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.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
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.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
It's Frolfing time, bitches
As you look over the vast array of mindless activities that make up the sporting world, you'll see that horse racing is the sport of kings, and golf is the gentleman's game. Try as they might to hide themselves beneath these archaic disguises, I can see right through them. In the 21st century, horse racing is the sport of women and transvestites with large, funny hats; and golf is the fat lesbian's game. Times have changed folks, it's time to get out of the country clubs to where the real action is.
There is a game the real men play. A game that only an elite few are qualified for. It is their sport of leisure, played in their breaks between stopping bullets with their steely gaze and hunting bear purely by pointing at them and saying "down". That game is: Frolf.
I don't know who created the game, nor whether it was in an act of genius, madness, or pure drunkeness, but it would change history forever. My future was sealed in laminated concrete the day those prophetic words were uttered: "you know, we should combine frisbee with golf".
The Game: That's right, Frolf is the spectacular result of a romantic rendezvous involving a Frisbee, some golf clubs, some Barry White and several bottles of wine. Sure the morning after may have been a little awkward as the frisbee spoke not a single word to the golf clubs as they called a cab, but the spawn of that night made up for any regret they may have shared.
The rules of the game are simple. Taking most of its cues from golf, the aim is to get your frisbee from the tee off area - indicated by a concreted area on the ground - into this:
Which is what constitutes "the hole" (only in a purely sybolic sense though, as it is obviously a cage) in as few throws as possible. Now I know there are some of you out there going "pfft, is that it? That's piss easy. I could do that with my testicles on fire". Well, while I don't particularly care what you do with your testicles in your spare time (and if you're female, why you have testicles at all), I cannot help but laugh at your arrogance and niavety. There are many trecherous hazards that will try their darndest to impede your task. Gale force winds, nearby backyards that fence in vicious (possibly mutant) dogs that are just waiting for their chance to maul you and urinate on your frisbee, random people walking through the park, creeks more than willing to swallow your frisbee and refuse to spit it out, and of course who can forget the people sniffing butane on playground equipment and park benches. What an atmosphere!
The Equipment: The is only once piece of equipment you need for the prestigious game of Frolf, and that is of course the frisbee. And there is only one frisbee to have: The Aerobie.
This flying ring is the stuff dreams are made of. At least any flying ring related dreams, of which I can only assume you all - like me - have many. Fashioned from black magic, unicorn blood, and probably some form of rubber and plastic, it is the only apparatus worth having in the no-holds-barred world of frolf if you're serious about competing - the Excalibur of the frolfing world, if you will. If you're not serious and just want to make a fool of yourself, then go steal a hubcap. And beat yourself over the head with it for an hour. Just stay the fuck off our course.
The Location: Do you really think I am going to reveal that to you? Frolf is an exclusive game, and only the most worthy can compete. You will learn the location if us competitors deem you one such worthy person. We have yet to see other people on our course, and so it remains that way we have placed land mines around the course that only we know the locations of. Am I serious? Do you really want to find out? Is turtle wax really made of turtles. Very good questions, now let us ponder the answers...
The Players: These are the elite few, the champions of the field. From different walks of life, we have battled through adversity and fabricated long winded, drama packed origin stories for all of us, so we sound cool. Of course you will not hear these origin stories now, because the level of cool may cause your heads to implode, and don't need something like that resting on my shoulders. Ha! Get it, on my shoulders! Hahaha, oh I kill me. Now after a lengthy hiatus from the Frolfing world due to scheduling conflicts, and an entirely fictional fued between two of the competitors, we're back and better than ever (more likely worse)!
There is a game the real men play. A game that only an elite few are qualified for. It is their sport of leisure, played in their breaks between stopping bullets with their steely gaze and hunting bear purely by pointing at them and saying "down". That game is: Frolf.
I don't know who created the game, nor whether it was in an act of genius, madness, or pure drunkeness, but it would change history forever. My future was sealed in laminated concrete the day those prophetic words were uttered: "you know, we should combine frisbee with golf".
The Game: That's right, Frolf is the spectacular result of a romantic rendezvous involving a Frisbee, some golf clubs, some Barry White and several bottles of wine. Sure the morning after may have been a little awkward as the frisbee spoke not a single word to the golf clubs as they called a cab, but the spawn of that night made up for any regret they may have shared.
The rules of the game are simple. Taking most of its cues from golf, the aim is to get your frisbee from the tee off area - indicated by a concreted area on the ground - into this:
Which is what constitutes "the hole" (only in a purely sybolic sense though, as it is obviously a cage) in as few throws as possible. Now I know there are some of you out there going "pfft, is that it? That's piss easy. I could do that with my testicles on fire". Well, while I don't particularly care what you do with your testicles in your spare time (and if you're female, why you have testicles at all), I cannot help but laugh at your arrogance and niavety. There are many trecherous hazards that will try their darndest to impede your task. Gale force winds, nearby backyards that fence in vicious (possibly mutant) dogs that are just waiting for their chance to maul you and urinate on your frisbee, random people walking through the park, creeks more than willing to swallow your frisbee and refuse to spit it out, and of course who can forget the people sniffing butane on playground equipment and park benches. What an atmosphere!The Equipment: The is only once piece of equipment you need for the prestigious game of Frolf, and that is of course the frisbee. And there is only one frisbee to have: The Aerobie.
This flying ring is the stuff dreams are made of. At least any flying ring related dreams, of which I can only assume you all - like me - have many. Fashioned from black magic, unicorn blood, and probably some form of rubber and plastic, it is the only apparatus worth having in the no-holds-barred world of frolf if you're serious about competing - the Excalibur of the frolfing world, if you will. If you're not serious and just want to make a fool of yourself, then go steal a hubcap. And beat yourself over the head with it for an hour. Just stay the fuck off our course.The Location: Do you really think I am going to reveal that to you? Frolf is an exclusive game, and only the most worthy can compete. You will learn the location if us competitors deem you one such worthy person. We have yet to see other people on our course, and so it remains that way we have placed land mines around the course that only we know the locations of. Am I serious? Do you really want to find out? Is turtle wax really made of turtles. Very good questions, now let us ponder the answers...
The Players: These are the elite few, the champions of the field. From different walks of life, we have battled through adversity and fabricated long winded, drama packed origin stories for all of us, so we sound cool. Of course you will not hear these origin stories now, because the level of cool may cause your heads to implode, and don't need something like that resting on my shoulders. Ha! Get it, on my shoulders! Hahaha, oh I kill me. Now after a lengthy hiatus from the Frolfing world due to scheduling conflicts, and an entirely fictional fued between two of the competitors, we're back and better than ever (more likely worse)!
Scott 'The Shaman' Strange
That is me, myself and I, although I do not usually refer to myself in triplicate. Short on height but high on skill (occasionally) I am the one and only frolfer to have not suffered the loss of an Aerobie into the clutches of the dreaded creek, and having just jinxed myself with that statement I shall expect to lose one in the near future. Hell, I won't be surprised if the creek shows up at my front door to requisition it (actually I will, how the hell does a body of water make it all the way to my door? Baffling). Nickname derived from my attemps at using voodoo to enhance my frolfing skill. So far it has only resulted in ressurecting several zombies and cursing a nearby childcare centre. It's a process that involves a lot of fine tuning.
That is me, myself and I, although I do not usually refer to myself in triplicate. Short on height but high on skill (occasionally) I am the one and only frolfer to have not suffered the loss of an Aerobie into the clutches of the dreaded creek, and having just jinxed myself with that statement I shall expect to lose one in the near future. Hell, I won't be surprised if the creek shows up at my front door to requisition it (actually I will, how the hell does a body of water make it all the way to my door? Baffling). Nickname derived from my attemps at using voodoo to enhance my frolfing skill. So far it has only resulted in ressurecting several zombies and cursing a nearby childcare centre. It's a process that involves a lot of fine tuning.'Tightrope' Tim Vella
No photograph available
No photograph available
Ever elusive of the camera's lens, some people have suggested that he is nothing more than a ghost of a frolf player long since passed. Admittedly, most of those people are the ones that have been inhaling butane on the swing set for the past hour. Know as tightrope as he is constantly waking the fine line between "highly skilled" and "drug cheat". While there has been no rock solid evidence either way, I shall keep slipping performance enhancing drugs into his food until someone catches him and puts an end to his immoral and unsportsman like behaviour.
