Heil, Mein Fuhrer!

One day soon, I'll stop stealing your ideas, LD. In the meantime, I'm gonna surf your brilliance. (What am I saying? I'm gonna pursue it down a dark alleyway, knock it unconscious, rifle its pockets and steal the good stuff, rite before I kick it in the kidneys and run away giggling).

SO. According to LD, there are only 5 acceptable reasons for invoking Hitler's name in a discussion (what am I, your mother? No I'm not gonna outline them - see them in their original location here).

However, and God help me 'cause I'm going to hell for this one, I believe there is a little known but immensely satisfying 6th appropriate use: when arguing the toss with a attendant at a war museum. It must be used appropriate piss and vinegar, and hopefully with the kind of person who has a warped sense of humour. Otherwise, it's just a hate crime.

MelWuv

• Excuse me, sir, we're closing this area of the Memorial now. If you'd like to start making your way out

English Tourist

• /pretends not hear, fiddles with camera, takes another picture of the Mustang on display/

MelWuv

• /slightly less patiently/ Sir, the Memorial is closed, and I must ask you to start making your way out. Quick as you like!

English Tourist

• /baleful stare/ I've travelled halfway around the world to be here, and this is my last opportunity to visit the Memorial. Do you mind?

MelWuv

• I can understand your frustration, sir (yes, it's pretty similar to mine when f*ckwits wanna play the whinge card), but it is closing time, and I must insist you leave this gallery so we can close and secure the building. Now

English Tourist

• You know, if I was working at an Allied war memorial, I'm not sure I'd like to align myself so closely with a totalitarian approach reminiscent of the Nazis...

MelWuv

• Oh, CHAMPAGNE SIR! You totally just won another 5 minutes in here - go nuts.

Too soon for a Hitler joke?

Oh. My. God.

My mother just told me I sound pornographic when making the bed.

THERE ARE SO MANY THINGS WRONG WITH THIS.

Me Talk Pretty One Day, Pt. VIII*

The only thing better than making a bizarre but inexplicably funny comment is making it to someone who appreciates the nonsense, and then adds to it. I plan to marry the Lieutenant.

MelWuv

• You have kittens in your underpants. I checked while you were sleeping on Friday.

the Lieutenant

• I don't know how, as I didn't have any on... Now I come to think of it, I don't even own any! The previous owner must have left both his underpants and kittens.

MelWuv

• Does it hurt you to lie to your future wife and mother of your unborn children so callously? You do so have underpants! And kittens. Damnit, YOU HAVE KITTENS IN YOUR UNDERPANTS! You know it, I know it, deal.

At this pt, I thought I had bested him. BUT NO! (This response pretty much clarifies why I'm going to marry him. If he's interested. And stuff...)

the Lieutenant

• Callous, me? Hardly. I am a friend to all kittens everywhere, as long as they don't come within 10 yards of me, or within a mile of the underpants I don't have.
  Too much white wine, I suspect, and you spotted my pet mongoose hiding in a tea cosy.

MelWuv

• That's well nigh impossible - after a pitched but silent battle, I bested your mongoose, and trapped him under a laundry basket. If you've done any washing since Friday, you'll probably be aware of this.
  
  Ricky-Ticky-Tarvy my ass.

the Lieutenant

• That would explain the hole in the floor under the laundry basket. And the kittens on his breath. Damn, well, it's my fault for forgetting to feed him. I guess he dug for freedom, tough little feller he was. You're a better man than I am, Gungha Din...
  

I'm so in love rite now.



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

I'm Surprised

Apparently, while EVERYONE I KNOW has an electric kettle - and I do mean EVERYONE: seriously, have a think about who you know who has a kitchen/bedsit/room in a share house who DOESN'T have access to a kettle? Is it a long list? No, I thought not - they are not universal. Indeed, Americans seem quite blown away by them, as they're a rarity in kitchens there.

I so just figured out what I'm getting the Obamas for Christmas.

ROAD TRIP - South of the Border, Pt. IIIb

I'm In Love With a Strict Machine... And Magic Tricks

Nothing sets the tone for a Girls' Nite Out like said Girls getting ready together. Not only is the knowledge of the Sexy and How to Look It! exponentially increased, it's bloody good fun. It's like dress-ups, but with a chance of pulling. Ah, lisptick, crass hand gestures and GummiBears - good for the soul.

I feel pretty, oh so pretty! And cSophie looks amazingly, completely beautiful in this picture. Mel has pretty friends - yay!

Nothing makes you feel girlier than a cocktail in a cool glass with a smick garnish - drink with relish and bangles jangling!

Sofie - more delicious than the drink she's holding

Fellas, fellas, listen up: pick up lines are usually thinner than supermodels. Pick up magic tricks are even more retarded. You know who you are; don't do it again.

Trams are magic - they can take you from the pub to Hungry Jack's. AWESOME!

Madame Brussels (Bourke St, up the far end - pack your walking shoes) is charmingly, beautifully strange. Described as having borrowed its decor from Carroll's Alice In Wonderland, the turfed indoor areas, boater'ed and Henly-jacket'ed waiters and smashing cityscapes make it an irridescent drinking locale. The cocktails jugs and stunning stemware add to the slightly removed-from-normal ambience - truly, we'd fallen thru the looking glass.

Sofie makes friends easily. Her usual charm is magnified when said friends are Ukrainian and so communication occurs in a gorgeous Cyrillic/Slavic/English melange. When I start to understand the Russian exchanges, it's time to knock the cocktails on the head.

And then, back to reality. Having finished beeing trendy, finger-on-the-pulse, style-setters-who-drink-cocktails, we ended up at The Barrow (? I question the accuracy of my narrative recount). Live music! Dancing! WE'RE SUCH GOOD DANCERS!

