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.

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!

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?

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???

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?