difficulties in organising a musical rendezvous. If you can find a friend who's willing to fly back from Poland just to attend a concert with you, they your friends have way too much disposable income and I hate you.
So I've been getting the itch. I've been getting it for the past few months. I even went to the doctor and he assured me that it was in no way related to an STD, which was informative, yet odd, considering I went to see him about a cough. But first, there was no one worthwhile touring. And just because I wanted to see a show does not mean I'm shelling out cash for someone like James Blunt just because I now have a job, and therefore the income to do so. Then there was the issue of finding someone to go with. While I am willing to do things like movies on my own, a concert is something at which I require the company of others. There's something about it which makes me feel as though it should be a shared experience. So you can talk about it afterwards, which songs you liked, how there was that drunk, hot chick you saw wandering around in the crowd and, of course, you always need someone with whom you can make fun of all the people who are making their most sad and desperate attempts to convince everyone at the concert of how trendy they are. Plus there's always that safety blanket I need of having somewhere there to drag my tiny and frail body out if I somehow manage to get sucked into the mosh pit.
Then, tonight, the musical Gods aligned in my favour. I found the concert and the company, so on August 2, I am going to see Ok Go, at the Zoo, with Caragh and Amy. High Fives all round (which translates to an only mildly depressing self-five, considering there's no one else here). The chance for me to once again rock out is nigh! While playing Guitar Hero a lot of late has helped to sate my hunger for rocking myself retarded with great enthusiasm, there is only so far bounding around your living room with a plastic, imitation guitar can get you.
Now all there is for me to do is pick out my best concert outfit - which just might include a pair of pants - practice all my awkward, disjointed dance moves and hope that the band bring their treadmills with them. Because, let's face it, my last concert night started with me drunkenly headbanging to The Living End - so much so that it could have easily been mistaken for a particularly vicious seizure and had people trying to stop me choking on my own tongue - and ended with me falling asleep in a strip club. That's a raising of the bar right there. I'm personally setting Ok Go the challenge to beat that. Of course, they will never actually be aware of this challenge, so I'll be happy enough if they show up with their guitars.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Tabula Rasa
Well, I finally made It back. What, it only took about seven months. I'm surprised the blog even took me back. It may take a while to deal with the the separation issues and I'm not sure how long the blog plans to keep screaming, "You left me to die in a shallow grave on the side of the highway!!!" in my ear, but I think, as The Beatles would say, We Can Work It Out. Actually, they'd sing it, but it still means the same thing, just with more melody.
So here I am again, and this time I want to try give it a better shot. Last time I let laziness get the better of me and I barely even put up a fight. Though, I think that if you're suffering from laziness, you're bound to be too lazy too put up a fight. Comes with the territory. But there will be none of that again...I hope. Seriously, I basically managed to reach "Oh, my leg's on fire. Ah well, it'll burn itself out" levels of laziness. I'd rather that not happen again. For one thing, I like my legs. Without them I can't play Hopscotch.
I've decided start from scratch. Metaphorically, obviously, because I can't be bothered creating a new blog. Sure, you may call that a swift descent back into my laziness, but I consider it to be a matter of convenience.
At the least I want to try keep up to some kind of routine of weekly posting, no matter how uninteresting my life may be at the time (which, if history is anything to go by, the good odds are on very uninteresting). I started this thing purely as a means of keeping up some kind - any kind - of displays of creativity to stop my mind from lapsing into a coma or cannibalising itself out of boredom, so it's existence is solely for my own benefit.
So here lies the new beginning, I guess. I, for one, am excited. Well, not really. But if we're speaking in terms comparative to everyone else on the planet, my excitement levels could be considered a little higher. In my pants! BAM!
That's a pretty good example of the quality of wit you should come to expect. Maybe I should apologise in advance. Or maybe I should tell you all to suck it. Yep, I'm gonna go with the latter.
So here I am again, and this time I want to try give it a better shot. Last time I let laziness get the better of me and I barely even put up a fight. Though, I think that if you're suffering from laziness, you're bound to be too lazy too put up a fight. Comes with the territory. But there will be none of that again...I hope. Seriously, I basically managed to reach "Oh, my leg's on fire. Ah well, it'll burn itself out" levels of laziness. I'd rather that not happen again. For one thing, I like my legs. Without them I can't play Hopscotch.
I've decided start from scratch. Metaphorically, obviously, because I can't be bothered creating a new blog. Sure, you may call that a swift descent back into my laziness, but I consider it to be a matter of convenience.
At the least I want to try keep up to some kind of routine of weekly posting, no matter how uninteresting my life may be at the time (which, if history is anything to go by, the good odds are on very uninteresting). I started this thing purely as a means of keeping up some kind - any kind - of displays of creativity to stop my mind from lapsing into a coma or cannibalising itself out of boredom, so it's existence is solely for my own benefit.