The state of us! And we thought we were gorgeous

Canberra men must be rubbish. In Melbourne, we made many many friends, enjoyed many many drinks, and cheered like absolute loons when Sofie scored herself a hot date. WAY TO GO, BABES!

Now we play 'Strict Machine', and watch the magic happen...

Let me re-iterate the hotness - our new friends were so keen to continue being friendly that we were pursued (in a charming, holiday romance way) back to St Kilda. No names, no court martials, but someone who wasn't Sofie-with-an-'f' or myself even got her mack on. I was not surprised - my friends are very beautiful - just gratified that Melbourne fellas seem far more able to recognise these truths, and are quite ridey to boot.

So, so refreshed

A big THANK YOU! to the gentleman I met in St Kilda at the end of my evening. Having refreshed myself to the point of being dangerous in traffic, Cam (?) helped cSophie to get me home safely. He is a true gentleman - chivalrous, generous, and strong enough to carry me home.

Mille merci!

ROAD TRIP - South of the Border, Pt. IIIa

Oh my God! Michael Jackson's Dead! Oh my God! You're Wearing a Snuggie!

cSophie is tremendously funny in a Snuggie. Hot as, of course, but funny.

It's funny because it's so gay. But have you noticed that she still looks fab? Grrr.

No one really cares that Michael Jackson's dead. Sorry, Mike. Except for Mr Creepy Empathetic on the tram. I'll give you a tragic end to a tragic life.

This tribute was up in LESS THAN 24 HOURS. What is wrong with you ppl? Get a life!

The dumplings are so good, they're worth re-visiting. If this place had accommodation, I would never leave.

Vic Markets: cSophie makes friends there. Otherwise, they're the same as every other markets out there. But with cool sunnies.

Sofie's a pretty, pretty lady.

Some buskers are beautiful, to a point where I don't actually care what, if any, performing skills they actually have. He is the father of my future children - please do not refer to him as that guy!

Mel likey. Inna da pants.

cSophie does the BEST EVER sneeze chains. They're something epic, and provide such amusement for the rest of us. Next time you see her, ask for a demo - it's so worth it.

Shopping quests are magnificent, especially when they come to pleasing fruition! I am now the proud owner of dark blue heels. These are to be my Graduation shoes - if there's a Graduation Ceremony to be had in the next 3 years, these shoes'll be coming out. Damn straight.

We love cake. Cakey cake cake. We also enjoy window shopping in pedestrian-friendly streets. Hello Ackland St, St Kilda! Just FYI, St Kilda's a pretty awesome place to stay - it's wander-accessible :) The beach, however, is Not All That.

Inevitable heart failure never looked so appealling.

Nanna-naps kick arse.

My Seniors' Card Is In The Mail

In high school and my late teens, I drank to save face and keep up with the cool kids.

These days, if I stay on the mineral water, I'm revered as that all-too-rare beast: the Designated Driver.

I'd Trust You As Far As I Could Throw You... And I Have VERY Girly Arms

The Lovely Dave - the man's a modern day philosopher. He makes me think about THINGS, ppl. As in THINGS at a higher lvl of abstraction than, How shall I style my hair today? Shall I have yoghurt or a piece of fruit for afternoon tea? I wonder what the kittens would like in bonnets? (Just FYI, the answer to the last question is, hiLARious). But, focus, he asked the question, what are the reasons to distrust someone? (Find the genius in its original form here).

And I thought about it. Hard.

This was a tricky one - oftentimes, I find that a feeling of distrust towards an individual segues seamlessly into a feeling of loathing towards the b*gger. So I tried to trace it back, and find where such loathing comes from.

I've decided that there's nothing that makes me more, Oh hello, remind me not leave my children/pets/ANYTHING with or near you, than someone attempting to excuse bad behaviour on bullsh*t grounds.

Being drunk is a brilliant reason for singing 'American Pie' and laughing at your socks. It is not a coverall for adultery, cruelty or vomiting on someone else's bed. If you choose to do these things, man the f*ck up. Say, I am an ars*hole, I did the wrong thing. Do not give me, I was too drunk to now be held accountable for my actions. If this is the actual truth, it's time for the AA 12-Step.

And don't ever, every think it's okay say hideous, cruel things because you're 'just being honest'. You're just being a dickhead. But you're lying about being a dickhead, which makes it even worse. You're a liar-y liar d*ckhead. In Hell, LAWYERS will get preferential treatment to you.

I guess what I distrust is a failure to man up. I also hate it in a way that, should you push it too far with me, they will never find your body. Just sayin'.

ROAD TRIP - South of the Border, Pt. IIb

All Aboard! Tickets Please!

Trams are cool. Like, really cool. Like, cooler than lighthouses. Lighthouses. Oh yeah.

I don't know who invented the hook turn but, when perfectly executed, my God they're beautiful. RIDE THE RED!

Melbourne's a pretty city - walking along the Yarra is tremendously good for the soul.

It's hard to explain scenery, but trust me - this is nice.

Can someone explain to me the Docklands' fascination with pointy-curvy architecture? I only ask 'cause Sofie and I are classy b*tches who notice this sh*t.


Shanghai Village in Little Bourke St. Best. Dumplings. Ever. $15 a head (and that includes the veen-ho. Yay!)

In-Joke Warning: There is charming stalking to be had in Swanston St. No names, no court martials eh, Sofie and cSophie?

I am now one of the faces of Tourism Victoria. Yes, I am that awesome.

Happy Hour in Federation Square - it's like alcoholism with a view.

Cheeeers!

ROAD TRIP - South of the Border, Pt. IIa

Lick Your Lips For Food Porn

Breakfast is a massively exciting meal. Especially when you're Sofie.