'Raging' Ross Warner
Contrary to what this picture might suggest to you, on the course his anger and agression knows no bounds. While this emotional instability can provide an added edge to his game, it also harbours unpredictable results. Seven dogwalkers, three small children (one was fat) and one shifty looking tree have incurred the wrath of a Ross who feels he has suffered an unfair penalty or produced a sub-par throw. But as they were far to honoured to have been physically assaulted by frolfing royalty, not chargers were laid.
The wildcard of the bunch. An enigma, wrapped in a t-shirt and shorts, holding a frisbee. Calm and collected one second, firing a shotgun into the air the next (where the shotgun came from, nobody knows). This unpredictability is probably what has made him the most frequent winner. Either that or he made a deal with the devil. Oddly enough though, the nickname has nothing to do with his wild nature though. Instead originating from the time he unexpectedly mauled a passer by in the middle of a game. But after we pushed the injured man into the creek and made him get his rabies shot, many laughs were had.
Contrary to what this picture might suggest to you, on the course his anger and agression knows no bounds. While this emotional instability can provide an added edge to his game, it also harbours unpredictable results. Seven dogwalkers, three small children (one was fat) and one shifty looking tree have incurred the wrath of a Ross who feels he has suffered an unfair penalty or produced a sub-par throw. But as they were far to honoured to have been physically assaulted by frolfing royalty, not chargers were laid.Brendan 'Mad Dog' Murdoch
The wildcard of the bunch. An enigma, wrapped in a t-shirt and shorts, holding a frisbee. Calm and collected one second, firing a shotgun into the air the next (where the shotgun came from, nobody knows). This unpredictability is probably what has made him the most frequent winner. Either that or he made a deal with the devil. Oddly enough though, the nickname has nothing to do with his wild nature though. Instead originating from the time he unexpectedly mauled a passer by in the middle of a game. But after we pushed the injured man into the creek and made him get his rabies shot, many laughs were had.Hayden 'Hangman' Brake
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The newbie of the group. The amatuer, he's green as grass and needs to step up and prove to us that we haven't made a mistake allowing him join the league. With his first game tomorrow, his entire frolfing future is about to be judged, with us taunting and mocking him all the way. If he performs well, there will be rapturous applause, high fives and possibly the gift of a Chupa-Chup. If he fails he gets hanged from a tree (hence the nickname). Hey, frolf is a cut throat game, and he knows the risk he's getting himself into...actually we haven't told him, but i'm sure he'll be cool with it.
Well that's it folks, I have enlightened your lives by educating you on the wonderful world of frolf (not to be confused with Disney, although that's a pretty hard mistake to make. Seriously, how stupid are you?). Now I shall let you all sit back in envy, as we refuse to allow you to play. So we're frolf snobs, deal with it.
Well that's it folks, I have enlightened your lives by educating you on the wonderful world of frolf (not to be confused with Disney, although that's a pretty hard mistake to make. Seriously, how stupid are you?). Now I shall let you all sit back in envy, as we refuse to allow you to play. So we're frolf snobs, deal with it.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Even the undead need to exercise
People, the moment you have all been waiting for has arrived! It's time to put a stop to those pesky heart beats, develop a good case of rigor mortis and open up some of those good old-fashioned gangrenous flesh wounds. It is time for THE FIRST ANNUAL BRISBANE ZOMBIE WALK!!!
I know what you people are like. I know many of you sleep contently in your beds at night, your minds filled with dreams of living the glamourous zombie lifestyle: You shuffle mindlessly down the deserted road of a nameless suburban city as tumbleweeds and newspaper blow across your path, yet the decaying flesh peeling from your face remains oddly still. You chuckle to yourself inside your slightly functioning zombie mind, happy in the knowledge that you zombies do not conform to the mere pressures of north-westerly gale-force winds. Your zombie bretheren surround you as you continue along the road without direction, seeing as the earlier game of rock, paper, scissors had cause the loss of too many decomposed hands. Suddenly you here a noise from a nearby alleyway, and the scent of delicious human wafts into where you nose used to be before it fell off. You and your zombie clan turn to each other - the head falling off one who tried to pivot far to enthusiastically - and you moan and grunt directions at each other. After realising that none of you actually understand the meaning of the incoherent noises, you progress towards the alley anyway, just in time to see a small group cliched human stereotypes come racing out. You limp after the sprinting humans without quickening your plodding pace and, despite the protests made by the laws of physics, you continue to steadily gain on them. You get closer, closer to your goal of cracking open their skulls and feasting on the gooey mess inside. You are so close you can almost taste, and then...
...and then you wake up. Your dreams of undead happiness dashed by that cursed alarm clock. Yet the hunger for brains still lingers...You meander down the stairs, moaning as you wipe the sleep out of your eyes. Your significant other is already in the kitchen, and they smile at you as you enter, "you seemed to be enjoying the dream you were having an awful lot". Suddenly you are seeing them in a whole new light, and you cannot take your eyes off their head. You are inexplicably drawn to it, the thought of it's contents . They notice you staring and start feeling self conscious. "Oh, umm..." you struggle for a feeble cover story, "your hair looks nice this morning". The worried look is immediately replaced by another smile "Well, thankyou. Now what would you like for breakfast?" A grin creeps across your face as you pull a meat tenderiser out of the drawer.....
As I said, I know what you're all like, and you're creepy as all hell you cannibalistic bastards!! I'm most certainly not inviting you to any of my tupperware parties, that's for sure. But this zombie walk is for you twisted people to have your chance to get out that fancy zombie attire you've been saving for that special occasion and wander yourselves around the Brisbane CBD. The devouring of peoples brains is optional.
As for me, I am unsure if i will be participating. Being the perfectionist I am, the only way I would take part is if I was actually brutally slain and subsequently ressurected. It's called Method Acting, bitches!
I know what you people are like. I know many of you sleep contently in your beds at night, your minds filled with dreams of living the glamourous zombie lifestyle: You shuffle mindlessly down the deserted road of a nameless suburban city as tumbleweeds and newspaper blow across your path, yet the decaying flesh peeling from your face remains oddly still. You chuckle to yourself inside your slightly functioning zombie mind, happy in the knowledge that you zombies do not conform to the mere pressures of north-westerly gale-force winds. Your zombie bretheren surround you as you continue along the road without direction, seeing as the earlier game of rock, paper, scissors had cause the loss of too many decomposed hands. Suddenly you here a noise from a nearby alleyway, and the scent of delicious human wafts into where you nose used to be before it fell off. You and your zombie clan turn to each other - the head falling off one who tried to pivot far to enthusiastically - and you moan and grunt directions at each other. After realising that none of you actually understand the meaning of the incoherent noises, you progress towards the alley anyway, just in time to see a small group cliched human stereotypes come racing out. You limp after the sprinting humans without quickening your plodding pace and, despite the protests made by the laws of physics, you continue to steadily gain on them. You get closer, closer to your goal of cracking open their skulls and feasting on the gooey mess inside. You are so close you can almost taste, and then...
...and then you wake up. Your dreams of undead happiness dashed by that cursed alarm clock. Yet the hunger for brains still lingers...You meander down the stairs, moaning as you wipe the sleep out of your eyes. Your significant other is already in the kitchen, and they smile at you as you enter, "you seemed to be enjoying the dream you were having an awful lot". Suddenly you are seeing them in a whole new light, and you cannot take your eyes off their head. You are inexplicably drawn to it, the thought of it's contents . They notice you staring and start feeling self conscious. "Oh, umm..." you struggle for a feeble cover story, "your hair looks nice this morning". The worried look is immediately replaced by another smile "Well, thankyou. Now what would you like for breakfast?" A grin creeps across your face as you pull a meat tenderiser out of the drawer.....
