Driving - It's Really Just Swearing On Wheels

I have had the honour and privilege to teach 3 ppl close to my heart how to drive.
Why? I hear you ask. Several reasons:

1. I can teach them how to swear without taking their hands off the wheel, and thus killing us (a integral part of the enjoyment of road rage is living thru it to tell the story at a later, drunk-dinner-party date)
2. I really like extreme sports, and
3. After many years of playing the designated driver, it's now some other pr*ck's turn. When that person was unforthcoming (why? Because most ppl are bastards, who'll happily take advantage of you and your Corolla), I created a few more suckers in my own image. SHOTGUN FRONT SEAT!

But, let me tell you, it's not easy. I spent most of my time as a supervisor with my left foot jabbing uselessly at the floor while I tried to come up with caring and supportive ways to say, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD YOU IDIOT, SLOW THE F*CK DOWN. STOOOP! Massively good times were had by all. But, apparently, I'm not the worst out there. This recount of a driving experience shared by the Gorgeous Fwossy (all round awesome babe, and silly enough to let me be her friend), and her mother, proves that there's always someone who makes it a little more painful to complete your necessary hours. Next Learner who complains to me about my 'help' gets a cattle prod fair up the bum.

"........................................"
"........................................"

"Fwossy, I told you not to leave bags in the car."
"Oh. Sorry."

"........................................"
"........................................"

"Turn right."
"Okay."

"........................................"
"........................................"

"Where do I turn?"
"Next left."

"........................................"
"........................................"

"FWOSSY! YOU DIDN'T LOOK! STAY IN YOUR LANE"
"I am... Kind of. Sorry."

"........................................"
"........................................"

(Repeat until a Provisional Licence has been obtained)

You've got to get to the stage in life where going for it is more important than winning or losing - Arthur Ashe

Dear Senator McCain,
I was extremely impressed by your speech following the announcement of Barack Obama as President-Elect. You spoke with graciousness, dignity, and made it clear that you had fought a fair fight. I understand that, right now, you're probably feeling a little bummed. While failure may be character building, most times you just want the success!

However, I just wanted to mention a few things:

• you didn't inherit a war in Iraq (remember how well the last one went?)
• you didn't inherit a war in Afghanistan (remember how well every Western campaign in history went?)
• you didn't inherit a Depression (remember how well the last one went?)
• you will not have to engineer a World War in order to revitalise the American economy (remember how well the last one went?)
• you will not have to spend 4 years with Sarah 'You betcha!' Palin, her assault weapons and all those stuffed moose heads she would have INSISTED on decorating the White House with
• that stress-related heart failure? Probably just been put off by a couple of years
• you now have an automatic claim to the moral highground - whatever the Democrats do that is received as unpopular, you simply need to shake you head, smile sadly, and murmur, If I had have been running the show...
  

Suddenly, losing seems a lot like winning, doesn't it?

Regards,
Mel Wuv

Hello, My Name is Mel

David Duchovny, star of Californication, has apparently been told by his wife, the lovely Tea Leoni, that he must receive treatment for his sex addiction, or she's packing her heels and lipstick and hittin' the road. The film Choke, to be realsed in Australia soon, features a sexaholic protagonist who, during his 12-Step meetings designed to treat this addiction, can often be found 'shtupping' other similarly addicted members in the bathroom. In Will Ferrell's Blades of Glory, he plays a sex addict who uses such meetings as a bragging forum of what he's done to various nymphettes, given his druthers, and some of theirs.

Why is sexaholism so damn funny?

When ppl identify as alcohlics, or drug addicts, this is rarely met with gales of laughter. Indeed, the ppl living with and around these very ill ppl usually don't find anything funny about it at all. Both these conditions are recognised as serious, very dangerous, and very likely to shorten your life expectancy. Very rarely are they percieved as 'glamourous' conditions.

Sexaholism, on the other hand, seems to generally evoke a gritty, noirish fascination - can a disease really be so bad if all it consists of is bedding beautiful women, and living life at the edge? I would argue a bloody big YES. An addiction by definition is a relationship with a substance or process that is all consuming. Sure, sex is fun, but how much could you really enjoy its pursuit and practice if that was what constituted your entire life? What if that was what it was all about? It sure doesn't leave much room for establishing healthy relationship, functioning at a high lvl in other aspects of life, such as work or study, and probably alienates a fair few ppl - generally, friends don't stick around if you continually make sexual advances towards their partners.