So here lies the new beginning, I guess. I, for one, am excited. Well, not really. But if we're speaking in terms comparative to everyone else on the planet, my excitement levels could be considered a little higher. In my pants! BAM!
That's a pretty good example of the quality of wit you should come to expect. Maybe I should apologise in advance. Or maybe I should tell you all to suck it. Yep, I'm gonna go with the latter.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Yes, I noticed.
Trust me, I'm not ignorant to the irony of making a post announcing my return, only to not post again for several months. Is it because I like to be unpredictable? Is it because I'm an asshole? Is it because of the shifting nature of the stock exchange? It might well be...Actually, no, no it isn't.
It is because I simply do not have the internet at the moment. This brief post is coming from a very productive period at work. I am currently quite homeless, in the sense that my living quarters currently consists of me being a squatter in the empty house of a friend. Which, I suppose, makes me a polite squatter, because at least he knows about it and haven't, as of yet, defecated on the walls.
Once this homelessness situation is rectified, then maybe I'll live up to this promised "triumphant return". But maybe not. I'm as notoriously unreliable as I am virile.
It is because I simply do not have the internet at the moment. This brief post is coming from a very productive period at work. I am currently quite homeless, in the sense that my living quarters currently consists of me being a squatter in the empty house of a friend. Which, I suppose, makes me a polite squatter, because at least he knows about it and haven't, as of yet, defecated on the walls.
Once this homelessness situation is rectified, then maybe I'll live up to this promised "triumphant return". But maybe not. I'm as notoriously unreliable as I am virile.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
A Triumphant Return
Sound the horns, ready the fanfare and contact your local Council to prepare a ticker-tape parade, because I'm back.
They said I'd never be heard from again, they said I was a washed up hasbeen who smelt faintly of urine, that the odds were 4:1 that I'd be found dead in a ditch, but being the resiliant young whipper-snapper that I am, I endured.
I'm not going to lie to you, things were sketchy there for a little while. I had to go an indefinate hiatus - creative differences, you see. But after some time apart, me and the blog realised that maybe we needed each other. There was a hole that could not be filled by alcohol, read meat, prostitutes or collectible plates. So we got to talking, and admittedly it was a very one-sided conversation; a blog on it's own is not the greatest wordsmith. We managed to reconcile our differences and smooth things out, because we realised it was unfair to the rest of the world to deprive them of my nonsensical ramblings. They people have a right to read what I say, stare blankly at their screens and utter to themselves, "What the fuck is he talking about?" Just as I have the right to say to those people, "Screw you, you stupid bastards." Because the internet is all about the love. And not the angry, sweaty, sticky porno kind. Although, it is also very much about that also. That's commerce, people!
But the time out of the prying eyes of the public did me well. It gave me the time to sit back and take stock of my life. I didn't actually do that, but the time was there if I'd ever wanted to. Stocktake just isn't my thing though.
Just when I thought that all was lost and I was going to have to enter myself into the lucrative world of mail-order brides - where my fair skin and petite size would see me quickly purchased by a strict, loveless European Baron - I managed to find employment. Finally I am a working boy, and for once not in the prostitution sense. Take that school guidence counsellor!! (on a side note, how pointless is that job?)
It certainly makes you feel much less useless, not to mention freeing up a lot of time that was previously spent writing a constant stream of job applications. Maybe now I can get back to writing things that involve somewhat more creativity and less repetition (of course, it is still very likely I will recycle jokes, because I'm a conservationist you see). And for those of you sitting on the edge of your seats wondering what this job is - first of all, sit properly, that can't be any good for your back, and secondly, I am what those one the street call a "Television Captioner". I'd elaborate, but I'd much prefer to be mysterious (read: lazy and annoying).
I shall now leave you, because I don't want to start giving you too much Scott at once. Your pants would probably explode. But rest assured, I'm back and as handsome as I ever was - which is a good or bad thing, depending on how handsome I was before. Tell your friends! I don't have many of my own.
They said I'd never be heard from again, they said I was a washed up hasbeen who smelt faintly of urine, that the odds were 4:1 that I'd be found dead in a ditch, but being the resiliant young whipper-snapper that I am, I endured.
I'm not going to lie to you, things were sketchy there for a little while. I had to go an indefinate hiatus - creative differences, you see. But after some time apart, me and the blog realised that maybe we needed each other. There was a hole that could not be filled by alcohol, read meat, prostitutes or collectible plates. So we got to talking, and admittedly it was a very one-sided conversation; a blog on it's own is not the greatest wordsmith. We managed to reconcile our differences and smooth things out, because we realised it was unfair to the rest of the world to deprive them of my nonsensical ramblings. They people have a right to read what I say, stare blankly at their screens and utter to themselves, "What the fuck is he talking about?" Just as I have the right to say to those people, "Screw you, you stupid bastards." Because the internet is all about the love. And not the angry, sweaty, sticky porno kind. Although, it is also very much about that also. That's commerce, people!