As I said, I know what you're all like, and you're creepy as all hell you cannibalistic bastards!! I'm most certainly not inviting you to any of my tupperware parties, that's for sure. But this zombie walk is for you twisted people to have your chance to get out that fancy zombie attire you've been saving for that special occasion and wander yourselves around the Brisbane CBD. The devouring of peoples brains is optional.
As for me, I am unsure if i will be participating. Being the perfectionist I am, the only way I would take part is if I was actually brutally slain and subsequently ressurected. It's called Method Acting, bitches!
Monday, March 13, 2006
The dangers of phenanigib
Phenanigib (n): The act of committing shenanigans while intoxicated.
Everyone loves to have a social drink or two, or three, or several dozen. Or at least most people do, I suppose recovering alcoholics probably wouldn't (or maybe they'd just enjoy it a little too much). Regardless, you must take heed of my warnings my friends, as I have come to warn you of the consequences of when phenanigib goes wrong.
Now I wholeheartedly respect phenanigib, and it can be a thoroughly enjoyable part of any drunken evening, but if an evening leads to entirely unexpected and impromptu phenanigib the results can be disastrous. So sit down in front of the campfire and prepare your marshmallows and various small mammals for roasting, as I tell you a cautionary tale for the ages...
The story begins on a fine Saturday just passed, where a plan to head up to the Sunshine Coast for some dinner on the beach with my mate, his girlfriend and a couple of her friends was in place. Sounds splendid doesn't it? Beach & food, what a combination. We also thought that we might split a six-pack of beers between us. Still sounding pretty good isn't it? A few relaxing beers and just hanging out on a beach listening to the sound of the ocean, the makings of a top evening. All we had to do was meet up with another one of our mates beforehand as he was to come along also. Now here's where the tide began to turn. Upon meeting him at his work, a workmate of his was added to our group also, and suddenly the idea of getting a six-pack suddenly changed to "how 'bout we split a carton?" Somehow none of us saw anything illogical in that concept, so a pilgrimage to a bottle shop was made and the money-for-beer transaction was done. Now, with all of us males now drinking it was left to the girls to drive, one of them behind the wheel of my mates car. What were we thinking to have these girls now chauffering us when these beer drinking plans had arisen out of nowhere? Well I think it's obvious that we weren't, the beer was already affecting our brains without even needing to ingest any of it.
So we ventured to the beach, we ate our food, and we consumed our beers (probably too quickly for anyone's own good). By the end of this the sun had set and us mere males had reached a state of mild intoxication. Now this is the portion of the story where it would have been just splendid if someone, anyone, had been willing to pipe up with an "ok, let's head home now", but sadly it seemed that kind of rational decision making was beyond any of us. Instead we decided to head to my mates house on the coast to hang out for a while. This would have been a fine end to the night if not for the next thing, which sealed the fates of all involved. With the two cars driving off, one full of the three guys besides myself and my mates girlfriend, the second with me and the other two girls. Then can number one turned off the road, and it dawned on me immediately where it was going. As the girls questioned "where are they going?" all I could respond with was "oh dear god, they're going to the bottle shop to get another carton." It was all over from there. Sure we should have been about to stop ourselves, but our already alcohol-induced lack of self control combined with what horrible influences we are on each other when together pretty much made that an impossibility.
From this point on more alcohol was consumed, and much phenanigib ensued, and listing it all would take more time than I have. It's not to say we did anything particularly bad, it was just your typical stupid drunken antics. But if I put myself in the position of 3 sober girls, I'm almost certain they become far more annoying. Especially when - although everytime we asked they denied it - I have a feeling they wanted to be gone (and i think they had envisioned their night ending in some kind of girls' night for them). The one defence I can mount is that we repeatedly said to them "Do you want to leave? Just say the word and we're out of here. And remember, give the honest answer, not the polite answer that you think we want to hear." And we meant it too. There's nothing more annoying than asking a girl something looking for an honest answer only to receive whatever answer they think you want (which usually later ends in the female getting mad at you at a later point for not being able to read her mind). In fact if there was ever any relationship advice I could give to a girl, it would be to not do that.
All in all though, apart from the fact that we caused 3 girls to most likely start plotting our deaths, or at least make voodoo dolls of us to be used as some form of supernatural retribution, we couldn't help but enjoy ourselves that night (and for the record my mates girlfriend claimed she wasn't mad at him that night and said she was sorry if it had seemed that way, but can you ever be sure if it's true?). That's not too say we didn't feel guilty about it the next morning. Oh dear god did we feel guilty. Quite frankly we found it horrifically amusing. If it was something that had happened to anyone else it would have just been a dose of good, old-fashioned hilarity. But as we were the stars of this terrible/comical farce, we were simultaneously laughing as we remember dodginess after dodginess, while at the same time being on the verge of breaking down at what horrible people we were. That's the thing with phenanigib though, while the morning after may bring interesting developments, it is always fun at the time. Always.
And my apologies do go out to the girls, who I am currently hiding from under the safety of my bed, armed with nothing more than a loaf of bread (I have no clue on how to defend myself). Hahaha, man how they must hate us...
Everyone loves to have a social drink or two, or three, or several dozen. Or at least most people do, I suppose recovering alcoholics probably wouldn't (or maybe they'd just enjoy it a little too much). Regardless, you must take heed of my warnings my friends, as I have come to warn you of the consequences of when phenanigib goes wrong.
Now I wholeheartedly respect phenanigib, and it can be a thoroughly enjoyable part of any drunken evening, but if an evening leads to entirely unexpected and impromptu phenanigib the results can be disastrous. So sit down in front of the campfire and prepare your marshmallows and various small mammals for roasting, as I tell you a cautionary tale for the ages...
The story begins on a fine Saturday just passed, where a plan to head up to the Sunshine Coast for some dinner on the beach with my mate, his girlfriend and a couple of her friends was in place. Sounds splendid doesn't it? Beach & food, what a combination. We also thought that we might split a six-pack of beers between us. Still sounding pretty good isn't it? A few relaxing beers and just hanging out on a beach listening to the sound of the ocean, the makings of a top evening. All we had to do was meet up with another one of our mates beforehand as he was to come along also. Now here's where the tide began to turn. Upon meeting him at his work, a workmate of his was added to our group also, and suddenly the idea of getting a six-pack suddenly changed to "how 'bout we split a carton?" Somehow none of us saw anything illogical in that concept, so a pilgrimage to a bottle shop was made and the money-for-beer transaction was done. Now, with all of us males now drinking it was left to the girls to drive, one of them behind the wheel of my mates car. What were we thinking to have these girls now chauffering us when these beer drinking plans had arisen out of nowhere? Well I think it's obvious that we weren't, the beer was already affecting our brains without even needing to ingest any of it.
So we ventured to the beach, we ate our food, and we consumed our beers (probably too quickly for anyone's own good). By the end of this the sun had set and us mere males had reached a state of mild intoxication. Now this is the portion of the story where it would have been just splendid if someone, anyone, had been willing to pipe up with an "ok, let's head home now", but sadly it seemed that kind of rational decision making was beyond any of us. Instead we decided to head to my mates house on the coast to hang out for a while. This would have been a fine end to the night if not for the next thing, which sealed the fates of all involved. With the two cars driving off, one full of the three guys besides myself and my mates girlfriend, the second with me and the other two girls. Then can number one turned off the road, and it dawned on me immediately where it was going. As the girls questioned "where are they going?" all I could respond with was "oh dear god, they're going to the bottle shop to get another carton." It was all over from there. Sure we should have been about to stop ourselves, but our already alcohol-induced lack of self control combined with what horrible influences we are on each other when together pretty much made that an impossibility.