This is the side rarely shown - it seems that public depictions of this addiction prefer stories that involve a blonde masseuse, a 40-gallon drum of baby oil, mood lighting, and a parrot. But sexaholism is real, just like alcholism and drug addiction. Yet no one seems overly prepared to make jokes about heroin addicts, or ppl so drunk they forget to check for traffic step out into the road, only to be knocked down and killed.

What's the answer, ppl? Do we need to recognise sexaholism as a serious illness, and then treat it, and its sufferers, with a little more respect? Or does someone need to come up with some awesome funnies about the one time, this heroin addict walked into a public bathroom, and...

Or is sexaholism just intrinsically funny?

Please, Please, Tell Me Know - WTF?!

Who the fuck are the Jonas Brothers? And why do I care?

Please, Please, Tell Me Now - A/S/L?

Ladies and Gentlemen, let it be known here and now: I have a ring on the third finger of my left hand. The kind with diamonds. That's right, folks - she's getting married!
I'm very excited by this - my fiance is a lovely man who's my favourite, and my choice for the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.

However, just 'cause I'm engaged, doesn't mean I'm blind. There are still many attractive ppl out there, some of whom I've been known to /gasp! shock!/ flirt with. However, there are some ppl who don't know I'm getting married.

Which brings me to Mel's Lunchtime Ethics Poll: at what point do you have to come clean? I drink coffee with these ppl - we try not to talk about our secret pain, instead opting for some light character assassination of anyone foolish enough not to join us - have the occasional veen-ho, and e-mail them about uni coursework. I've worn the ring around them, but neither I nor them have commented on its sparkly symbolism.

When does it stop being simply a fact that we don't really talk about our relationships, and start moving towards blatant misrepresentation? Is this a new and interesting form of cheating? And, has it been left so long that to say anything would just be creepy?

When is it time to make clear you're taken???

We Need To Talk*

Gosh, I think I've started something here - it seems that EVERYONE has a phrase that makes them believe that it'd be more pleasurable to cut their ears off with blunt spoons that actually have to listen and respond to.

However, if we're talking about the phrase that seems to kick your knees out from under you so your stomach seems to go all floaty with fear, I must, MUST include:

• I'm going to stop you there...

It appears that it is humanly impossible to finish that sentence with, I've heard all I need to hear - you obviously deserve this million dollars/large amount of chocolate/a cuddle.



* title courtesy of TLD

I'm Surprised

People who behave in a way that is rude and unpleasant, and then have this behaviour explained away by someone who likes them (i.e. not me) as being the result of them feeling shy in the situation, do not come across as charming and vulnerable, so much as complete fuckchops. Just pointing this out.

We Need To Talk*

OH MY GOD, there are other ppl reading this blog! Please, please - sit down, have a drink, would like a foot rub? Hot sex with the celebrity of your choice? My eternal and undying affection? DONE!**

The lovely Dave commented that there are several choice opening statements that are designed with the sole purpose of making you realise that you're conversation partner doesn't have shiny hair, so much as greasy strands that need a wash.

Here, in no particular order, are the lines that indicate it's time to down your drink, pick up your handbag, and head home alone.

• Don't take this the wrong way, but...
• I want to explain why...
• No offence intended, but...
• I'm just being honest when I say...

Of course, I'm sure that are some other charmers out there: ante up, people!



* title courtesy of the lovely Dave (yes, it IS an actual title. Soon I shall start referring to him as TLD)

** Chances of having sex with the celebrity of your choice simply b/c you read this blog are slim to none... Unless they have excellent taste, and you meet them here!
But you've totally got my affection, for shizzle.

I'm Surprised

People who begin a sentence with the words, 'I don't want to sound like wanker but...' inevitably end up sounding like a wanker.

Especially if they complete that sentence with the phrase, 'I understand Post Modernism, and it changed my life.'

I'm Surprised DOUBLESHOT

* There is no way to adequately explain the fact that you were pulling faces at a complete stranger because you'd thought that they were someone you actually know in a way that means you don't look like a complete dickhead.