But the time out of the prying eyes of the public did me well. It gave me the time to sit back and take stock of my life. I didn't actually do that, but the time was there if I'd ever wanted to. Stocktake just isn't my thing though.
Just when I thought that all was lost and I was going to have to enter myself into the lucrative world of mail-order brides - where my fair skin and petite size would see me quickly purchased by a strict, loveless European Baron - I managed to find employment. Finally I am a working boy, and for once not in the prostitution sense. Take that school guidence counsellor!! (on a side note, how pointless is that job?)
It certainly makes you feel much less useless, not to mention freeing up a lot of time that was previously spent writing a constant stream of job applications. Maybe now I can get back to writing things that involve somewhat more creativity and less repetition (of course, it is still very likely I will recycle jokes, because I'm a conservationist you see). And for those of you sitting on the edge of your seats wondering what this job is - first of all, sit properly, that can't be any good for your back, and secondly, I am what those one the street call a "Television Captioner". I'd elaborate, but I'd much prefer to be mysterious (read: lazy and annoying).
I shall now leave you, because I don't want to start giving you too much Scott at once. Your pants would probably explode. But rest assured, I'm back and as handsome as I ever was - which is a good or bad thing, depending on how handsome I was before. Tell your friends! I don't have many of my own.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
If the code was broke maybe someone should have fixed it
Would you look at the gap between the last too dates. Good gravy, certainly makes one wonder where the hell I've been doesn't it? Or it least it would if anyone hade any care what so ever for my personal well-being, but I think they're all too busy burning effigies of me, or something along those lines. So where exactly have I been these past few weeks? What important tasks dragged my kicking and screaming away from making regular posts here? Well as much as I would like to say that I was gallavanting around the world searching for buried treasure, sadly that would be a lie. Then again, that's never stopped me before. So yes, that's exactly where I was, venturing around the most exotic and perilous corners of the earth searching for pirate booty. And yes, I do mean that in both the trunk full of gold and black-slang for buttocks meaning of the word. Let's face it, who hasn't spent countless nights dreaming of pirate women with bountiful posteriors?
Moving on, I went to the moving picture theatre last night and saw The Davinci Code, and because the public have craving it, here's my thoughts:
Before heading into the movie, I already knew it had been receiving a lot of negative press (it even seemed like I had become the test subject for the movie according to my family, who all wanted me to report back to them with my verdict. Cheap bastards), but this didn't surprise me. With the cyclone of hype this movie had surrounding it, there was no way it was ever going to live up to expectations, movies rarely ever can, just take a look at the backlash the Matrix sequels suffered. Sure they weren't the greatest films ever made but how were they supposed to match the lofty fan expectations of Pure Orgasm Condensed Into A Sci-fi Movie?
As for me, I steered clear of any reviews. I wanted to go into this one without any preconceived notions, it was going to disappoint or impress me all on it own merits.
But no matter what mine (especially mine) or anybody elses opinions on this movie are, it's still going to make a shitload of money, because there are three camps of people who are going to see this film: A) Fans of the book who would see it even if it was made using only retarded monkeys and cardbord sets, B) People who have been too lazy to read the book and like the idea of a cinematic 'cliff notes' version, and C) People who are just plain curious to see what all this controversy is about.
As for this ridiculous controversy, over-reaction doesn't even begin to describe it. One of these days the Church may get itself some common sense and learn to realise that things like this are purely works of fiction (if I could underline that I would) designed the purpose of entertaining people. If they really think there's anyone out there who's going to start questioning their faith after seeing that, maybe they should really be asking if that was the kind of person they even want as a member of their church, because I'm not sure I'd even want that person as part of the general population. If there was a statement at the beginning of the film saying "what you are about to see is pure, unadulterated fact. You have been lied to for two thousand years you wacky Christians. Burn the Vatican! Start the Revolution!!" then maybe there would be something to complain about, but I certainly didn't see that message anywhere and I was paying attention pretty well. And don't get me started on the reports I've heard about Albinos complaining about the fact that one of the villians being Albino, which they are trying to claim is defamation. If that was a case then there's a very extensive back-catalogue of movie villians out there for every kind of monority to sue over, with many taking precedent over the Albinos I'm sure.