There exists in the arcane world of academia a field of pure science known as Breakfast Maths. It's Laws are as follows:

• the Decadence Quota (DQ) of the breakfast is directly related to the time of day at which it is consumed, with the lateness of the hour directly correlating with, and proportional to the pleasure of the meal; based upon this reasoning, breakfast at 11am is roughly equivalent to eating tiramisu with a long spoon
• there is nothing wrong with Breakfast Dessert (BD). Everyone knows that cake is always the answer. And if said Breakfast Dessert cake is fruit-centric then it's a health food. Duh.

BD = awesome! (Please note St. Kilda Beach in the background. Am I all over this cultural, Tourism Australia sh*t or what?)

Max Brenner is a fucking wanker. 'My Journey with Chocolate' - f*ck me gently. However, his chocolate IS quite good.

It's an alternative to coffee, not a Doctoral thesis. Jog on.

ROAD TRIP - South of the Border, Pt. I

Only Sheep Can Cure Fatigue

Let me begin by saying, we'll take pictures of anything. This is an unattractive habit which I blame on the convenience of digital photography. But I digress! If nothing else, the sheer fact that so little of our luggage was in the car with us because I, the Tetris Queen!, managed to pack the boot using basic spatial reasoning, sheer brute force and Jedi mind-meld skills IS photo-worthy

Don't bother with the paternity test - such skill demonstrates I'm my father's daughter

On a road trip, especially one that crosses two states and a territory, and which left several hours late, because Sod's Law demands it to be so, someone always pees in the bush. However, due to Sofie's training in this area - she's a Scout, ppl (this is not a creepy, Internet pay-per-view thing) - means that peeing in the bush no longer means peeing on one's jeans. Throw in the magic of the car having a roll of toilet paper in it - I'm not sure why, we'll call it happy good fortune - no-water hand sanitiser and wipes, and the merriment and good feeling abounded.

For obvious reasons, there's no photo for this vignette, as this is NOT one of those creepy, Internet pay-per-view things. Yet...

When's Sofie's driving, every car's a 4WD. This is exceptionally funny when, at a truck stop, she sets off exploring dirt tracks leading away from civilization in the hope of finding bathrooms. HiLARious. Until you remember it's YOUR car she's driving.

This begs another comment: while some drive it like they stole it, Sofie drives it like it's big. Do NOT tailgate her 'cause that chick has no fear, just a perverse streak. She will block the road, and sit 10K's under the speed limit. I love Sofie.

Sofie is dangerous with the iPod. 90% of our conversation in the car was, and I quote, No, no, no, next, no, no, I LOVE THIS SONG! Ra- Ra- Rasputin! Don't start me on her driving. Again.

I-Spy will end in tears when 'A' is for 'atoms'. However, 'T T L S' being 'twinkle twinkle little star' is charming. On the massively plus side, and handy for you readers who aren't intimately acquainted with us, 'C' is for cSophie, which should make this diatribe a little easier to follow.

The locals at Albury McDonalds WILL look at you like you're fresh meat. You are. Deal.

Should you ever join us on a road trip, do not EVER play 'Guess Who' with cSophie - the girl is a winning machine.

We are honk sluts.

Driving thru Melbourne is best achieved when directions involve the driver 'feeling the vibe'.

ROAD TRIP SOUTH OF THE BORDER

For this process to work, you'll need some background.

In July, my girlfriends and I decided to shrug of the chains of mundane responsibility. Having filed the appropriate paperwork to obtain leave from work, we left our emergency contact details with loved ones, and traveled to Melbourne in the search of AWESOME. We totally found it.

Each post is a collection of random thoughts, grouped thematically. Assume each post covers a single day, and that the three of us think we're much funnier than we actually are.

The main characters are:

• Sofie - my pal, my heart, my big spoon
• cSophie - the awesome Victorian local, and one of the funniest women I know
• MelWuv - your trusted narrator

cSophie, MelWuv, Sofie

You'll be fine.

Apologia

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I apologise for my absence. In April, my fiance and I separated. Having been together for almost 4 years, and having been living together for 3 and a half of those years, this process was heartbreaking.

My divorce, like most, was a period of heartache and intense sadness. Those of you who have been there will understand me when I liken the process to one of being in a really bad car accident everyday for the period of time we were separated but still living under the same roof. This was a time when I was unclassy - there was name calling, threats, and recriminations. These were not proud moments.

However, my former partner and I have now established a relationship that is civil and respectful of the past happiness we shared. Looking back at the difficulties of our separation, I'm proud that we could create this.

At this time, I would like to state my intention to return to regular blogging. I hope my occasional fans will understand, and return.

Sincerely,
MelWuv

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?!

I went out on Friday nite, and needed to be 'helped' home - this fella was an absolute GENTLEMAN, and I'd love to thank him properly.

Last seen in St Kilda, Melbourne.

All information gratefully received.

I Won't Tell If You Won't

The Lovely Dave got me thinking - I know, totally new territory for me, rite? - with his post Guilty Little Pleasures (check out the brilliance here) about the things we do just to spite our conscience. Long showers seem to feature prominently. But, as I've noted previously, the trick to brilliance is to wrestle any topic on to the floor, then beat it till it bleeds. Which is how I ended up pondering on several... practices which I enjoy tremendously, but don't really seek an audience for. Okay folks, out of the gutter, and stick with me here.

While long showers are publicly considered to be akin to smacking puppies these days, no one really looks at you askance for indulging. So where is the line crossed? For example, my secret sin is fiddling with, and removing, ingrown hairs. Oh my God, the joy, the sheer relief, the sense of accomplishment that comes from squeezing out an ingrown hair. Disgusting? You betcha! Will I stop doing it in the privacy of my own bathroom? Not f*ckin' likely, son!