* No one reads this Blog. Looking at the brilliance of the first pt. of this post, I can't find any reasonable explanation for this.

I'm Surprised

Birkenstocks are really expensive, considering they're simply glorified sandals.

I Wanna Have Your Babies - Pick Up Lines that Shock and Amuse #2

Where have all the good men gone? I, like most of my female friends, was bought up with the implicit understanding that men were Only After One Thing. This One Thing, it was suggested, would be our downfall and ruin if we didn't guard against it.

But then I left home, and thought 'AWESOME! We're both after the same One Thing! Just imagine - no guilt, no 'Where is our relationship going?' conversations, just a lot of fun between consenting adults. w00t!'

BUT NO. Men went and changed all the rules. Now they want to 'connect emotionally', and pursue 'a future together' (someone more cynical than I might suggest that what they're actually after is lulling you into a false sense of security, before dumping you for some chick who puts out, anyway. Has someone told them that women in relationships are better lays, or something?) Bastards.

In touch with their feminine sides, they turn into blushing Victorians when propositioned. It's a sad state of affairs when you can't find a man for a one night stand.

SUBJECT: Yesterday

Hi Jane,

I am sorry about the way things were left yesterday - I certainly had no intention of things going the way they did, and would most certainly have preferred a different outcome.

My main concern at this point is of the possibility that we may continue the personal relationship that was being developed until things went as they did. I like you on a personal level very much, and although I am sure we could have been electric together on another level, if it interests you at all, I would like for us to continue our friendship.

Certainly, venue not being the obstacle it is, I would have had no hesitation in extending to you my best efforts. Nevertheless, if you wish to, I propose coffee on Thursday at the cafe at the library; I shall be studying out there most of the day, and should you wish to do so, I do believe it is my turn to subsidise YOUR caffeine intake!

Best wishes,
John

Oh you dirty, rotten prick. HOW DOES THIS BECOME OUR PROBLEM?! So, we're forced to reply.

SUBJECT: You have the right to remain silent... I'm begging you, please exercise it!

Dear John,

I'm slowly but surely starting to understand why you currently have no room for a lover in your life - obviously, your ego masturbation is fulfilling all your needs. Why find someone else to make you feel good, when you're obviously managing to do that just fine by yourself?

Obviously, I didn't make myself clear when I said I was making a booty call, not a tell me about your secret pain call. Let me put it clearly and simply: I really don't care! You didn't fancy a shag - not a problem. Please, please just shut up now - this exploration of your feelings is EVERYTHING I WAS TRYING TO AVOID BY ENGAGING IN MEANINGLESS SEX WITH YOU. That's the brilliant thing about secret pain, babe - it's a big ole secret that I don't have to give a flying fig leaf about.

Certainly, there is the possibility of remaining friends, provided that you recognise I'M STILL NOT INTERESTED IN YOUR SECRET PAIN, you dunce. Let's shoot the shit, and leave it there - I promise to keep my hands to myself, as anything else seems to make you all crazy like.

Blah blah blah - no sex, just coffee. I get that. I respect that. Can we all just sit quietly now?

Best wishes,
Jane

p.s. Notice how I didn't even MENTION your 'best efforts'? Have I got the moral highground or what?!

Of course, this was the story that was never told. The real reply?

SUBJECT: Coffee on Thursday

Dear John,

I'd love a coffee on Thursday - I'll catch up with you at the library.

Cheers,
Jane

Christ. We deserve everything we get.

Me Talk Pretty One Day*, pt. III

The motto of the US Treasury: Ah Fuck It, It's Only Money



* A nod to David Sedaris - he comes up with the genius, I merely steal and degrade it.

My Feminine Side

Listen up, lads - a secret look inside Female Culture. Unfortunately, not the baby-oil-and-pillow-fights side of it. More on that next time.

Being a woman, I have an uncanny knack for remembering the minutae of everyday life. Ppl I haven't seen for several months/years will be greeted, and then asked about their wives/children/home renovations. It's just one of those things - if I didn't do it, I'd be stripped of my heels and lipstick.