Maybe now I'll start talking about the actual movie. I haven't read the book, so I'm judging it purely as a movie and have no idea what is/isn't product of the adaption. If you want my one sweeping statement to sum up overall what I thought of the movie, then here it is: Meh. It was decidedly middle-ground fare. There's parts I like, there's parts I disliked. Overall it's a film that features some very good ideas and theories that quite frankly I feel belong in a better story. All the conspiracies regarding the church, Jesus and Mary Magdelane being married and having a child, the true Holy Grail etc. mainly serve as a groundwork for what is very much a redimentary mystery movie. You can even see parts where they have tried to turn it into more of an adventure than it really is. The brief car-chase is an obvious, and unsuccessful, attempt to create some more 'thrills' that practically screams at the audience "I DON'T KNOW WHY I"M HERE!!!" So the main thing I came out of this movie with is food for thought on a variety of concoted theories based in historical facts, which is something I certainly enjoyed.
Ironically, it is these same ideas the movie is founded on that served as one of its biggest detractors for me. Due to all the information they want to get across, the vast majority of the dialogue in the film is exposition. Seriously, I have not seen a movie that felt the need to explain so much (so many times) to the audience in a long time. For one thing, it spoon feeds most of the information to the audience without giving them even the slightest chance to work things out for themselves. Not only does this result in many lengthy monologues/psuedo history lectures, but it also eliminates most of the opportunity for character development. Sure, there are some feeble attempts but mostly they amount to nothing. After Tom Hanks' character is set up to be claustraphobic only for it to lead to absolutely no payoff later in the film, you'll be left scratching your head wondering what the hell was the point. It's the case with most of the characters that they just don't seem to have any. Audrey Tatou make look absolutely freaking adorable for the whole movie, but it's a little sad when she isn't given too much else interesting to do. It's not to say her's and Hanks' performances are bad, they do the best with what they've got. The one saving grace though is Ian McKellen. This man rules. He is leaps and bounds beyond anyone else in this film, leaving them staring at his foot and cane prints in the dirt. With his character spending large portions of time handing out gift-wrapped packages of exposition, this role could have had disastrous and sleep-inducing results in the hands of the wrong actor. Fortunately his Sir Leigh Teabing is a sly old dog with a certain amount of eccentric charm to him, so you are interested in what he's got to say (and believe me, there's a lot of it). Personally I can't wait to see more McKellen (which could be the mantra for every movie - More McKellen!) when X-Men 3 is released this week.
The length is another thing that hurts the movie. It's a 2 and a half hour movie with an ending that runs on for about 25 minutes too long. It suffers the multiple ending syndrome that LOTR: The Return of the King suffered from, only in that case it was understandable because, after all, it was wrapping up what amounted to a 9 hour movie. Davinci feels the need to give the audience a solution to all the mysteries and possibilities that it poses, when really leaving some of them unanswered (i don't care if it would be a departure from the book or not) could have left a much more interesting opportunity for the audience to draw their own conclusions and debate the truth - at least in the world the movie inhabits - of the conspiracies. Throughout the film there was also some uneveness with the pacing. It starts off movie fairly quickly, straight into a murder (and about that murder; after the guy got shot, why did he go to the complicated effort of crawling around everywhere, stripping off all his clothes, carving a pentagram into his chest and posing himself like one of Davinici's pictures? Think about the logic in that for a bit, because there is none!) and I was enjoying it quite a bit for the first half hour. It's only after that that it gets a little stop-start, threatening to bore you with excessive laying out of the plot - yep, there's that problem again - before getting the story moving again.
It probably sounds like I hated the movie, which isn't true, I just feel like it was a bit of a squandered opportunity. There was a good director and talented cast attached to what has been one of the most popular and talked about books in years, and there is definately a better movie buried in all the ideas the movie throws at you. They made it look good, which an on-location shoot in Paris certainly helped with (and special mention should go to some of the historical flashback sequences, which give off the impression of paintings come to life), but it is disappointing when it should have been - like one of Davinci's paintings - more than just pretty pictures.
Moving on, I went to the moving picture theatre last night and saw The Davinci Code, and because the public have craving it, here's my thoughts:
Before heading into the movie, I already knew it had been receiving a lot of negative press (it even seemed like I had become the test subject for the movie according to my family, who all wanted me to report back to them with my verdict. Cheap bastards), but this didn't surprise me. With the cyclone of hype this movie had surrounding it, there was no way it was ever going to live up to expectations, movies rarely ever can, just take a look at the backlash the Matrix sequels suffered. Sure they weren't the greatest films ever made but how were they supposed to match the lofty fan expectations of Pure Orgasm Condensed Into A Sci-fi Movie?
As for me, I steered clear of any reviews. I wanted to go into this one without any preconceived notions, it was going to disappoint or impress me all on it own merits.
But no matter what mine (especially mine) or anybody elses opinions on this movie are, it's still going to make a shitload of money, because there are three camps of people who are going to see this film: A) Fans of the book who would see it even if it was made using only retarded monkeys and cardbord sets, B) People who have been too lazy to read the book and like the idea of a cinematic 'cliff notes' version, and C) People who are just plain curious to see what all this controversy is about.