Where does guilty pleasure cross the line to secret sin? And if it's not hurting anyone - apart fm my beautician anyway (apparently, my 'helping' is about as much use as a Gideon's Bible in a cathouse) - does it really matter?

C'mon ppl, 'fess up - what do you do when no one's watching?

LOLCats, and How to Get Them

The trick with any good game I've found is to take it to its natural limits and kick it when its down, as it were. It is only when the creative spirit is unfettered by restraints such as good taste that great things can truly be achieved, and you can say things which induce others to vomit into their mouths. The Kittens as Dictators game is one such example.

The rules are simple: using words such as kitten, cat, miaow and purr - all feline words, in the Kitten game - slightly modify the names of great dictators, to turn them into to kittens. May I present:

• Chairman Miaow
• Pussolini
• the Russian President, Pusstin
• Nikitten Kruschev
• Mikhail Gorbacat
  
• Emperor Hirokitti (see how I spelt that?! lol!)

Of course, then we come to the 'kick it when its down' section of the endeavour. This is a free-for-all beyond the boundaries of common decency, and sense. 'Tis awesome!

Artistes

• Gustav Miaowler
• Richard Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkitties' (miaow me-me-miaow MIAOW! miaow me-me-miaow MIAOW! I love the smell of tuna in the morning! Smells like victory!)
• Picatsso

Geographical Locations

• where kittens seek solitude: Catalonia
• where kittens are originally fm: Purrsia
• where Bohemian kitties play: Purris

It's terrible, isn't it? But I bet you can think of some of your own...

I Wuv Sofie

Sofie asked for this.

Happy Birthday to MelWuv

Yesterday, MelWuv celebrated her (its?) first birthday. If she was an infant, she'd be smiling at strangers, still pretty attached to the boob, and not safe to be left near water unsupervised. As a blog, she's smiling at strangers, and still pretty attached to the boob.

Happy 1st Birthday, MelWuv!

Me Talk Pretty One Day, Pt. VII*

Fathers, lock up your daughters - the Fleet is IN, and they're not averse to buying bright young things drinks... Which is why I shall love them forever and ever.

However, as has been rightly pointed out, what use is my female love to sailors? Traditionally the military service of choice for those fellas who enjoy some hawt! male-on-male action, the jokes just write themselves. Seriously, spend any amount of time with a sailor and, if you're anything like me, you'll do yourself physical damage desperately sitting on the awesome, You're in the Navy - you must be gay! jokes. I'm sure it never gets old, rite guys?

Apparently not! Just as women can tell domestic abuse jokes, and raise a laugh, so can navy boys tell gay jokes. And, God help me, they're funny bastards.

While I spend far too much time giggling in the presence of officers (fine, I admit it - there may even be some hair flicking), the deadpan delivery of several lines had me close to hospitalised (admittedly only because I slid of the chair because I was laughing). Ladies and gentleman, the future of Her Majesty's Royal Australian Navy:

• It's not gay if you're underway!
• It's only gay if you push back
• They'll be separated after lights out with a bucket of cold water...

If laughing at such puerility is wrong, well, I don't wanna be right!

P.S. A big 'Thank You!' to the Overlord of the Pacific: you've introduced me to a level of crassness I never even knew was humanly possible.



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

Happy Birthday To Me

What kind of shameless attention whore announces their own birthday on their blog in an attempt to garner the best wishes of strangers? The MelWuv kind.

Whoop it up, b*tches.

I'm Blaming Andrew

Listen to this, and tell me that Prodigy hasn't been ruined forever. I dare you.

Christ is Dead, Christ is Risen, Christ Has Come Again

Happy Easter everyone! In celebration of the Lord rising from the dead, eat your way into a diabetic coma. Just like it says to do in the Bible.

Smokers of the World Unite - We'll Be Outside On The Fire Escape

I'm a smoker. I apologise for that, but in my defence, I will say that:

• I don't smoke in outdoor areas where food is being consumed - I understand that non-smokers probably won't enjoy the smell wafting over their crudites
• I don't smoke in areas where there are children, e.g. public playgrounds, schools, neo-natal units. Just because I've made the decision to smoke doesn't mean I'm going to expose impressionable youngsters to it
• I don't smoke in ppls' houses; further, I ask for permission to smoke on their property - it's just good manners, really
• I try to move away from open doorways/windows, to avoid blowing smoke into buildings

BUT IT'S NOT ENOUGH. I'm not sure when 'smoker' became synonymous with 'kiddie fiddler', but Christ, we're hated. Hated. Nothing else I do in life - and believe me, I do plenty of weird and wonderful things, as this blog will attest to - seems to invite the angry wrath of total f*cking strangers the same way lighting a Marlboro does.

I usually walk across campus with a fag on. This, apparently, is akin to crucifying Christians along the Appian Way - the number of times I've been addressed directly, or just had other pedestrians stand near me and fake cough is bizarrely high, with 3 occurrences in the last 6 weeks.

WHAT ELSE CAN I DO, PPL? We've been banned from smoking in

• hospitals (well, that makes sense, even to a pack-a-day habitual like me)
• public buildings (fair enough - with air conditioning systems, you just cannot contain it)
  
• on planes (agreed - a smoking section on a plane is about as useful as a peeing section in a pool)
• restaurants (you go for the meal, not the charming 'smoky French bistro' ambiance)
• pubs (what? Hang on... Surely the whole charm of the pub is in its smoky atmosphere?)
• in parks (I understand that we shouldn't hold small children down and exhale in their faces, but are you f*cking serious?)
• on beaches (hello, I'd like the police, please... Yes, public common sense seems to have taken off, and I just can't find it).

IF MY SMOKING BOTHERS YOU THAT MUCH (you big jessie), GO INSIDE, YOU SILLY F*CKER! Visit any one of the millions of places where I can no longer legally smoke, and leave me to it. Really, we'll both enjoy our private moments that much more.