However, this system of female greeting - because it shows we care, dammit! - has strayed off into strange territory: I was looking in my (lovely!) mother's e-mail inbox, because she'd had an update on the health of our summer retreat (if I'm honest here, a caravan) sent to her, and God bless her, she hasn't quite mastered Forwarding, so I was forced to view her original e-mail. Of course, I had a squizz at what other missives she'd received (What am I, a saint? What if she received something REALLY good, and didn't tell me about it?). There was the usual CHEAP VIAGRA!!! and SHAVED MULES IN 1001 POSITIONS!!! crap, the usual mailing list nonsense, and a succession of e-mails detailing a photographic progression of Jake. The problem, I hear you ask? I didn't recognise this infant, nor his parents. Couldn't even place the name in a context.

Jesus, as women, we're now expected to care about anyone shorter than a foot who can't hold their own head up. Feminism obviously wasn't as successful as we'd all hoped.

Please, Please, Tell Me Now - There's No Such Thing As Bad Weather, Only The Wrong Clothing

In a recent poll* for Arbiter of All That Is Tasteful, I was voted YOUR** number one choice for providing sweeping generalisations on the nature of expressions of humanity in modern society. Jog on, b*tches.

Spring has sprung in the ACT, ladies and gentlemen. That's right - it's sunny blue skies here all the way to Christmas. But unfortunately, the wind has also sprung (yay September), so it's not warm warm yet. Which, cunningly, brings me to my point: what is with the mini-skirt/t-shirt/Ugh boots/scarf look that so many... well, slags really, seem to be rockin'?

If it's cold enough to need wool-lined boots and a scarf, you need to wear pants. 'Nuff said.

P.S. You probably think you look like Jessica Simpson. We think you look like a moll.

* Poll conducted on the responses of one person. If answers were not unanimous, they were rounded up to the nearest one.
* If by 'Your' I mean 'My'

Please, Please, Tell Me Now - Baby, It's Cold Out

Who was Charity? And exactly what led her to be labeled as so damn cold?

The Customer is Always Right - Why Don't You Understand This?

Oh, oh, controversy - a charming way to start a Tuesday morning, dont'cha think?

I'm turning into Dylan Moran. This disheartens me - I'd always thought of myself as a glass-half-full kinda gal - but, I argue, it is inevitable. Why, dear reader? Because I am forced, by the constraints of modernity, to shop regularly at a supermarket.

I don't know what it is about large supermarkets (which, out of the goodness of my heart, I will not name /coughs/ Coles! /coughs/ ) that brings out the blackness of my heart. Oh, hang on, yes I do - it's the dreadful lighting, the warcrime muzak, and charmingly unrelated-to-reality prices.

And the staff. Dear God, the staff.

Here's the thing - I have worked menial jobs. In fact, I still do. However, I always worked as hard as the job required. If that meant learning how to use antiquated diary software that no one had ever heard of, then so be it. An afternoon of my time off wrangling with a multi-line phone system? Had to be done. That's the deal in the real world (or the bit I inhabit of it, anyway) - you do your f*cking job. If you do not wish to do you job, then quit/call in sick/hide in the stockroom. Do not make me, as the person paying for the privilege, suffer.

That's really the thrust of my rant today, peeps - I'm sick and tired of being told that I can't behave in any way towards customer service personnel (i.e. ppl who deal with me, the customer, in a variety of roles) that doesn't involve giving them a piece of cake, a pat on the back, and medal. If you're f*cking up, and it's so obvious that I can see you f*cking up, I want to be allowed to say, 'I see you're having difficulties with that, and I really need it to be done properly, can we call your supervisor over?'

I do not in any way, shape, or form condone physical violence - let's face it, if you need to thump the checkout chick because she's done something that you perceive as a violation to your human rights, what does that really say about you, f*ckchop? - or name-calling. All I'm asking for is the right to be allowed to say, You are not doing this task in a way that satisfies me, I'd like someone else to take over, without inducing floods of tears, recriminations and bans from the tobacco counter.

Let's all work hard to do the jobs we're paid for - it's the only way we're ever gonna move on those Management positions.

p.s. I reserve the right to say to ppl, Please do the job you're being paid for.

p.p.s. Should they fail to do so after having been made aware of the above attitude on my part, I reserve the right to throw dead badgers at them till they acquiesce. Don't push me, sunshine.