As for this ridiculous controversy, over-reaction doesn't even begin to describe it. One of these days the Church may get itself some common sense and learn to realise that things like this are purely works of fiction (if I could underline that I would) designed the purpose of entertaining people. If they really think there's anyone out there who's going to start questioning their faith after seeing that, maybe they should really be asking if that was the kind of person they even want as a member of their church, because I'm not sure I'd even want that person as part of the general population. If there was a statement at the beginning of the film saying "what you are about to see is pure, unadulterated fact. You have been lied to for two thousand years you wacky Christians. Burn the Vatican! Start the Revolution!!" then maybe there would be something to complain about, but I certainly didn't see that message anywhere and I was paying attention pretty well. And don't get me started on the reports I've heard about Albinos complaining about the fact that one of the villians being Albino, which they are trying to claim is defamation. If that was a case then there's a very extensive back-catalogue of movie villians out there for every kind of monority to sue over, with many taking precedent over the Albinos I'm sure.
Maybe now I'll start talking about the actual movie. I haven't read the book, so I'm judging it purely as a movie and have no idea what is/isn't product of the adaption. If you want my one sweeping statement to sum up overall what I thought of the movie, then here it is: Meh. It was decidedly middle-ground fare. There's parts I like, there's parts I disliked. Overall it's a film that features some very good ideas and theories that quite frankly I feel belong in a better story. All the conspiracies regarding the church, Jesus and Mary Magdelane being married and having a child, the true Holy Grail etc. mainly serve as a groundwork for what is very much a redimentary mystery movie. You can even see parts where they have tried to turn it into more of an adventure than it really is. The brief car-chase is an obvious, and unsuccessful, attempt to create some more 'thrills' that practically screams at the audience "I DON'T KNOW WHY I"M HERE!!!" So the main thing I came out of this movie with is food for thought on a variety of concoted theories based in historical facts, which is something I certainly enjoyed.
Ironically, it is these same ideas the movie is founded on that served as one of its biggest detractors for me. Due to all the information they want to get across, the vast majority of the dialogue in the film is exposition. Seriously, I have not seen a movie that felt the need to explain so much (so many times) to the audience in a long time. For one thing, it spoon feeds most of the information to the audience without giving them even the slightest chance to work things out for themselves. Not only does this result in many lengthy monologues/psuedo history lectures, but it also eliminates most of the opportunity for character development. Sure, there are some feeble attempts but mostly they amount to nothing. After Tom Hanks' character is set up to be claustraphobic only for it to lead to absolutely no payoff later in the film, you'll be left scratching your head wondering what the hell was the point. It's the case with most of the characters that they just don't seem to have any. Audrey Tatou make look absolutely freaking adorable for the whole movie, but it's a little sad when she isn't given too much else interesting to do. It's not to say her's and Hanks' performances are bad, they do the best with what they've got. The one saving grace though is Ian McKellen. This man rules. He is leaps and bounds beyond anyone else in this film, leaving them staring at his foot and cane prints in the dirt. With his character spending large portions of time handing out gift-wrapped packages of exposition, this role could have had disastrous and sleep-inducing results in the hands of the wrong actor. Fortunately his Sir Leigh Teabing is a sly old dog with a certain amount of eccentric charm to him, so you are interested in what he's got to say (and believe me, there's a lot of it). Personally I can't wait to see more McKellen (which could be the mantra for every movie - More McKellen!) when X-Men 3 is released this week.
The length is another thing that hurts the movie. It's a 2 and a half hour movie with an ending that runs on for about 25 minutes too long. It suffers the multiple ending syndrome that LOTR: The Return of the King suffered from, only in that case it was understandable because, after all, it was wrapping up what amounted to a 9 hour movie. Davinci feels the need to give the audience a solution to all the mysteries and possibilities that it poses, when really leaving some of them unanswered (i don't care if it would be a departure from the book or not) could have left a much more interesting opportunity for the audience to draw their own conclusions and debate the truth - at least in the world the movie inhabits - of the conspiracies. Throughout the film there was also some uneveness with the pacing. It starts off movie fairly quickly, straight into a murder (and about that murder; after the guy got shot, why did he go to the complicated effort of crawling around everywhere, stripping off all his clothes, carving a pentagram into his chest and posing himself like one of Davinici's pictures? Think about the logic in that for a bit, because there is none!) and I was enjoying it quite a bit for the first half hour. It's only after that that it gets a little stop-start, threatening to bore you with excessive laying out of the plot - yep, there's that problem again - before getting the story moving again.
It probably sounds like I hated the movie, which isn't true, I just feel like it was a bit of a squandered opportunity. There was a good director and talented cast attached to what has been one of the most popular and talked about books in years, and there is definately a better movie buried in all the ideas the movie throws at you. They made it look good, which an on-location shoot in Paris certainly helped with (and special mention should go to some of the historical flashback sequences, which give off the impression of paintings come to life), but it is disappointing when it should have been - like one of Davinci's paintings - more than just pretty pictures.