From this point on more alcohol was consumed, and much phenanigib ensued, and listing it all would take more time than I have. It's not to say we did anything particularly bad, it was just your typical stupid drunken antics. But if I put myself in the position of 3 sober girls, I'm almost certain they become far more annoying. Especially when - although everytime we asked they denied it - I have a feeling they wanted to be gone (and i think they had envisioned their night ending in some kind of girls' night for them). The one defence I can mount is that we repeatedly said to them "Do you want to leave? Just say the word and we're out of here. And remember, give the honest answer, not the polite answer that you think we want to hear." And we meant it too. There's nothing more annoying than asking a girl something looking for an honest answer only to receive whatever answer they think you want (which usually later ends in the female getting mad at you at a later point for not being able to read her mind). In fact if there was ever any relationship advice I could give to a girl, it would be to not do that.
All in all though, apart from the fact that we caused 3 girls to most likely start plotting our deaths, or at least make voodoo dolls of us to be used as some form of supernatural retribution, we couldn't help but enjoy ourselves that night (and for the record my mates girlfriend claimed she wasn't mad at him that night and said she was sorry if it had seemed that way, but can you ever be sure if it's true?). That's not too say we didn't feel guilty about it the next morning. Oh dear god did we feel guilty. Quite frankly we found it horrifically amusing. If it was something that had happened to anyone else it would have just been a dose of good, old-fashioned hilarity. But as we were the stars of this terrible/comical farce, we were simultaneously laughing as we remember dodginess after dodginess, while at the same time being on the verge of breaking down at what horrible people we were. That's the thing with phenanigib though, while the morning after may bring interesting developments, it is always fun at the time. Always.
And my apologies do go out to the girls, who I am currently hiding from under the safety of my bed, armed with nothing more than a loaf of bread (I have no clue on how to defend myself). Hahaha, man how they must hate us...
Monday, March 06, 2006
An uneventful tale of non-existent proportions
All you astute readers out there (read: no one) may have noticed that it has been a while between posts for me. I know the questions must be racing through your head like the roadrunner on speed: "was he kidnapped?", "should I be watching the news for reports of his mutilated body being discovered in a field of barley?", "if I'm supposed to believe it's not butter, then what the fuck is it?". Well calm down you inquisitive youngsters, those kind of questions are going to wind up getting you killed.
Truth be told, the lack of posting has been due to a lack of anything to post about. I live a boring life, as opposed to an exciting death which, according to Corpse Bride, is a distinct possibility. I mean if animated movies aren't factual documentaries to guide your existince, then I don't know what they are.
I don't know why people would ever dream of living a life where they just stay home all day and not work, it really is the most dull and unfulfilling existance. Sure it's fine for a couple of weeks, when it's holidays from something like uni or work, that you know you will eventually have to go back to. In that situation you actually appreciate the free time. But when you're done with uni and your continual job search remains unsuccessful, the novelty of sitting around twiddling your thumbs and whistling a jaunty tune just wears off. Yes, I get to sleep in every morning, but it has reached the point where I do it purely because if I wake up earlier it just leaves me with more time with nothing to do. The lack of money that goes hand in hand with the whole lack of job thing certainly doesn't help. As if I want to keep getting money off Centrelink the whole time. Call me crazy but I actually want to do something to earn me some gold dubloons, or possibly a currency that is more widely accepted throughout Australia.
That be the downside of doing a degree that doesn't lead you straight into a job though, and attempting to get into an industry where virtually every job asks for at least 2 years experience, experience I can't get cause no one will hire me. Talk about a bloody catch 22, damn hippies. Yes all businesses are run by hippies, it makes perfect sense and is not an oxymoron what so ever.
Anyways, now that I am done with my rant about having a completely uninteresting life, I shall move on. This coming Friday I am going to an Alkaline Trio gig, which should be good. Sadly though, they are one of those bands I like that will undoubtedly attract the tried and true crowd of sad little tryhard emo/goths (they are more of a punk band really, but there's that side to them. I just like the music, fuck the image) with their carefully applied eyeliner tears, styled hair treated with black Loreal hair dye, and their diverse appreciation of the colour spectrum showcased by their clothing in various shades of black. What a display of angst it will be, and personally I can't wait...to do my best to avoid them. I do like to challenge myself after all.
Truth be told, the lack of posting has been due to a lack of anything to post about. I live a boring life, as opposed to an exciting death which, according to Corpse Bride, is a distinct possibility. I mean if animated movies aren't factual documentaries to guide your existince, then I don't know what they are.
I don't know why people would ever dream of living a life where they just stay home all day and not work, it really is the most dull and unfulfilling existance. Sure it's fine for a couple of weeks, when it's holidays from something like uni or work, that you know you will eventually have to go back to. In that situation you actually appreciate the free time. But when you're done with uni and your continual job search remains unsuccessful, the novelty of sitting around twiddling your thumbs and whistling a jaunty tune just wears off. Yes, I get to sleep in every morning, but it has reached the point where I do it purely because if I wake up earlier it just leaves me with more time with nothing to do. The lack of money that goes hand in hand with the whole lack of job thing certainly doesn't help. As if I want to keep getting money off Centrelink the whole time. Call me crazy but I actually want to do something to earn me some gold dubloons, or possibly a currency that is more widely accepted throughout Australia.
That be the downside of doing a degree that doesn't lead you straight into a job though, and attempting to get into an industry where virtually every job asks for at least 2 years experience, experience I can't get cause no one will hire me. Talk about a bloody catch 22, damn hippies. Yes all businesses are run by hippies, it makes perfect sense and is not an oxymoron what so ever.
Anyways, now that I am done with my rant about having a completely uninteresting life, I shall move on. This coming Friday I am going to an Alkaline Trio gig, which should be good. Sadly though, they are one of those bands I like that will undoubtedly attract the tried and true crowd of sad little tryhard emo/goths (they are more of a punk band really, but there's that side to them. I just like the music, fuck the image) with their carefully applied eyeliner tears, styled hair treated with black Loreal hair dye, and their diverse appreciation of the colour spectrum showcased by their clothing in various shades of black. What a display of angst it will be, and personally I can't wait...to do my best to avoid them. I do like to challenge myself after all.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Can I jump out of the cake yet?
Yesterday, due to the continual forward momentum the passage of time follows, I aged another year. Well I don't mean that I aged an entire year over the course of 24 hours; that would require some kind of wormhole in space. Or socery. Either way I know nothing relating to the manipulation of both. What I mean is that yesterday was that annual celebration (though some people would dispute it being a cause for celebration) of my birth.
I turned 22, on the 20/2, and the time of my birth was 2:22pm. That's an awful lot of twos, and I've take it as a sign that I am going to be killed by a set of identical twins. It seems like the most logical conclusion to come to. This leaves me with no choice but to be suspicious of every single set of identical twins I ever meet. So if you are an identical twin, and you run into me and I hurl bricks and obscenities at you I apologise in advance. By that point I'm fairly certain my paranoia will have driven me insane and I won't be able to be held accountable for my actions.
Turning 22 is really a non-event birthday. You went all wacky the year before, got drunk and spent half an hour wrestling with a hammock, so really the next year is just the wind-down. That's why yesterday was almost entirely uneventful. I say "almost" because there was ice cream cake at one point, and who the hell doesn't love ice cream cake? Well, lactose intolerant people I guess, but I ask you, are lactose intolerant people really people at all? Think about it.
I turned 22, on the 20/2, and the time of my birth was 2:22pm. That's an awful lot of twos, and I've take it as a sign that I am going to be killed by a set of identical twins. It seems like the most logical conclusion to come to. This leaves me with no choice but to be suspicious of every single set of identical twins I ever meet. So if you are an identical twin, and you run into me and I hurl bricks and obscenities at you I apologise in advance. By that point I'm fairly certain my paranoia will have driven me insane and I won't be able to be held accountable for my actions.