Bringing the funny

Me Talk Pretty One Day*, pt. II

Dear God, I love a good acronym. Love 'em. Love 'em like they were my mother. I mean, is there anything better than a succinct, made up word that completely captures an amazing concept? Didn't think so.

Thus, for your amusement and delectation, I have compiled a list of the best. The rest can be found over here. Knock yourselves out, kiddies.

DILLIGAF - Does It Look Like I Give A Fuck?
FIG - Fuck I'm Good
FIGJAM - Fuck I'm Good, Just Ask Me
FUBAR - Fucked Up Beyond All Repair
MARINE - Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not Essential
NORWICH - kNickers Off Ready When I Come Home
POETS - Piss Off Early, Tomorrow's Saturday
SNAFU - Situation Normal - All Fucked Up!

And 3 I just had to include, despite their lack of fake wordiness sounds. These are shamelessly stolen from the inimitable Kathy Lette - who better to describe just how men discuss women?
LHJ - Leave Home Job
LHNJ - Leave Home Now Job
LHRFNJ - Leave Home Rite Fucking Now Job



* A nod to David Sedaris - he comes up with the genius, I merely steal and degrade it.

An Ohmigod Moment

Maybe I was overtired, or hormonal, or just feeling sooky, but when I saw this picture, I cried.

Then I thanked God for my own charmed life.

I Wanna Have Your Babies - Pick Up Lines that Shock and Amuse #1

There is context to this story. While I could broaden that to exploring notions of the place of the individual in society, and throw in a quick examination of the human condition, I'll get my hand off it, and bring you up to speed v. quickly.

I work as an artist's model. That is, ppl pay me to take off my clothes and stand/sit/lounge around in poses that are about as natural and 'still life' as a birthday party of toddlers on the red cordial. Notice my rictus of pain? Not for my own amusement. I do this in front of groups, for private sittings, and 21st birthdays. Just kidding! I get almost no private sitting work.

Anyway, I occasionally get work at the Uni. This has its advantages - a fairly hefty hourly whack - but unfortunately, it means I must deal with students. Now, students are awesome, God love 'em - I am one, I wish to remain one as long as possible, I believe they should be fed/protected from hunters/nurtured by the State - but Christ in the marketplace they can shit me sideways.

The course I worked for was made up of technical drawing and Architecture students. F*ck me. You show me a group of ppl less interested in drawing the human form - and with a pencil! Not a computer program! What Luddites these artists are! Have they not been made aware of the technological advances, etc etc - and I'll show you a mostly dead pot plant. They do not care. They are in it for the requisite credits so they can continue on to design such monstrosities as this - yes yes, they put the pipes on the OUTSIDE! Truly it is a breakthru of design, etc etc, blow me - rather than as an expression of a deep passion for documenting the human body as an artistic endeavor. If they had any of that, they'd be at a real art school. But I digress.

While they might have hated the drawing, it appears that some of the fellas at least enjoyed the looking. Let's face it - it's a situation where she whips her tits out, and they're required to look closely. What's not to love?

Funnily enough, I still pretend to maintain some level of professional detachment, and ask others to do the same. However, I can understand that there may be some mixed signals - I stand around in my nude for three hours, looking bored and not allowed to talk (apparently, recognising me as a human is superfluous to the artistic pursuit), sleep or even breathe deeply, and expect no one to comment on the nudiness itself. Perfectly reasonable mistake.

On this cherished occasion, I was finishing my shift when a young gentleman strode over to me, and announced in tones rich with piss and vinegar, 'I like what I've seen so far! Can I buy you a drink?'

Like all good clangers, it was dropped in a moment of inadvertent silence, creating a deep unnatural silence (There is a difference in the types of silence - if you don't believe me, loudly announce you're wearing your partner's underwear and they 'make my down-theres TINGLE!' next time you're in a conference, and make your own judgments). We'd arrived at the extremely-quiet-and-still-ohmigod-impending-doom-rides-amongst-us place.

But really, the best clangers are the ones that fight back - it was probably for the best that it was so quiet, for it allowed me to sing out, in a proud and happy voice, 'F*ck you, I'd rather have the cash.'