Monday, May 01, 2006
How do you diagnose something like that?
Right. So I'm sitting at my chair, me and my entirely unpolluted mind keeping to ourselves, the television providing adequate background noise from the erotic puppet show that's playing out in my mind (completely unpolluted!). Suddenly I'm hit with this gem: "This woman has over 100 orgasms a day. See how doctors turn her pain back into pleasure."
You read correctly folks, I'm not making this up. Not even my perverted mind could come up with such an absurd medical ailment. And yes, I know i just completely contradicted my claims that my mind was unpolluted, but not even I can keep up with such a blatantly obvious charade.
It was an ad for one of those medical shows on Channel 9, where they point out everyone elses freaky problems so we can all feel better about ourselves as we let out a collective "thank God it's not me." I don't know the exact title of the show, so I'm just going to call it Wacky Medical Shit Vol. II, because that has a professional and respectful tone to it.
Now I don't know who is working for the marketing and advertising department, but they are some kind of genius. No one can tell me that the line "this woman has over 100 orgasms a day" doesn't grab you by the balls and scream for your attention. Even if you're a female, it surgically grafts testicles onto you for the express purpose of latching onto them for attention. Do the math people; that's 4 orgasms per hour, with 4 orgasms in change left at the end of the day! I can only imagine the novelty of sexual gratification wore off for this woman a long time ago. What I'm really interested in though, is the awkwardness of that trip to the doctors when she decided that 700 orgasms in a week seemed a little above average.
DOCTOR: So...Mrs Fletcher is it?
WOMAN: I'm coming!!!
DOCTOR: ...Umm, what? You're already here
WOMAN: No, I mean I'm...I'm COMING!!!
DOCTOR: Oh! Well, I can have that affect on women.
WOMAN: No, it's not you
DOCTOR: Well I think I just felt my testicles physically shrink
WOMAN: I can't stop having orgasms. I'm having around 100 per day.
DOCTOR: 100 PER DAY!?! Jesus woman, who is your husband? Robo-cock!?
WOMAN: It's not even from having sex, they just keep happening.
DOCTOR: ...sorry, what was that? I didn't hear you. I was too busy writing down my 'Robo-cock' line, I gotta remember that one.
WOMAN: I said they're not from having sex
DOCTOR: So what? You've got a vibrator stuck up there or something?
WOMAN: No...
DOCTOR: Well what the fuck are you woman!?! Some kind of freak?
WOMAN: (close to tears) I..I don't...
DOCTOR: Have you considered a career in porn? There's people out there who'd pay good money for that kind of shit. Hell, I'd pay good money for that sort of shit. Let's see, i've got 100...200 bucks on me right now.
WOMAN: Doctor!!! I- Oh god...I'm coming again!!!
DOCTOR: (speaking into intercom) Susan, I'm going to need you to cancel the rest of my days appointments.
Admittedly this is only a rough outline of how I believe the doctor's consult went down, but I'm fairly certain the details are at least 85% accurate.
You read correctly folks, I'm not making this up. Not even my perverted mind could come up with such an absurd medical ailment. And yes, I know i just completely contradicted my claims that my mind was unpolluted, but not even I can keep up with such a blatantly obvious charade.
It was an ad for one of those medical shows on Channel 9, where they point out everyone elses freaky problems so we can all feel better about ourselves as we let out a collective "thank God it's not me." I don't know the exact title of the show, so I'm just going to call it Wacky Medical Shit Vol. II, because that has a professional and respectful tone to it.
Now I don't know who is working for the marketing and advertising department, but they are some kind of genius. No one can tell me that the line "this woman has over 100 orgasms a day" doesn't grab you by the balls and scream for your attention. Even if you're a female, it surgically grafts testicles onto you for the express purpose of latching onto them for attention. Do the math people; that's 4 orgasms per hour, with 4 orgasms in change left at the end of the day! I can only imagine the novelty of sexual gratification wore off for this woman a long time ago. What I'm really interested in though, is the awkwardness of that trip to the doctors when she decided that 700 orgasms in a week seemed a little above average.
DOCTOR: So...Mrs Fletcher is it?
WOMAN: I'm coming!!!
DOCTOR: ...Umm, what? You're already here
WOMAN: No, I mean I'm...I'm COMING!!!
DOCTOR: Oh! Well, I can have that affect on women.
WOMAN: No, it's not you
DOCTOR: Well I think I just felt my testicles physically shrink
WOMAN: I can't stop having orgasms. I'm having around 100 per day.
DOCTOR: 100 PER DAY!?! Jesus woman, who is your husband? Robo-cock!?
