Seasons Beatings

Have a very Crisp Mouse and a Hippy Nude Deer!

Letters from Bill Posters

I've just got off the phone to a rather large and internationally well known magazine empire, that specialises in those smallish, family friendly mags that you find on the end of the checkout aisles in most supermarkets.

In short, I was not bloody happy with them.

Last year I signed up for a 12 month subscription as I had an interest in reading an upcoming article - namely mine. One month prior to the end of the subscription, I politely informed them in writing that I no longer wanted to read their magazine and would not be renewing my subscription.

One month later, a magazine appeared in my mail box.

I wrote on it RETURN TO SENDER and threw it back in the post... the same with the one that arrived the next month... and the next month... and the next month. Then one month I received an invoice... which I also wrote RETURN TO SENDER on and popped it back in the post...

... and one the next month that had REMINDER stamped on it... and one the next month with 2ND REMINDER stamped on it... and one the next month with FINAL REMINDER stamped on it... and then finally advising me that to avoid legal action, I had to PAY NOW.

All the while that I wasn't paying this invoice, they kept sending me magazines... and I kept writing RETURN TO SENDER on them and popping them back in the post.

Today I received what could only be called a 'threatening invoice' demanding that they are going to start legal action for the unpaid invoice of $49.95 that I 'owed' them.

Not this little black duck.

I jumped on the phone and blasted the first person silly enough to answer, who advised me rather curtly that I did indeed owe them for a 12 month subscription.
They maintained this view for approximately 2 minutes...

... until I mentioned how I had Googled them and read about the current issues they were having with the ACCC for invoicing unsolicited items.

I now no longer have to pay this bill... funny that.

Gifted child?

I was just reminded by someone of another reason why I am going to hell...

Some years ago I was bored out of my head, enduring a Christmas party attended by people I don't like much... including the irritating 3 year old of a distant relative. For the sake of the now adult child's emotional well-being, let's call him Toby.

According to his mother, Toby was 'gifted' and 'intelligent for his age'. In reality, he was a loud, rude, snotty-nosed pain-in-the-arse. His only redeeming feature was that had a sweet tooth... much to my delight.

Toby loved those fruit roll-up thingys more than life itself and, lucky for me, there were some in the house. So, much to everyone's astonishment (I don't like children... a lot), Toby and I spent a few joyous moments sitting on the floor cutting out star shapes for him to eat. There were lots of coos and comments about how my maternal instincts had finally kicked in.

After things had been quiet for a while, Toby's mum noticed he had disappeared and became somewhat concerned, wandering around the house calling... and then finally went outside in case he had slipped out a door somewhere. She was worried as the house was on a major intersection and there was also plenty of passing pedestrian traffic most of the time.

When she went out the front door, there were a few ladies gathered in a huddle who all smiled that 'knowing mother, poor thing' smile at her. As she got closer she heard mutterings of 'poor little dear' and 'oh, sweet little mite'. Toby's mum was somewhat perplexed, until she turned to face the house...

There was her 'gifted and intelligent for his age child' lovingly licking the glass, huge floor-to-ceiling glass windows looking right out into the world, showcasing Toby to perfection. Picture those poor little kids who ride the 'short bus' each day... and you've got it in one.

Amazing what you can do with a roll-ups star, a smart-arse brat and large window...

... she still isn't speaking to me.

Christmas with Clare

My newest bestie Clare (see previous posts) has invited me to come over to the U.S of A, so I can experience a truly spiritual Christmas with her family and friends.

Clare has offered such enticements as non-alcoholic egg nog, REAL ginger bread men (as opposed to ourwardly gay ones, maybe?), songs of praise and a supportive family situation. Dear god almighty....

In true 'Clareish', she has once again reminded me of my life of sin and various other socially unacceptable habits I have, such as not being able to crochet and apparently I dress and drink like a whore, and has offered to help me find my way back to god... starting with spending Christmas at her home.

Well, thanks for the invite sweetie, but I intend on having grandpappy drag the trailer down closer to the river, start up the still and go and shoot me a few possums to cook up. Momma's gonna drop a shift at the brothel so she can eat with us, and baby brother Bubba will be out on parole by then as well.

Ahhhh... gotta love Christ-e-mass, eh?

Oh, Clare... please drop the little Angels and flashing Choose God emoticons... they make me want to toss my cookies...