A case of the exotic dancer offended when a punter asks for a more intimate, 'full body' dance? Or an actual crossing of professional boundaries?

Discuss.

Me Talk Pretty One Day*

God, there are some truly WONDERFUL one liners, pithy statements and just genius adjectival descriptions out there. You stumble across them on other blogs, wandering down the street, flicking thru the paper, generally interacting with a widely accepted reality. Why they strike you is a mystery - all you know is: they appeal to the ear, trip off the tongue and generally infuse you with an allover sense of wellbeing. So, presented here in one tidy list form, my favourite insults, descriptions and lines I wish were my own.

1) Leering fucktard

2) Age, size and (lack of) motor skills shouldn't be barriers to style, comfort and a good night's sleep

3) Cockspank

4) Inappropriate massage

5) Knobjockey

6) Lay down and open wide, fella - your whoring days are here

7) A bigger wanker than Corey Delaney

I'll continue to add to this list as I feel it to be necessary. That is all.



* A nod to David Sedaris - he comes up with the genius, I merely steal and degrade it.

Blast From The Past - Serendipity

Via the Web Archive, all the way from LiveHouse (knobjockies), the best of the rest. w00t.

My gosh, has it really been so long since I last updated? My poor fans (yes, fuck you, I have fans - one day, I plan to induct them into my political party, the Monster Raving Looney Platform, and bring down the Government (the real question at this point would be: after 10 years of Howard, would (could?) a party known as the Monster Raving Looney Platform really be any worse? Hmmm... (Any predictions on the future of the MRLP should be sent to me on the back of a 10*4 card; best answer wins a small duck). Memo to self - form the MRLP, so my plans of national domination may be realised)... I was going to write "must be missing me", but honestly, after that sentence (a much nicer term than 'shit explosion across the page', if anyone's still listening, then have a gold star on me. Anyone actually following this entry gets... something really good. Much better than a pissweak gold star, anyway).

Of course, after that, I can't actually remember where this post was going, so please, talk amongst yourselves (hmmm, that's optimistic, isn't it? Th idea that more than one person is reading this? I'm just a glass half full kinda gal... No, I lie - I'm more a the glass is smashed on the floor, drink straight from the bottle person. But once again, I digress. (I am also MISTRESS! of the understatement)).

Of course, SERENDIPITY. I've had the laptop on which I'm typing this scintillating composition for over 2 years. (No, that's not the story, even if it is amazing that I have yet to break it beyond repair). Idly, I was playing with it last week when I pressed this little button thing-y that I have never pressed before - it has a little symbol that looks somewhat like an atomic explosion, and I confess I wanted to see if it was as exciting as it pretended to be.

YES, YES, OH GOD YES!

Now, usually when I press random button thing-ys, it inevitably ends up in the Bad Place. I've shorted other people's homes by simply flicking a light switch (hmmm, lucky old them!). So approximately 2.793 seconds after I'd given the button a poke, I felt like a neon sign exploded across my mind. GOOD WORK DICKHEAD, it merrily flashed in technicolour, YOU'VE JUST WIPED YOUR HARD DRIVE. Now, typically, this story would end at that point. But last week, it was not to be! I've obviously appeased the Parking Gods enough for them to put a word in for me with the deities that deal in the 'It's your own stupid fault, idiot' department. For it turns out, I HAVE WIRELESS. Now, I'm not sure on the principles of Wireless Internet Access (Christ, I'm surprised that I can dress myself in the mornings), but it means that if you go places that allow this kind of jiggery-pokery, you can get online without, and this may surprise you, using wires, or hooking to up modems, or all that other computer geek stuff.

This is possibly the coolest thing ever.

First published 26 September, 2006

Conversations You Had To Be There For - Gordon Ramsay

My parents have pay tv. This, and the fact that they conceived, carried and cared for me till I foolishly buggered off, makes me extraordinarily grateful that I have such winners in my life.

Further, it makes me easy to find should I be home again in NSW, and has become a staple of the Christmas visit - Mel will be found couchsurfing with the Foxtel remote in hand at any given time. Feel free to offer her wine/vienna peanuts/bacon sammiches.