WOMAN: It's not even from having sex, they just keep happening.
DOCTOR: ...sorry, what was that? I didn't hear you. I was too busy writing down my 'Robo-cock' line, I gotta remember that one.
WOMAN: I said they're not from having sex
DOCTOR: So what? You've got a vibrator stuck up there or something?
WOMAN: No...
DOCTOR: Well what the fuck are you woman!?! Some kind of freak?
WOMAN: (close to tears) I..I don't...
DOCTOR: Have you considered a career in porn? There's people out there who'd pay good money for that kind of shit. Hell, I'd pay good money for that sort of shit. Let's see, i've got 100...200 bucks on me right now.
WOMAN: Doctor!!! I- Oh god...I'm coming again!!!
DOCTOR: (speaking into intercom) Susan, I'm going to need you to cancel the rest of my days appointments.
Admittedly this is only a rough outline of how I believe the doctor's consult went down, but I'm fairly certain the details are at least 85% accurate.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Table hats and a cape
As of the 20th of April, I am officially a University Graduate. How do I feel? Intellectually superior? Overwhelmed by a sense of accomplishment? Nostalgic for all those brain cells lost over the course of a three-year binge drinking session disguised as a degree? Not particularly. Considering the actual completion of my degree occurred close to 6 months ago, the graduation ceremony came as somewhat delayed and anti-climactic. Instead of a rousing cry of "finally, it's over!!", the event was far more likely to elicit commets of "that's right, I did go to uni, didn't I?" Then we all sit around in a hall thinking to ourselves that we recognise very few of the people we are graduating alongside of. It serves as pretty damning evidence that I wasn't as social as I could have been. Although there is a high likelihood that I met, and probably high-fived, a large number of these people while slightly (and by that I mean very) intoxicated at the pub and simply have no recollection of them.
As for the ceremony itself, it isn't all that exciting. You sit on a plastic chair for 3 and a half hours slowly developing a hernia, as the hat on your head that may or may not have been fashioned out of a coffee table gets increasingly uncomfortable and your arms succumb to exhaustion from politely applauding people you don't recognise. The novelty certainly wears off after a while. And at the end of it, you emerge with a piece of paper, final evidence of what you've known for 6 months - you are a graduate.
This piece of paper has not changed my situation though. As it was put to me, I am in my 'lull', the period where every single aspect in my life has come to a standstill. Where if things were moving any slower I would be going backwards in time. Is this something that happens in every person's life? I don't know, but I'll certainly tell myself it does to prevent some kind of mental breakdown. So for now I am left with no choice but to attempt to live vicariously through the lives of people I know, much like some kind of obsessive stalker. But what's wrong with a little stalking? Well, according to the law, many things, but I choose to ignore that minor detail.
As for the ceremony itself, it isn't all that exciting. You sit on a plastic chair for 3 and a half hours slowly developing a hernia, as the hat on your head that may or may not have been fashioned out of a coffee table gets increasingly uncomfortable and your arms succumb to exhaustion from politely applauding people you don't recognise. The novelty certainly wears off after a while. And at the end of it, you emerge with a piece of paper, final evidence of what you've known for 6 months - you are a graduate.
This piece of paper has not changed my situation though. As it was put to me, I am in my 'lull', the period where every single aspect in my life has come to a standstill. Where if things were moving any slower I would be going backwards in time. Is this something that happens in every person's life? I don't know, but I'll certainly tell myself it does to prevent some kind of mental breakdown. So for now I am left with no choice but to attempt to live vicariously through the lives of people I know, much like some kind of obsessive stalker. But what's wrong with a little stalking? Well, according to the law, many things, but I choose to ignore that minor detail.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Inappropriately peeing on things in the sky
R.I.P Harley Dog
Sadly we suffered a loss in the household this past week. One of our dogs died. I was going to post a picture but it seems we don't have any of him on this computer, so it made it kind of difficult. I was going to entitle the post something like 'fetching sticks in the sky' or 'shaking paws in the sky', but he didn't actually do any of those things, and as for 'playing dead in the sky'? Well that seemed plain inappropriate. So why not go for something he was far more known for: urinating on things a lot. Thankfully he kept this habit mostly as an outside thing (unlike one of our cats which seems to be convinced my bed a an enormous litter tray), but man could that dog pee. He was a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, about 8 years old. While we aren't entirely sure what he died from, we are pretty certain it's due to him never fully recovering from the affects of a paralysis tick about 6 months ago. He never really ate properly after that, so i'm confindent those microscopic little bastards are to blame. I'd wage war them, but they are difficult to find and I'm not adequately armed. In other words, i need pesticides, stat! O maybe that machine from Honey I Shrunk The Kids so I can shrink myself down and take them on with my bare hands.