And please, don't give me any more shrieking tirades about how your tax dollars will fund my death. Cigarettes are highly taxed items. I'm happy to pay the asking price. However, it's MY tax dollars fm this that will fund my medical treatment. Really, end-stage emphysema patients usually last less than 5 years. Seriously, we get really sick, then we die. We're so cost effective when it comes to medical treatment that cigarettes should be subsidised. There'll be no need to long-term aged care, let me tell you. Of course, the most likely scenario is, I'll quit smoking, and my tax dollars will fund your interminable treatment for a degenerative mental illness, such as Alzheimer's Disease (NB. This is one of those conditions where the ill don't even have the good sense to move along quickly, with physical health continuing long after the patient has reached the point of requiring 24/7 care to stop them from setting their hair on fire. In some cases, we're talking decades.)

I'm not asking you to smoke. I'm not asking you to like or support the fact I smoke. But if you feel the need to treat me like a second-class citizen while I'm quietly smoking in the last purgatorial areas left for this exercise, I'll have to point out that you, being at least 10 kilos overweight, and driving a car, are no paragon of good health either. Then I will ask you to f*ck off. But nicely. Very, very nicely.

Me Talk Pretty One Day, Pt. VI*

Nostalgia is a funny beast. Somehow, with a little time and space, all that's gone before seems a little less rough around the edges. Sure, He had the inexcusable penchant of playing his Bananarama CDs without either shame or irony (or indeed, recourse to the 'reduce volume' button), but he also smelt nice whenever you went out together. She spoke with a voice that had a lot in common with an angle grinder, but she remembered your Mum's birthday, and bought lovely presents which you were allowed to take credit for. With nostalgia in play, these attributes suddenly seem worth revisiting. Except for the fact that the reality would be rite back to the place of Bananarama and angle grinders.

It's best summed up by Harriet the Hottie - she's both gorgeous and clever, leading me to ask, Why remain friends with such a person? I mean, apart fm having it reinforce my own glowing sense of mediocrity?

Because she's 100% freakin' awesome, and can, without prompting, bestow such gems as:
It'd be like if Angela Merkel was offered the opportunity to establish a German military base in Stalingrad. She'd totally say yes, if just to revisit the good old days...

Pure. Freakin'. Gold.



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

My Name is Pussy Galore

Continuing on the Bond theme - and really, why wouldn't you? - I'm opening this blog up to the silliness that is Create Your Own Bond Girl Name.

Best entry wins a watermelon jolly rancher, plus the right to be publicly referred to by their chosen Bond Girl appelation.

Licence to Thrill

I'll stand up and admit it: I have A Thing for James Bond. Quite where this leaves my Feminist sensibilities, I'm not entirely sure (of course, if James Bond knocked on my front door, and opened with, Melwuv, you're the only woman who could ever be my emotional, spiritual and intellectual equal - do you fancy some dirty dirty raunch sex?, they'd probably be on the floor, with my knickers, but I digress).

But I'm still trying to figure it out. I'm entirely opposed to any kind of violence being threatened or indeed acted upon any woman, by any stronger man. I really don't think that any work a woman does is somehow worth less in monetary terms. I really think that there's room for a MASSIVE improvement in the way government addresses maternity leave.

And as I thought about this, my opinions started to shift. I actually don't agree with domestic violence full stop. I don't care if he hits her, or she hits him, there has to be a better way to deal with personal inadequacies, frustration and pissed-offness. Belting the living daylights out of someone you profess to feel such positive feelings for that you live under the same roof with them is JUST NOT ON.

Looking at pay inadequacies, I sure as hell don't think that, by being a middle class white male who somehow ended up in a managerial, executive position, you're worth intrinsically more - all those CEOs who enjoy bajillion dollar payouts for not actually summoning Satan on the Boardroom Table, I'm looking at you, pals.

And while maternity leave in Australia is woeful, I'm pretty sure there's room to open it up a little, and listen to what the dads have to say. Call me crazy, but there may just be some fathers out there who'd relish the opportunity to hang out with their little ones, and conduct conversations that make them sound like they've left their brains out in the rain, whilst feeding small ppl a diet that is comprised entirely of coloured... mush.

BUT HOW DOES THIS RELATE TO JAMES BOND? I'm glad you reminded me that that's where we're headed - I was getting a little het up back there. But, it a subtle way, that IS my argument. For all the Feminist Establishment lamenting the perpetuation of the female as victim/sexual plaything/nurturer (while never actually getting be all awesome and kick arse... Unless she's evil, in which case she kick everything until dispatched of by James, usually with some dry witticism), Monsieur Bond is hardly 3 dimensional. Let's face it: he's a ripped pussy magnet who occasionally does some spying. That's. About. It. He has discernible skills, for sure - the ability to drive a manual car, the knowledge of several lethal martial arts, and an almost Zen-like affinity with the cocktail shaker and the wondrous concoctions one can inveigle fm it - but when it comes down to it, would you actually want to try and spend a lifetime with this fella? The dirty dirty raunch sex would be plentiful, dirty and raunchy, but what about when you wanted to lie on the couch in trackpants, and argue the merits of crunchy versus smooth peanut butter? Or just stay in and watch 'The Bill' on a Saturday nite? Or indeed, combine the above two activities?

So to those out there that argue that James is a Cold War relic of outdated misogynistic masculinity, I say, too bloody rite! Congratulations! You've cracked it! Such insight! (These comments may or may not be tinged with sarcasm, depending how generous I feel at the time).