I'm not in love... no, no!

I've been doing some 'relationship counselling' with a friend whose husband recently left her for a newer model. She lives in another state, so we have been doing this via email or phone... and I think we may be getting somewhere... finally.

Giselle is funny, pretty and smart... just the kind of girl who attracts losers like Leo.

I got her to write down a list of reasons why their not being together is a good thing, and after she read it back to herself out loud... she laughed and said 'thank fark for that, eh? I'm thinking she has finally realised how much better off she actually is... funny that.

I'm publishing this with her permission, consider it part of the healing process... and besides, I find it funny that he really believes he 'deserves better'.

Leo... I hope your new lady-friend is reading this, it may save her years of annoyance:

1) He snores really loudly and won't admit it, keeps her awake all night
2) He owes her money for various failed 'business ventures' - LOTS of money
3) He licks the lid on every food item he opens - thens puts it back on
4) He wears the same socks 3-4 days in a row
5) He farts in public - loudly - and blames her
6) He thinks leaving skiddies in the toilet for her to clean up is okay
7) He believes housework is 'women's business'
8) Coming home drunk at 4am and expecting sex is the norm
9) Even after 7 years of marriage, going 'dutch' is still expected in restaurants
10) Not showering for 3 days then expecting 'oral pleasures' on demand
11) He doesn't have a credit card because nobody will give him one
12) A woman who earns more than he does obviously 'whored' her way into the job
13) Eating the last of anything is a man's right
14) He throws meals that he doesn't like at the kitchen wall
15) He believes that being 169cm and weighing near on 200kg is not unattractive
16) Body hair? Where DOESN'T Leo have body hair?
17) Likes to sit in traffic, pick his nose and then wipe it on the side mirror
18) Birthday presents... what are they?
19) Telling your wife that she 'used to be hot' on a daily basis is acceptable
20) Telling your wife that at 58kg she is 'fat' on a daily basis is acceptable

Onya, Leo - you're a star.

Eye of the beholder

In this country it is illegal to make false claims over the performance of any product. If it says it pumps 100 litres per hour, will pull 3 tonne, remove mould, last 3 years or heat to this temperature... it has to.

So, what the %$@#! is it with laws relating to cosmetic companies?

I get a little fed up with obviously-surgically-enhanced celebrities touting cheap-ass products that they claim to use to give them their flawless complexions, with 16 year old models showing the fantastic results of anti-aging creams aimed at 40+ women and body creams that promise to lift our sagging arses.

Are women stupid? Yes we are... and we are gullible too.

Seriously, we all know that the $250.00 eye cream modelled by a 15 year old is not going to make much difference to our 45 year old wrinkles. Yet we buy it... hoping to turn back the clock and regain our youthful good looks.
We ogle and crave the designer brand creams and potions that the rich and beautiful claim success with... only to find out they've had excessive surgery to get where they are in the looks department when we open this week's celebrity magazine. But still, we buy them.

And what about a certain day-time soap queen who claims that a little facial scrubbing is the result of her 60 year old face looking like a 12 year old's? Seriously lady, get real... as if you would use a $39.95 product on your million dollar meal ticket of a face?

It appears that the words 'may assist in the improvement of' cover all legal asses on this type of promise. The problem with this is that we allow them to get away with it. They sell us false hopes and dreams at high prices... but still, we buy them.

Women really need to pull their heads in and realise that we are being conned and scammed due to out own stupidity, vanity and false expectations. We allow this to happen because we keep buying it, and when it doesn't perform, we get all depressed and just bin it... instead of lodging a formal complaint to the company.

Remember that guy in India who is suing Lynx for false claims and advertising? He has the right idea, ladies. If you bought a car, house, jewellery or white goods that failed due to not living up to the manufacturer's claims... you'd be on the blower in 30 seconds looking for your money back.

Is your face and self-esteem less important than these?

Dead Fish

If you've ever bought a fish from the pet shop and it's died soon after (causing mass hysteria and hasty explanations to the kids about why things die and go to heaven) then this site is for you.

I rarely tout websites, but if you plan on getting yourself or your kids a pet fish as a 'first pet learning aid' - you MUST check out this website BEFORE you turn into a fish murderer.