But no longer with the foolish little rapscallion of a dog be patting himself of his own accord on my foot as I sit on the couch, or taking over my bed when I'm not looking. I can only hope he went peacefully, and he's now somewhere sexing up Lassie good and proper. Go Harley Dog!
Monday, April 10, 2006
Creeping along the comeback trail
Slowly but surely it's all coming back to me. Give me time and I'll be back.
What am I talking about? Ham? No not ham, what would make you even suggest that? It doesn't even make sense. I think you should really give up on the guessing games. I'm talking about Frolf, what else? I certainly don't have anything else coming my way these days, but those are other stories for other days.
Another frolf game was held over the weekend, and I am proud to say that I fared a little better this time. Again there was only for of us, with Ross being the absent party this week. He claimed he had to go to a wedding, but I have my suspicions that was code for 'trafficking child slaves across the Atlantic', which is fair enough really, it's a time consuming business. Brendan's appearance at the match also put an end to all these kindnapping rumours I've been hearing, which is probably mainly due to the fact that I started them. Now, the scores!
Tim - 66
Scott - 67
Brendan - 69
Hayden - 72
That's right, second place folks! Sure, it may not be first place, but I'll be on top soon don't you worry about that, and might I add that I displayed quite a comeback in the back 9. Magic it was. Hayden purchased himself an Aerobie, so he no longer receives the handicap we were generous enough to afford him last week. Now he only needs to learn to tame his flying ring (interpret that as you wish).
What am I talking about? Ham? No not ham, what would make you even suggest that? It doesn't even make sense. I think you should really give up on the guessing games. I'm talking about Frolf, what else? I certainly don't have anything else coming my way these days, but those are other stories for other days.
Another frolf game was held over the weekend, and I am proud to say that I fared a little better this time. Again there was only for of us, with Ross being the absent party this week. He claimed he had to go to a wedding, but I have my suspicions that was code for 'trafficking child slaves across the Atlantic', which is fair enough really, it's a time consuming business. Brendan's appearance at the match also put an end to all these kindnapping rumours I've been hearing, which is probably mainly due to the fact that I started them. Now, the scores!
Tim - 66
Scott - 67
Brendan - 69
Hayden - 72
That's right, second place folks! Sure, it may not be first place, but I'll be on top soon don't you worry about that, and might I add that I displayed quite a comeback in the back 9. Magic it was. Hayden purchased himself an Aerobie, so he no longer receives the handicap we were generous enough to afford him last week. Now he only needs to learn to tame his flying ring (interpret that as you wish).
Monday, April 03, 2006
It wasn't meant to end this way
Well, as I know you have all been waiting around in breathless anxiety to hear the results of Saturday's frolf match, here they are. It must be noted that it was only a 4 person game as Brendan was not able to attend, and therefore, did not participate. Why he was not there is not entirely certain, but for now we are all assuming it is due to kidnapping. We are waiting for the ransom note, which we will more than likely ignore. That or place it on our fridge so every once in a while we can wistfully think "what ever happened to Brendan?", then look to the refrigerator at the note hastily compile of letters cut from magazines, chuckle softly to ourselves and go "oh yeah, that's right", then turn back to our game of Uno. Now, frolfing results!:
Tim - 65
Scott - 71
Ross - 72
Hayden - 75 (But with a handicap of 10, his score translates to 65)
As it was Hayden's first game, and he was saddled with inferior equipment (a regular frisbee as opposed to an Aerobie) we offered him the advantage of a 10 shot handicap, which had left him tied for first place at the end of 18 holes. So, as dictated in the rules of frolf (also know as the rules of life), a playoff ensued. Personally I was calling for a duel, and even slapped them with gloves to emphasise it, but my cries fell on deaf ears. So as me and Ross stood and pondered our quite dismal performance, Tim and Hayden replayed the final hole. And in the end, it was Hayden who triumphed. It was quite an impressive display from the newcomer, and has left me fearful of what the future may hold. It's not like I want to break his fingers, but sometimes you're left with no choice.
Tim - 65
Scott - 71
Ross - 72
Hayden - 75 (But with a handicap of 10, his score translates to 65)
As it was Hayden's first game, and he was saddled with inferior equipment (a regular frisbee as opposed to an Aerobie) we offered him the advantage of a 10 shot handicap, which had left him tied for first place at the end of 18 holes. So, as dictated in the rules of frolf (also know as the rules of life), a playoff ensued. Personally I was calling for a duel, and even slapped them with gloves to emphasise it, but my cries fell on deaf ears. So as me and Ross stood and pondered our quite dismal performance, Tim and Hayden replayed the final hole. And in the end, it was Hayden who triumphed. It was quite an impressive display from the newcomer, and has left me fearful of what the future may hold. It's not like I want to break his fingers, but sometimes you're left with no choice.
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