It's a constant refrain that women will never live up to the ideals created for them by media and popular cultural consensus. Again, I agree wholeheartedly. But lads, you'll never be James Bond either (sorry). So can we just watch the films (and read the books, for us purists out there), and enjoy a slightly different reality where trackpants, 'The Bill' and nites in are instead replaced by tailored everything, million dollar cards games and massive gunfights in exotic locations, without needing to think too hard about them?

It's time to get back to Bond basics: the dirty dirty raunch sex, and how to get it. End of.



Stay tuned for Melwuv's insightful analysis as to why Casino Royale was 11 kinds of awesome, and may indeed be her favourite Bond film ever produced. NB: she will not discuss Quantum of Solace. At least, not until the spiritual whimpering in her soul quietens the f*ck down.

I'm Surprised

It IS possible to make an Irishman support the British monarchy: simply tell him that Cromwell's willing to help overthrow it, if he can get the necessary Visa to come visit the Republic.

All Stand For The National Anthem

Ladies and Gentlemen, please sit down. I have an announcement to make, and I'd hate to think that you might hurt yourself if you're overcome by emotion.

Today, I would like to announce the presence of Fakeistan, and Robonia.

These sovereign nations are not new, in a physical sense. However, being two Eastern European countries, they have newly demarcated borders, which may have escaped even the most avid geopolitical scholar.

Thus, I present for you a potted history of these illustrious countries.

Located in the Siberian steppes, Fakeistan and Robonia are former USSR satellite states. As such, they are both nuclear powers, but shhh, don't tell anyone. (No, really, they're trying to keep this on the down-low, so they'd totally appreciate you keeping this under your toup). They obtained this technology at the end of the Cold War, during the collapse of the USSR - their location made them the perfect sites for nuclear silos, and when the USSR withdrew from these satellite states, they didn't have time to pack properly. This was poor forward planning on the part of the USSR - no wonder it collapsed! - as they were dealing with countries whose Foreign Policy was, in a nutshell, Finders Keepers. Because Fakeistan and Robonia now have The Bomb, this Policy has extended to encompass a Shit Us And We Nuke You mentality. This is not an ideal situation, but it does mean that everyone is really, really nice to them (until they go the bathroom, then everyone bitches about them behind their backs). Their First Strike Capability is manned by a manic depressive named Igor. When Igor takes to his bed, overcome by the overwhelming bleakness of the human condition, his shifts are covered by his donkey, Trevor. Should you ever tour the weapons facility, make sure you say hello to Trevor, as he has a persecution complex, and a failure to greet him appropriately, and thus shit him, will lead to you being nuked. This is not an ideal outcome for anyone, so practice a big Hello Trevor! before you visit.

Igor (when he's well enough) and Trevor answer to the respective governments of their nations, which are located in the capital cities. Madeupograd, the political heart of Fakeistan, is a triumph of Soviet architecture. Seldom have so many different shades of gray been used in a single city - truly, it is a sight to behold. However, Pravda, the capital of Robonia, can make no such claim. The less said, the better.

The GDP of both nations involves two sets of books. The actual set of books - the ones we're not allowed to disclose - seem to enter a fair few shipments of opium. The money from the provision of such goods to the world is funnelled back into the nuclear program. But we're not talking about that! The set of books that the accountants get to play with state that the main export of Robonia is mercury. This is handy, as this product is readily bought by Fakeistan. Fakeistan uses the mercury to create a dye compound, which is used in the production of dye. Again, handy, because Fakeistan is the world's leading exporter of fuzzy felt shapes. Because of the mercury compound, it is highly recommended that you do not lick these fuzzy pieces. Indeed, if they can be kept away from naked flame or living tissue, so much the better!

The people of these nations are triumphantly living the Communist dream. As such, they can not afford jam, and so are forced merely to lick pictures of jam. They claim this as a crowning achievement in their histories, as previously, they couldn't even afford pictures of jam. In the future, they're looking forward to obtaining radiators.

The easiest way of getting around Madeupograd or Pravda is by Segue. While these bicycle wannabes are the gayest mode of transportation on Earth, the punishment for pointing this out is severe - transgressors are arrested, and forced to watch Star Trek re-runs until they agree that there are gayer things out there. Further, we're talking about of nation of people suffering from mercury poisoning, with access to nuclear weapons. This is a combination that doesn't need right on its side to take the kind of actions that will ruin your day.

But don't let this stop you from visiting this beautiful area of Eastern Europe! Visas can easily be obtained - if the office is closed, simply write 'TREVOR WILL GET BACK TO ME, ASAP' in your Passport with a red pen. All Customs officials will recognise this, as Trevor is a donkey of his word. Happy travelling!

Me Talk Pretty One Day, pt. V*

TLD (that's The Lovely Dave for those of you who haven't been keeping up, and taking note of the developments of this blog), recently opened the Box of Controversy with words he's not a fan of (the entire episode is snap frozen for extra freshness here). While you can take your "moist panties" (oh Christ, excuse me momentarily, while I vomit so hard my eyes fall out), I thought it was time to balance the presentation with a few words that I love so much I want to take them away for a really dirty weekend in BrisVegas.

• Shameful: as in, My God girlfriend, that haircut was shameful! (This usage of the term is most useful when squawking over old photographs. However, much in this world is shameful - just remember that it sounds best when delivered with a tone of embarrassed amusement).
• Minx: it does exactly what it says on the tin, without being overtly sexual and sleazy.
• Surreal: while I use this term for situations that involve absolutely NO melting clocks - thus begging the question, can you really use the term surreal to describe it? - I enjoy its evocation of spiritual and emotional dislocation. Most commonly, God, I saw my ex just then - they look exactly the same, and I'm all like, God, I actually do miss you, until I remembered that they made me listen to Bananarama/vacuumed my dwarf rabbit out existence/slept with someone who decidedly wasn't me, and I'm thinking, You hide the bastard thing so well - you actually look nice, and now I need a little lie down... God, it was just SURREAL. (Who says you need the melting clocks to create a rift from reality, eh?)
• the terms of affection Babes, Sweets and Bella: only the last term is specifically for the pretty ladies; the rest I use indiscriminately, even when I can remember the name of the individual in question. Personally, I like the plural. However, it drives others to distraction. All part of the rich tapestry, I guess.