It's the packaging of pay tv that makes it so alluring - it's merely the same old crap (and really, some of it is - Body Building Pensioners, anyone?), but on all the time. I defy ANYONE not to be able to find some offering of awfulness that they nonetheless feel compelled to view. Truly, these are strong powers - try using them for good.

Yet back to the story which struck me as paralyzingly funny, and will probably only evoke a mild titter. Plebs.

Mel (watching Gordon Ramsay eff and blind his way thru something... Wiggling her toes in delight at the sheer decadence of the experience)

Mum: Gosh, that Gordon fellow's very... rugged looking, isn't he?

Mel: Mum, he looks like his face caught on fire and was put out with a shovel. V. sorry to be harsh, but hey, he's worth millions of squids, and could buy and sell me before morning tea time, so I'm sure he'll work past it.

Mum: Really? I mean, he doesn't look like a burns victim...

(astonished paused before Sis and I collapse laughing, rolling off our respective couches)

Mel (wheezing with laughter): I said he looked like his face had caught on fire and been put out with a shovel. If I was wanting to describe him as a burns victim, I would've said, Christ, he looks like a burns victim.

Mum: Oh, right, I see your point.

Maybe it was the humidity, or the fact that, at 2pm in the afternoon, I was still wearing my pyjamas, maybe it was even the wine, but trust me - we thought we were hiLARious.

Gordon Ramsay - rugged looking, or something more?

NB. Absolutely no offence meant to Gordon Ramsay - I admire his business acumen and culinary skills immensely, and hope to one day excel in a similar manner... P.S. If you need a data entry clerk/switch bitch, Gordon, I'm your girl!

Say Something Controversial

Yes, well, don't mind if I do.

Let me begin by saying, I drive a car. It's not very big, but it's quite speedy, and a lovely green colour, and I love it. However, for some strange reason, it attracts wonky cyclists (this is where the controversial part comes in, okay?).

I'm prepared to accept that 10% of (lunatic) cyclists give the rest of this breed a bad name. I'll even go as far as to accept that yes, the government really needs to get serious about creating, upgrading and maintaining viable cycle paths in order for the whole experience of getting to work to become one of happiness and little fluffy bunnies, rather than bowel-destroying fear, but in the meantime... Jesus Christ.

This vitriol was inspired by my experience last week when, in reversing my car into a parking spot, I found my vehicle, and a rather deranged looking cyclist, attempting to break Newton's Third Law of Matter by occupying the same physical space AT THE SAME TIME.

Of course, what with me being a nasty, yukky car owner, and a woman to boot!, it was all my fault. Though it makes me cringe, let me quote BigBrother '08 - I DON'T THINK SO!

There is really not much I could say for myself. I had legitimately found a parking spot - not always easy where cheap uni students, avoiding pay parking, congregate - and was putting myself into it. Apparently, it is my fault that a cyclist, noticing my car going in a backwards direction, decided to ride BEHIND me, and cut across my boot. So of course I deserved the name-calling, the fist shaking and the threats made on my unborn children. I'm a bad driver - imagine, reversing into a parking spot, and expecting others to NOT BE STUPID ENOUGH TO STAND BEHIND YOU. Duh. It all seems so simple now.

So I apologise wholeheartedly to the poor cyclist I nearly ran over, and I say only this: I drive a tonne of metal, and you have a pisky-lookin' bike. Do it again, sunshine, and you shall be squished beyond recognition. I am big, you are small, and I will ALWAYS win that particular contest.

In the meantime, enjoy a world with lower carbon emissions.


NB. Let the flames begin - I bought marshmallows

Back From Beyond*

As some of you may remember, I used to do this on a third-rate site at an undisclosed location in the ether. As you may also remember, I stopped.

But, and here's the good part: I'm starting again! This thought brings me great joy, as I once again have a soapbox from which to spout ill-thought and possibly offensive ideas to anyone who happens to be nearby... Or, y'know, caring...

So, bring a picnic blanket, marshmallows and comfy shoes - let's see if this one self-combusts too, eh?


NB. I just realised that my disinclination to use the term 'blog' may leave some ppl in doubt as to what is was I was doing somewhere else, which I am now doing here. I leave it to your own imagination to fill in the blanks...


* And a hearty 'Fuck you!' to the good folks over at livehouse.com.au . Knobjockies.