Turning 22 is really a non-event birthday. You went all wacky the year before, got drunk and spent half an hour wrestling with a hammock, so really the next year is just the wind-down. That's why yesterday was almost entirely uneventful. I say "almost" because there was ice cream cake at one point, and who the hell doesn't love ice cream cake? Well, lactose intolerant people I guess, but I ask you, are lactose intolerant people really people at all? Think about it.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Tap dancing into oblivion
Gene Kelly did it in the rain, it helped the Von-Trapps survive Word War II, and gang warfare on the west-side streets of New York City was plagued with it. So if it's good enough for them it should be good enough for me. That's right: I wish my life was a musical.
Growing up in a childhood filled with Disney's animated musicals, the Genie from Aladdin was right, I had never had a friend like him. But I'll be damned if I didn't want one. It had nothing to do with his ability to grant wished or the plethora of PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWERS he possessed, and everything to do with his habit of randomly breaking into over-the-top musical numbers filled with fireworks, wild animals and chorus lines. That is exactly what I wanted my life to be like, but sadly, being the uncoordinated child I was, all my attempts at breaking into impromptu song and dance numbers just ended in me falling over, hitting my head on the pool table and retreating to my bedroom in tears.
Where did it all go wrong? Why have I been unable to live a life where spontaneous dance routines breaking out on street corners and shopping malls are a common occurence, and I narrate my life's events through song? The Scarecrow didn't have a brain and The Tin Man didn't have a heart, yet they managed it fine. I have both, so shouldn't my life be twice as musical as theirs?
I blame this lack of a melody-infused existence on how I was raised. I was never fortunate enough to have a nanny float to my door clutching her umbrella and sing to me about then benifits of mixing sugar with your medicine. In fact, I never had a nanny at all. I was doomed from the beginning! Not to mention I had to endure a lifetime full of foul-tasting medicines.
Is it too late to start myself along a yellow brick road towards a musical life? I think not. I know that every person I pass on the street is just itching to break into the surprisingly well choreographed song and dance that somehow everybody knows, all they are waiting for is me to start things off. After all it is my life, they're just the backup. So I'll visit Chicago if I have to. I'll get myself some Cats and I'll start paying Rent. One way or another I'm going to start living the way I should be, and that's the Broadway. Now where's my top hat and cane?
Growing up in a childhood filled with Disney's animated musicals, the Genie from Aladdin was right, I had never had a friend like him. But I'll be damned if I didn't want one. It had nothing to do with his ability to grant wished or the plethora of PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWERS he possessed, and everything to do with his habit of randomly breaking into over-the-top musical numbers filled with fireworks, wild animals and chorus lines. That is exactly what I wanted my life to be like, but sadly, being the uncoordinated child I was, all my attempts at breaking into impromptu song and dance numbers just ended in me falling over, hitting my head on the pool table and retreating to my bedroom in tears.
Where did it all go wrong? Why have I been unable to live a life where spontaneous dance routines breaking out on street corners and shopping malls are a common occurence, and I narrate my life's events through song? The Scarecrow didn't have a brain and The Tin Man didn't have a heart, yet they managed it fine. I have both, so shouldn't my life be twice as musical as theirs?
I blame this lack of a melody-infused existence on how I was raised. I was never fortunate enough to have a nanny float to my door clutching her umbrella and sing to me about then benifits of mixing sugar with your medicine. In fact, I never had a nanny at all. I was doomed from the beginning! Not to mention I had to endure a lifetime full of foul-tasting medicines.
Is it too late to start myself along a yellow brick road towards a musical life? I think not. I know that every person I pass on the street is just itching to break into the surprisingly well choreographed song and dance that somehow everybody knows, all they are waiting for is me to start things off. After all it is my life, they're just the backup. So I'll visit Chicago if I have to. I'll get myself some Cats and I'll start paying Rent. One way or another I'm going to start living the way I should be, and that's the Broadway. Now where's my top hat and cane?
Friday, February 17, 2006
The top 5 reasons why I'm not a REAL man
1. Cars, and my lack of knowledge and interest in anything remotely associated with them. My car moves, it gets me from point A to any other letter of the alphabet I require getting to. How it achieves this marvel of modern science is completely irrelevant to me. There may be a group of athletic midgets running on wheels under my bonnet for all I know or care, although if that was the case I would probably be much more interested. It's not my fault that when anything relating to the topic is brought up in conversation it sends me spiralling towards a coma, it's a medical condition I swear. And all you car lovers out there, feel free to laugh at me when you drive past me weeping over the bonet of my broken down car on the side of the highway.
2. If you ever utter the phrase "howdy sportsfan", you can rest assured it wasn't directed at me. It's not that I don't like sports at all, but I only have a mild interest. I keep up with who wins in things like the cricket and footy, and I'll watch major matches like Origin and the Finals, but if I otherwise watch an entire match it is most likely because I've been immobilised by a hangover. I can guarantee I will never be the one in the crowd at the cricket drunk and sporting a painted on jersey. I mean I might be drunk, but I'd be the one arguing which Marvel comic characters would make up the best cricket team. I'm pathetically geeky like that.
3. I've watched Gilmore Girls, and I've enjoyed it.
4. I have absolutely no porn on my computer. Not only does that go against me being a manly man, but also an internet geek. Just where the hell do I fit in? Some kind of free range wildlife park maybe? It not like I haven't seen it, let's face it, if you've got the internet you can't avoid it. It just kinda freaks me out. It's mostly a combination of slimy and angry, and if i wanted to see a camera zoomed in that closely on a vagina I'd go watch a fibre-optic cervix exam. Do those things even exist? Anyways, the fact remains that I have better things to do with 30 gig of my hard drive space. Who needs that much porn anyway?
5. I have sat in a room and watched Dirty Dancing with 3 girls. The jury is still out, but it might be the most immasculating moment of my life. My penis is yet to forgive me for the extensive exposure to Patrick Swayze in pants so tight they defy the laws of physics.
2. If you ever utter the phrase "howdy sportsfan", you can rest assured it wasn't directed at me. It's not that I don't like sports at all, but I only have a mild interest. I keep up with who wins in things like the cricket and footy, and I'll watch major matches like Origin and the Finals, but if I otherwise watch an entire match it is most likely because I've been immobilised by a hangover. I can guarantee I will never be the one in the crowd at the cricket drunk and sporting a painted on jersey. I mean I might be drunk, but I'd be the one arguing which Marvel comic characters would make up the best cricket team. I'm pathetically geeky like that.
3. I've watched Gilmore Girls, and I've enjoyed it.
4. I have absolutely no porn on my computer. Not only does that go against me being a manly man, but also an internet geek. Just where the hell do I fit in? Some kind of free range wildlife park maybe? It not like I haven't seen it, let's face it, if you've got the internet you can't avoid it. It just kinda freaks me out. It's mostly a combination of slimy and angry, and if i wanted to see a camera zoomed in that closely on a vagina I'd go watch a fibre-optic cervix exam. Do those things even exist? Anyways, the fact remains that I have better things to do with 30 gig of my hard drive space. Who needs that much porn anyway?
5. I have sat in a room and watched Dirty Dancing with 3 girls. The jury is still out, but it might be the most immasculating moment of my life. My penis is yet to forgive me for the extensive exposure to Patrick Swayze in pants so tight they defy the laws of physics.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Too much Hoff can make you gassy
Well here we are with another one of The Hoff's (a.k.a "Australia's Favourite Son") entirely non-sensical Pepsi ads. While the last one managed to rock my socks off, this one has just left me feeling baffled, befuddled and slightly flummoxed. Not to mention just a little bit gay. I've been staring at the picture for hours hoping for some form of rational explanation regarding the conception of this ad to burst forth like a Magic Eye image. Sadly my search remains fruitless, and lacking any other form of produce for that matter. Where's the link between The Hoff on a tyre swing, in a scene that would not appear out of place in a Wham! film clip, and drinking Pepsi? Even the look on his face suggests that he is equally surprised and confused (but none the less, slightly aroused) with what the hell is going on.