Are we all in love, or am I once again on the outer? If I've got it wrong (an event with a 98.7% possibility of occurring every damn day), what should I be loving? Come on, fess up - what words get you going?



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

The Writing's On Your Chest, And It's 4 Inches High - the Obama Girls

Awww, are these girls not incredibly cute? Totally set up for a delinquent teenagerhood - how much would you pay to hear the answer to that therapy witch hunt, Tell me about your family? - but adorable! I still don't know what kind of puppy Dad finally coughed up for, but I do know that the White House garden now boasts outdoor play equipment. And, buried underneath it, a nuclear weapons silo, but I digress.

These girls now have a park experience outside their door - a slippery-dip, swings, and, if they forked out for the deluxe package, monkey bars. Oh yeah, they're biggin' it up. Thus, today's t-shirt: LIVING KENNEDY'S DREAM - SWINGING IN THE WHITE HOUSE.

Too much?

The Writing's On Your Chest, And It's 4 Inches High - Brad Pitt

Apparently, Brad Pitt has recently grown a spine, and started behaving in a way that is driving the Mistress of Darkness, Angelina Jolie, more insane than current opinion holds her at. This follows a good three years of Brad's only exercise being nodding in agreement.

Imagine that, a father of 6 who occasionally sneaks a Nite Out with the boys. Next thing you'll be telling me politicians have a tendency towards expounding untruths.

Still, I'm totally getting Brad a new t-shirt: NO LONGER JOLIE'S BITCH. I'd wear it.

Awesome

I got the job, and I'm enjoying it tremendously. The best part? The Emergency Bogong Moth Procedure. How can you not love it?

/meh/

Have made it thru to the 2nd Round of interviews. Have no idea when these are. No one seems to know anything. I choose not to worry, and instead look for answers in my horoscope.

Let's Get Physical

Being a specimen of such physical perfection, ppl are always asking me, MelWuv, what's the secret to lookin' so damn awesome?

In my dreams, perhaps.

I have reached a point where the closest I get to a sit up is a get up, usually fm the couch, in order to grab another bag of corn chips. If I could actually be arsed to figure out the intricacies of on-line grocery shopping, I'd probably stop walking the supermarket aisles to procure such delicacies. However, this hasn't caught up with me yet - another 3 years and I'll be a fat bastard ready for my appearance on 'The Biggest Loser' - but so far, I'm holding back the tide. But this has to change.

I have a relatively good diet - the rule of thumb is my house is, Himself should cook - and don't drink too much (I merely enjoy myself tremendously, as often as possible). However, I'm pathologically stingy in matters relating to gym memberships. I won't pay hundreds of dollars to go running! sez I. I can run around the lake for free, I sez. Of course, I don't. So I sat down, and I tried to think about how to overcome my connundrum, namely

• I don't have the readies to be throwing at the gym
• I hate running with the fire of a thousand suns
• I like having a (relatively) flat tummy, and totally would NOT mind if other bits of me tightened/stopped their vague wobbling

I need a cheap, available exercise routine. Answer? Lots and lots of sex.

• Hello? Do it rite, and it's THE aerobic workout (aerobic is a fancy word for heavy breathing - always a good sign in this field of endeavour)
  
• Get on top, and work your bum and thighs
• No man I have ever, ever met is thinking about how wobbly your bum is/how roundy your tummy is/how small your boobs are during this kind of workout. Not one single man. Mainly, and I rely on the research of myself and others here, the train of thought seems to be, My God, my God, she's so hot, yes yes yes, this is the best ever, she's amazing, do that again, Ahhh! (Admittedly, not being a man, I'm merely recounting this. If you are a guy, and feel this info to be incorrect, please correct me! I dare you!). How great - a workout that's good for your self-esteem!
• Sucking your stomach in (for appearance's sake), makes it all feel a little more awesome
• Do it standing up, and increase your core strength and balance (or, alternatively, fall onto the fall, and die laughing. That's good for you, too)
• You won't have to buy, or wear, stupid, fluro, lycra outfits, or massively expensive running shoes to get the most out of your workout. Unless that's your thing. In which case, you go, you saucy minx!
  
• It's good fun sharing the details of your exercise routine with the unwary who ask what you're doing to keep yourself looking so good (unless this fool is a family member. In which case, you've been doing Pilates. Lots and lots of Pilates)
  

Admittedly, there are some cons

• It's considered poor form, when one is engaged as I am anyway, to have more than one exercise 'buddy'. (On the plus side of this, if you're both committed to your workouts, you won't have the time for another buddy)
• Do it at the gym, and you may be asked to leave/arrested (unless you're a gay man. In which case, you are LIVIN' it, Miss Thing!)
• The money you've saved on gym membership/sports outfits/shoes must be redirected to approriate contraception. That stuff is damn expensive. Bastards.

Have I come up with a brilliant solution to the obesity epidemic? Or am I just looking for an excuse to shag like a rabbit?

/meep/

Job interview on Friday. I'm absolutely sh*tting blue lights. That is all.

Me Talk Pretty One Day, pt. IV*

In a move towards expressing a greater positivity in my life, I'm attempting to move away fm the linear rigidity of 'no' as a negative response. I choose to engage with my creative self, and fm this point onwards will offer such refusals as, They will never find your body.

It has a certain je ne sais quoi.