Monday, February 13, 2006
The Cool, Refreshing taste of Hoff
I don't really think much needs to be said about this picture. It makes no sense and is totally awesome. And the way that Pepsi is spraying out, well...let's just say it suggests a correlation between pepsi and extreme virility. What I find most interesting about this picture is that it's from an Australian Pepsi ad campaign. Did our country adopt Hoff at some point and I just missed the memo? I certainly have no problem if we did, but I am worried that it will start a war with Germany.
Cool Runnings!
Do you think Bobsledding and the Luge were created by people living in arctic temperatures who were just jealous over the fact that all there warterslide park ventures had proven unsuccessful?
"Ok Sven, this whole 'Wet 'n' Wild' idea doesn't seem to be panning out"
"Hmm...what about 'Frostbitten and Disoriented'?"
"Sven, you're a genius!"
Haven't made a post in a few days because, well, there's been nothing to tell. At the moment the life of a corpse is more interesting than my own. At least if you're a corpse there's always the possibility of being raised from the dead and going on a very slow-paced brain-eating rampage. Man, the undead sure do have the life...actually I guess technically they don't.
I'm sure everyone knows about all the insanity surrounding that published cartoon that all the Muslim extremist are up in arms about. You'd have to be living under a rock to not know, and even in that case it wouldn't be long before that rock was picked up and thrown at a Danish embassy. The debates have been raging, and of course the generalisations have been made regarding all Muslims, rather than just the extremists that have been engaging in all the fun kidnapping and violent games. Honestly, why couldn't they just write an angry letter to the editor? Some people need to realise that every major religion in the world is always going to be a target of jokes (without religion I'm pretty sure a large portion of the stand-up comedy would die in the arse), so while everyone has the right to be offended and angry at something, a joke can never be grounds for violent attacks...though that definately would make stand-up clubs far more interesting.
But I digress. I was more bringing this up because i was reading today that - acting on the age-old foundation of 'but they started it' - one of the major Iranian newspapers has started up a competition encouraging people to send in their best Holocaust cartoons. Now if that's not a mature and level-headed way of handling things then I don't know what is. You'd think it would make more sense if they were encouraging cartoons based upon all the other major religious figures rather than the mass slaughter of Jews in World War II, but hey, the same article told me that Iran's president has also claimed that the Holocaust is actually just a 'myth' used to justify the creation of Israel, so logic doesn't seem to be high up on the list of priorities there. Plus jokes about Jesus have been done to the death...then resurrected 3 days later. Ooh, now that was just plain bad. I'm now expecting riots based purely on the quality of that joke.
"Ok Sven, this whole 'Wet 'n' Wild' idea doesn't seem to be panning out"
"Hmm...what about 'Frostbitten and Disoriented'?"
"Sven, you're a genius!"
Haven't made a post in a few days because, well, there's been nothing to tell. At the moment the life of a corpse is more interesting than my own. At least if you're a corpse there's always the possibility of being raised from the dead and going on a very slow-paced brain-eating rampage. Man, the undead sure do have the life...actually I guess technically they don't.
I'm sure everyone knows about all the insanity surrounding that published cartoon that all the Muslim extremist are up in arms about. You'd have to be living under a rock to not know, and even in that case it wouldn't be long before that rock was picked up and thrown at a Danish embassy. The debates have been raging, and of course the generalisations have been made regarding all Muslims, rather than just the extremists that have been engaging in all the fun kidnapping and violent games. Honestly, why couldn't they just write an angry letter to the editor? Some people need to realise that every major religion in the world is always going to be a target of jokes (without religion I'm pretty sure a large portion of the stand-up comedy would die in the arse), so while everyone has the right to be offended and angry at something, a joke can never be grounds for violent attacks...though that definately would make stand-up clubs far more interesting.
But I digress. I was more bringing this up because i was reading today that - acting on the age-old foundation of 'but they started it' - one of the major Iranian newspapers has started up a competition encouraging people to send in their best Holocaust cartoons. Now if that's not a mature and level-headed way of handling things then I don't know what is. You'd think it would make more sense if they were encouraging cartoons based upon all the other major religious figures rather than the mass slaughter of Jews in World War II, but hey, the same article told me that Iran's president has also claimed that the Holocaust is actually just a 'myth' used to justify the creation of Israel, so logic doesn't seem to be high up on the list of priorities there. Plus jokes about Jesus have been done to the death...then resurrected 3 days later. Ooh, now that was just plain bad. I'm now expecting riots based purely on the quality of that joke.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Shooting a man just to watch him die?...Now THAT's entertainment
Last night I attended me one of those moving picture shows that everyone raves about these days, to see 'Walk The Line', the Johnny Cash biopic. The verdict: I say quite good. Sure it adhered to the strict and predictable biopic formula, but it did it well, the performances were strong and not only did Reese Witherspoon prove she actually is talented, she also showed that in the right light and as a brunette, she can look surprisingly attractive. As opposed to typically having that evil look on her face that leads my to believe she'd stab you, light you on fire and steal your shoes if you turned your back.
I also enjoyed the music in the film and it's got me wanting to listen to a lot more Johnny Cash. That's right, I'm a shameless bandwagon jumper and I see no problem with that. If it takes a major motion picture based on a singer/songwriter's life to open my ears to their music, then so be it. The only real problem I had with the film, which - after also watching 'Ray' today - is moreso a problem with the genre than the film itself, is that the ending can't help but feel abrupt. But it can't be an easy thing deciding exactly where to bring a movie on someone's life to a close. So taking that into account, I find it hard to imagine a better moment to end it on. Unless of course there was a moment in Johnny Cash's life where he beat up godzilla with nothing but his bare fists. I think something like that would have been far more widely publicised though.
'Mortal Kombat: Annihilation' was on TV last night and my god was it dodgy. I'm still trying to decide whether it was the best or worst movie I've seen in years.
I also enjoyed the music in the film and it's got me wanting to listen to a lot more Johnny Cash. That's right, I'm a shameless bandwagon jumper and I see no problem with that. If it takes a major motion picture based on a singer/songwriter's life to open my ears to their music, then so be it. The only real problem I had with the film, which - after also watching 'Ray' today - is moreso a problem with the genre than the film itself, is that the ending can't help but feel abrupt. But it can't be an easy thing deciding exactly where to bring a movie on someone's life to a close. So taking that into account, I find it hard to imagine a better moment to end it on. Unless of course there was a moment in Johnny Cash's life where he beat up godzilla with nothing but his bare fists. I think something like that would have been far more widely publicised though.
'Mortal Kombat: Annihilation' was on TV last night and my god was it dodgy. I'm still trying to decide whether it was the best or worst movie I've seen in years.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Farewells, Futons and Felonies
It's surprisingly easy to break into a house without anyone noticing.
Now before you go getting carried away, calling the police and having them kick down my door, pepper spray me in the face, bludgeon me with their nightsticks and arrest me, you need to understand some things first. So let's all take a deep breath and stop judging me. This is not some kind of confession of my illustrious career as the most notorious cat burgular in Paris. For one thing, I've never even been to Paris. Last night during the going away party for my friend that I attended, someone made the "brilliant" suggestion of heading out, something both me and my wallet were not in the mood for. I was quite content hanging out and drinking with friends at the house, but hey, I couldn't argue with the majority.
The amatuer criminal behaviour comes into play up returning from going out, where it was only me and two of my other friends as the group managed to get dispersed quite quickly upon making it out. Now we had returned to the first house as we needed to pick up our stuff that we had left there, with the words "i'm pretty sure one of the doors is unlocked" ringing in our heads. Either these words were an elaborate ruse to make us look the fools (which I can honestly think of easier methods of doing), or they were too drunk to have any idea what they were saying. Both are valid options. Suffice to say there was no unlocked doors, and seeing as the front window was open i decided to remove the screen and climb on in. While it seemed like a perfectly logical thing for me to do at the time, it didn't actually dawn on me until later that, seeing as the window faced the street, it would have been quite simple for someone to see us and call the cops. Ah hindsight, you serve me well. Having achieved my first count of breaking & entering for the night, we continued down the street to the next friends house where we were to be sleeping for the night, as there we many comfortable options of mattresses and fold out futons on offer. Again we were greeted by lock doors, and after getting over the fact that inanimate doors were acknowledging us with pleasantries, I found a back window that was open and thought to myself "why stop now with the felonies?". Obviously there are many logical and reasonable answers to that question, but I was having none of that at the time. So we made it in, and without waking any of the sleeping residents of the house either.
It's really quite disconcerting how simple it all was. Imagine if we actually had been theives? We could have been heading on our merry way drink driving down the highway with a futon inconspicuously tied to the top of the car. I need to tell them to be more wary of locking up their houses. It may not serve me well next time I need somewhere to sleep at 2:30 in the morning, but I guess I just have to make these sacrafices so they don't get robbed. How's that for chilvalry?
Now before you go getting carried away, calling the police and having them kick down my door, pepper spray me in the face, bludgeon me with their nightsticks and arrest me, you need to understand some things first. So let's all take a deep breath and stop judging me. This is not some kind of confession of my illustrious career as the most notorious cat burgular in Paris. For one thing, I've never even been to Paris. Last night during the going away party for my friend that I attended, someone made the "brilliant" suggestion of heading out, something both me and my wallet were not in the mood for. I was quite content hanging out and drinking with friends at the house, but hey, I couldn't argue with the majority.
The amatuer criminal behaviour comes into play up returning from going out, where it was only me and two of my other friends as the group managed to get dispersed quite quickly upon making it out. Now we had returned to the first house as we needed to pick up our stuff that we had left there, with the words "i'm pretty sure one of the doors is unlocked" ringing in our heads. Either these words were an elaborate ruse to make us look the fools (which I can honestly think of easier methods of doing), or they were too drunk to have any idea what they were saying. Both are valid options. Suffice to say there was no unlocked doors, and seeing as the front window was open i decided to remove the screen and climb on in. While it seemed like a perfectly logical thing for me to do at the time, it didn't actually dawn on me until later that, seeing as the window faced the street, it would have been quite simple for someone to see us and call the cops. Ah hindsight, you serve me well. Having achieved my first count of breaking & entering for the night, we continued down the street to the next friends house where we were to be sleeping for the night, as there we many comfortable options of mattresses and fold out futons on offer. Again we were greeted by lock doors, and after getting over the fact that inanimate doors were acknowledging us with pleasantries, I found a back window that was open and thought to myself "why stop now with the felonies?". Obviously there are many logical and reasonable answers to that question, but I was having none of that at the time. So we made it in, and without waking any of the sleeping residents of the house either.
It's really quite disconcerting how simple it all was. Imagine if we actually had been theives? We could have been heading on our merry way drink driving down the highway with a futon inconspicuously tied to the top of the car. I need to tell them to be more wary of locking up their houses. It may not serve me well next time I need somewhere to sleep at 2:30 in the morning, but I guess I just have to make these sacrafices so they don't get robbed. How's that for chilvalry?
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Sir, you're over the limit
Well it's the 4th post and I'm already drunk. A sign of future problems with alcoholism? You be the judge.
As I have the house to my own handsome self for the next few days, I had some people who I like to call my friends over this evening (they might not like it when I implicate them as part of my social circle, but that's their problem). There was poker playing, there was drinking and there was the listening of music. Prince is a shory but funky man. He reminds me of myself, except i lack the musical talent, and also the finely groomed facial hair.
A friend of mine has just discovered she has to leave for Switzerland on Tuesday. She's going for a year to be an Au Pair. It'll be an absolutely awesome experience for her (and I expect excruciatingly detailed reports of all the hot Swiss chicks she sees over there), but it is still very short notice. There was all these problems with her original - far more organised - plans of going over there, and now she has been left with very little notice of when she needs to be there. It has really left her with a small amount of time to come to terms with being away with everyone she cares about for a year, and honestly, I really haven't seen her recently as much as I would have liked to considering I won't be able to for the next 12 months. She is an absolutlely wonderful girl, and although admittedly we have only become close friends within the last 8 months or so, I still care about her dearly (in fact she is my future wife, according to thee vague agreement we came to under the condition that neither of us are married by the time we are 40).
So Eve, while - along with the rest of the world's population - you may not read this, I wish you the best of luck with your sexy Swiss experiences. I'm sure I will drunkenly say all of this to you tomorrow night, but you are an amazing girl, actually let me rephrase, an Amazingly Terrific (and dreamy) Woman, and you will be sorely missed in you absence. I'm lucky to know you, and you're lucky to know me (because let's face it, I'm a dreamboat) and I'd better hear from you frequently while you're gone. We're all gonna miss you, and we shall count the days until your triumphant return.
OK, well that's enough of me being an emotional, soppy bastard for now. To re-affirm my masculinity, I LIKE BOOBS, and steak. Well I'm done now, and custard pies are going out of fashion.
As I have the house to my own handsome self for the next few days, I had some people who I like to call my friends over this evening (they might not like it when I implicate them as part of my social circle, but that's their problem). There was poker playing, there was drinking and there was the listening of music. Prince is a shory but funky man. He reminds me of myself, except i lack the musical talent, and also the finely groomed facial hair.
A friend of mine has just discovered she has to leave for Switzerland on Tuesday. She's going for a year to be an Au Pair. It'll be an absolutely awesome experience for her (and I expect excruciatingly detailed reports of all the hot Swiss chicks she sees over there), but it is still very short notice. There was all these problems with her original - far more organised - plans of going over there, and now she has been left with very little notice of when she needs to be there. It has really left her with a small amount of time to come to terms with being away with everyone she cares about for a year, and honestly, I really haven't seen her recently as much as I would have liked to considering I won't be able to for the next 12 months. She is an absolutlely wonderful girl, and although admittedly we have only become close friends within the last 8 months or so, I still care about her dearly (in fact she is my future wife, according to thee vague agreement we came to under the condition that neither of us are married by the time we are 40).
So Eve, while - along with the rest of the world's population - you may not read this, I wish you the best of luck with your sexy Swiss experiences. I'm sure I will drunkenly say all of this to you tomorrow night, but you are an amazing girl, actually let me rephrase, an Amazingly Terrific (and dreamy) Woman, and you will be sorely missed in you absence. I'm lucky to know you, and you're lucky to know me (because let's face it, I'm a dreamboat) and I'd better hear from you frequently while you're gone. We're all gonna miss you, and we shall count the days until your triumphant return.
OK, well that's enough of me being an emotional, soppy bastard for now. To re-affirm my masculinity, I LIKE BOOBS, and steak. Well I'm done now, and custard pies are going out of fashion.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
I wake up everyday and I'm Bill Murray
Apparently today is Groundhog Day in America, who knew? My sympathies go out to Bill Murray for the guaranteed plethora of horrible jokes he must have to suffer through. Then he'll wake up the next morning and have to suffer through them all over again...I'm sorry Bill, i couldn't resist. I guess this puts a premature end to our promising future friendship?
What did the bucket do to deserve this?
Where the hell did the euphemism for death, 'kicking the bucket', arise from?
Honestly, at what point did someone decide there was a correlation between dying and punting a container more commonly used for holding water? 'Pushing up daisies' I can understand. 'Gone to that big place in the sky' also has some logic to it. But this bucket kicking business has got me stumped. I know that through all the time I have spent playing games of Bucket Soccer and Bucket Hackysack (which is a lot, mind you) I have never once thought to myself "you know, this reminds me a lot of someone dying". Maybe it's just the way my mind works. Maybe I lack the intellectually athletic ability to make that leap in logic. Though I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not the only one.