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

Grant Me The Serenity

Sometimes, changing things is really hard. Like, really REALLY hard. There have been moments (including some under duress) when I've looked at my life, and realised that the state of it is making me unhappy, unhealthy, and slightly mad (oh, who am I kidding? Completely mad. Completely). And despite the wisdom of the statement that admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, this fails to add that that journey of change which any decent recovery entails can be a grade-A, lifelong sonofabitch.

But really, what are the options? Staying where you are can be awesome: comforting, familiar, a place of enduring sameness in an otherwise hostile and ever-changing world. However, it can also mean stagnation, a failure to adapt, and a complete underexposure to new and challenging ways of thinking, doing and being. Change, while offering us the chance to grow and create new ways of of expressing ourselves, can also push us too far away from being ourselves.

God, the New Age, hello trees, hello flowers, la la crap mood of this post is making me cringe - another couple of minutes of this and I'll be reading Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus (Actually, I do want to read this book - it's necessary research for my own future bestseller, Men Are From Earth, Women Are From Earth - F*cking Deal, but I digress).

What I'm attempting to say is this:

• no one can continue to use past hurts as an excuse for current and future bad behaviour. Bad shit goes down for everyone. This is kind of a defining fact of human existence. The trick is to deal, not dwell. Get some therapy, find a 12 Step group, write a novel with thinly-veiled references to those who have wronged you, but for God's sake, do not be that person who, at every party, gets drunk, cries, and wants sympathy for how bad their entire life is. My life is not all f*cking lollies and kittens, but I try to move on.
• remember, it's called Secret Pain because it should be secret. Not everyone needs to know about why your life is such a sh*t. Even more importantly, not everyone cares. Having said that, have at least one brilliant friend who will listen to you. Unloading is theraputic, providing it's not your only method of communicating with others.
• introspection can be f*cking frightning - very few ppl have the desire to honestly examine theirselves and their actions, and look for their own part in things, especially when that part may show them to be less than perfect. However, the most well-balanced ppl do. And we'd all like to be well-balanced, wouldn't we???

So, if you're that unhappy, change. It's scary, painful, and sometimes feels like you're sweating blood for no discernible outcome, but any decision you make to live in the way that makes you feel content and at peace with the world is a change worth making.

And let's face it, you're never gonna be able to change the world to suit yourself. Believe me, I've tried.

I Wanna Have Your Babies - Pick Up Lines that Shock and Amuse #3

Lads, lads, listen up. I'm prepared to share with you, with some considerable measure of personal risk, one of the Great Secrets of wooing women. I have been told by the Sisterhood that sharing such secrets is strictly verboten, but I'm prepared to go out on a limb.

I will state it simply. DO NOT SCREAM AT ME FROM YOUR CAR.

This sounds simple - My God! Yes! The mysteries of the Universe have coalesced! Perhaps women would be more open to my admiration and charming advances if I didn't broadcast my lewd fantasies down Northbourne Avenue - but apparently not. It still happens with a nauseating frequency, to me anyway (of course, I'm nauseated every time it happens, so it mightn't really happen al that often, if you catch my time-relative drift). But no one seems to have told you! You poor little things - I am not berating you, merely sharing with you my perspective. After all, you can't expect anyone to do (or not do) something which hasn't been communicated to them. Nobody here's a mindreader, rite? (Although I have my supicions about TLD - he seems to be pretty in step with my ramblings...)

But back to the matter at hand - it's offensive, it's threatening, and frankly, I'd rather shave my pubic hair off and smoke it than continue a conversation started in this manner. No woman I know thinks, Gosh, what an inventive ice breaker! Perhaps I should start discussing the possiblity of moving in with such a illustrious fellow. Rather, we think you're a tool for doing it. And usually, a tool in a stupid car.

P.S. You'll never win: below is an EXACT recount of a conversation had last weekend.

Him (a young man in a hotted-up Holden with 3 of his mates, sitting at a red light, waiting to cross Northbourne Ave): Hey baby! Looking good! I'll fuck ya tonite!

Her (a Uni student heading home fm a Saturday nite, wearing a modest, below-the-knee dress, crossing Northbourne Ave on foot): Get your hand off it!

Him (now with an even cockier air of posturing, if such a thing is possible): My hands are on the steering wheel! /much laughter from the car/

Her (realising a brilliant straight line when one's offered): Oh, so it's your mate's hand in your pocket, is it?

Him: /thick, 'the Apocalypse is coming!' silence/

Job done. If only he'd read this memo!

3! 2! 1! HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Merry Christmas, mes amies, and a very happy New Year. I hope you all had a wonderful holiday, like I give a f*ck, let's move on.

While I realise I'm a little late with the countdown, I felt it necessary to ask: has anyone out there made any Resolutions worth breaking? If I hear 'I'm going to get fit! I'm going to spend more time with friends and family! I'm going to eat better!' one more time, I'm going to resolve to punch everyone mouthing these platitudes in the wang.

Why is it that we come over so serious on NYE? Hardly the time to be making earth-shattering pronouncements, considering how much Chardonnay has been taken internally during the celebrations, we nonetheless make sweeping statements that we'd be hard pressed to keep with the assistance from a nutritionist, time management assistant and a team of nannies to keep the kids from putting us off our stride.

Is it that we think big in order to achieve moderately? Do we say we'll eat better - nothing but fresh fruit and vegies! - and count cutting down on takeaways from 3 nites a week to 1 a success? Or do we all have this desire to build failure into any project that really could effect dramatic changes in out lives? (Oh God, there's my next rant: Is Change Really That Scary?). Or do we all realise that it's just pants, and simply feel the need to say something at midnite?

Leaving aside these weighty matters, let me share mine with y'all.
1) Finish every bottle of veen-ho I open
2) Shoot more bats

Simple but effective.