Can you imagine using that turn of phrase in conversation with someone who had no idea of its meaning?
"Doctor, how is my husband?"
"Oh I'm sorry to tell you ma'am, he kicked the bucket."
"What!?! I Brought him in here with a severe bout of pnuemonia and you've got him playing football with a bucket? What kind of hospital is this?
"No you see ma'am, what I mean is that he has died."
"DEAD! Well maybe if you spent more time treating his condition rather that letting him play that ludicrous bucket football game this wouldn't have happened! I'm suing. Honestly, a bucket..."
I'm sure if I was bothered enough to do some kind of research I'd manage to find some 17th Century tradition from which the phrase is derived from. Something to do with how the kicking over of the bucket to spill its contents represents the soul being poured out of the body in death. But remember this: In the 17th Century, people shit in buckets, so using that kind of genesis, the soul is also likened to a steaming turd. Call me crazy, but I don't think it's the poo inside us all that makes us human.
Now there is some relevance to why I was dwelling on the ridiculousness of particular death euphemisms. You see, my Pa died yesterday (that's my Granddad on my mum's side for those of you trying to trace my family history). The thing is, when informed of this, I didn't really feel anything. Sure, there were the thoughts of "well that sucks", but it didn't affect me emotionally at all.
Now I know there's probably some people now thinking "you sir are a horrible, horrible man!" as you go around grabbing materials in preparation to crucify me, but Number 1. Calm the fuck down, you're acting a little over-dramatic, and Number 2. I didn't really know him that well. The last time I saw him was when we still lived in South Australia, and considering i was 8 years old when we moved to Queensland that makes it around 13 years since there was any contact with him. Even when we lived down there we didn't have too much contact with him, so it doesn't come as any big surprise that I wasn't affected by the death. In fact the only real memory I have of him is that he had a lot of cats, and I mean a lot. It's not like I went round his house doing a tally count and roll call at the age of 8, but at a rough estimation there would've been a good 30 cats roaming around his house, at least. As for the smell, well, what do you think a house ful of cats is going to smell like? Those cats certainly weren't shitting potpurri.
So what was I getting at with all of this? Well basically that it's just a very odd sensation to have when a family member dies and you don't feel anything, even though it seems like you should. I guess it's hard to miss someone you never actually see.
Friends, Romans and Countrymen, watch those phrasebooks. They can be dangerous when used unwisely.
Scott
Honestly, at what point did someone decide there was a correlation between dying and punting a container more commonly used for holding water? 'Pushing up daisies' I can understand. 'Gone to that big place in the sky' also has some logic to it. But this bucket kicking business has got me stumped. I know that through all the time I have spent playing games of Bucket Soccer and Bucket Hackysack (which is a lot, mind you) I have never once thought to myself "you know, this reminds me a lot of someone dying". Maybe it's just the way my mind works. Maybe I lack the intellectually athletic ability to make that leap in logic. Though I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not the only one.
Can you imagine using that turn of phrase in conversation with someone who had no idea of its meaning?
"Doctor, how is my husband?"
"Oh I'm sorry to tell you ma'am, he kicked the bucket."
"What!?! I Brought him in here with a severe bout of pnuemonia and you've got him playing football with a bucket? What kind of hospital is this?
"No you see ma'am, what I mean is that he has died."
"DEAD! Well maybe if you spent more time treating his condition rather that letting him play that ludicrous bucket football game this wouldn't have happened! I'm suing. Honestly, a bucket..."
I'm sure if I was bothered enough to do some kind of research I'd manage to find some 17th Century tradition from which the phrase is derived from. Something to do with how the kicking over of the bucket to spill its contents represents the soul being poured out of the body in death. But remember this: In the 17th Century, people shit in buckets, so using that kind of genesis, the soul is also likened to a steaming turd. Call me crazy, but I don't think it's the poo inside us all that makes us human.
Now there is some relevance to why I was dwelling on the ridiculousness of particular death euphemisms. You see, my Pa died yesterday (that's my Granddad on my mum's side for those of you trying to trace my family history). The thing is, when informed of this, I didn't really feel anything. Sure, there were the thoughts of "well that sucks", but it didn't affect me emotionally at all.
Now I know there's probably some people now thinking "you sir are a horrible, horrible man!" as you go around grabbing materials in preparation to crucify me, but Number 1. Calm the fuck down, you're acting a little over-dramatic, and Number 2. I didn't really know him that well. The last time I saw him was when we still lived in South Australia, and considering i was 8 years old when we moved to Queensland that makes it around 13 years since there was any contact with him. Even when we lived down there we didn't have too much contact with him, so it doesn't come as any big surprise that I wasn't affected by the death. In fact the only real memory I have of him is that he had a lot of cats, and I mean a lot. It's not like I went round his house doing a tally count and roll call at the age of 8, but at a rough estimation there would've been a good 30 cats roaming around his house, at least. As for the smell, well, what do you think a house ful of cats is going to smell like? Those cats certainly weren't shitting potpurri.
So what was I getting at with all of this? Well basically that it's just a very odd sensation to have when a family member dies and you don't feel anything, even though it seems like you should. I guess it's hard to miss someone you never actually see.
Friends, Romans and Countrymen, watch those phrasebooks. They can be dangerous when used unwisely.
Scott
It Begins...God help us all
So here I am. After years of sitting in front of my computer, browsing the internet while I create an ever-increasing list of unsuccessful stories attempting to the disguise the fact that I am looking at pornography, I have joined the ranks of people with blogs. Yes, my mother would be so proud, although if i were to gleefully proclaim to her "Look Ma, I'm Blogging!" she would undoubtedly tell me that I was disgusting, to put it back in my pants and that it was entirely inappropriate behaviour for a dinner party. Which I guess is fair enough, blogging does sound like what you do when you're all alone and want to make Baby Jesus cry, but personally in that situation i'm more concerned about why she didn't question the fact that her son was talking like a redneck.
I admit this entire experiment is purely for my own selfish means. I have absolutely no intentions of making an attempt to entertain anyone (although the idea that I could if I tried is quite an amusing concept in itself), this is just a way for me to regularly write, because I want to make sure I keep myself in the habit of writing. It doesn't matter specifically what I write - be it a detailed account of the makings of my mundane (yet undeniably handsome) existance, or a written trascript of the most recent episode of Huey's Cooking Adventures - just as long as it keeps my mind ticking until it explodes in a messy, yet assuredly memorable departure from this world. Remember kids, a land mine is not a stackhat.
So who wants to start placing bets as to how long I manage to keep this thing going? Two, maybe three days? Nah I'll give myself longer than that. Hell, it'll probably take that long til I at least manage to post again. Start pooling your betting money though people, then leave it completely unguarded so that I may steal it and reap the rewards. But for now I will focus on the more important questions, such as who the hell am I talking to? Seriously, no one even knows about this thing yet.
Thats the first one over and out folks,
(Insert My Name Here)
I admit this entire experiment is purely for my own selfish means. I have absolutely no intentions of making an attempt to entertain anyone (although the idea that I could if I tried is quite an amusing concept in itself), this is just a way for me to regularly write, because I want to make sure I keep myself in the habit of writing. It doesn't matter specifically what I write - be it a detailed account of the makings of my mundane (yet undeniably handsome) existance, or a written trascript of the most recent episode of Huey's Cooking Adventures - just as long as it keeps my mind ticking until it explodes in a messy, yet assuredly memorable departure from this world. Remember kids, a land mine is not a stackhat.
So who wants to start placing bets as to how long I manage to keep this thing going? Two, maybe three days? Nah I'll give myself longer than that. Hell, it'll probably take that long til I at least manage to post again. Start pooling your betting money though people, then leave it completely unguarded so that I may steal it and reap the rewards. But for now I will focus on the more important questions, such as who the hell am I talking to? Seriously, no one even knows about this thing yet.
Thats the first one over and out folks,
(Insert My Name Here)
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