It has all the info you need to make that $2.75 goldfish (did you know that the cute little bloke you just bought will actually grow to be up to 8-14 inches long? So much for that bowl you planned to put it in, eh?) last at least ten years... and hold off having to give 'that' talk.

www.kokosgoldfish.com

If you find the information useful - and trust me, you will - make sure you become a subscriber and support this wonderful source of information.

My friend Clare

Clare told me that she had a dream about me last night.
In this dream, Clare saw me holding hands with Jesus and telling Jesus that I was wrong about my anti-christian beliefs and that I would now dedicate my life to god.
Clare said that in this dream, I was smiling and happy.

Clare is f#cking nuts... and I'm starting to think she 'likes' me.

A while back I received an email from a lady by the name of Clare who had found my blog and was 'concerned' that I would end up in hell. Clare hails from Brian Head in Utah in the USA and has decided that - in her quest to get a free-pass into heaven - I would be her chosen charity case.

We have spent the last few months hurtling emails back and forth across the planet (I am starting to feel as if my soul is being used in a game of celestial ping-pong) and it appears that the more I dig my heels in, the more determined she becomes.

Clare has suggested that (after analysing ever piece of information she has been able to find on me - including records of which I have actually been removed from due to biblical misdemeanours - insert the theme music from Twilight Zone here) I try to make the following changes to my life, so that I may find my way back to god and be saved:

1) Stop living in sin.
I am not married, but my boyfriend is... I'm halfway there, Clare!
2) Busy my idle hands and stop wasting time on the internet.
Between killing kittens, eating my neighbours children and poking the eye-balls out of puppies, I really don't have time for much else, Clare.
3) Take up cooking.
I am adept at using my espresso machine and my microwave. At these appliances, I am a goddess.
4) Give my excess money to the church.
They have more money than me, Clare. Besides, I need to fund my illicit habits.
5) Stop being mean.
Stupid people are a god-given and free source of never-ending entertainment.
6) Get married and have children.
Why? I have no need to screw up my life with a bunch of slobbering free-loaders. See point 1.
7) Go to church and give your life to god.
The seats are uncomfortable and god already has squillions of minions, he doesn't need me.
8) Be more positive towards mankind in general.
Yup... I'm going to pop down to the local prison and give Ivan Milat a big-old hug!
9) Tell Jesus that I am sorry for not believing in him.
Once I get through apologising to Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny, I'll get right onto that!
10) Don't be nasty to 'door-knockers'
Okay, I will share my beer with them, okay?

Clare, Clare, Clare...

eBay En-Tree-Pren-Ooo-Ers

I've just purchased a really nice ring on eBay. It's a designer item and - in all honesty - I'm actually only interested in the box... seriously.

The ring is in the U.S of A (a good place to buy designer cast-offs) and the guy I purchased it off is a budding entrepreneur that we will call Neddy.

Neddy not only has his own eBay store where he sells expensive stuff on consignment, but he also has a couple of blogs whereas he shares his infinate wisdom on his plans for 'just being' and running a successful business with nil overheads. Neddy ends all correspondence with 'Light'... which is kind of cool... if you are into that kind of thing.

Neddy appears to be a pretty nice guy.

The problem is that Neddy doesn't follow his own advice and, obviously, doesn't appear to read his own blogs or even take note of his uni degree in Entrepreneurial Studies. Which is not good when it is your own plans, ideas and goals that you are writing about... are we cool on this? Light...

Neddy goes on about having nil overheads by selling on consignment only. It appears that Neddy feels not having to pay for storage is a good way to save money. Problem is that it doesn't save time, either. What Neddy fails to realise is that getting that highly desirable item out to the buyer (who has paid for it quickly because they want it quickly) is the way to good feedback - which is the way to more sales... meaning, of course, more money for Neddy to spend on 'just being'.

Our good mate Neddy must also have nil overheads on office equipment, because it appears he has to wait in line at the local library to use their free internet. Answering emails promptly is good business... answering it three days later (or not at all) is not.

Neddy also goes on about adding in packaging etc to the auction price, hence no overheads there either. What Neddy fails to realise is that adding in extras - like fuel, packaging, travel, wear and tear on shoes, time waiting in queue and possibly even a snack on the way back home AFTER the final price has been given at auction is one of the quickest ways to piss off a buyer.

He also fails to notice that the USPS website quotes actual postage costs for every country on the planet... how clever is that! You can work out precise costs, including insurance, and how long it will take for your parcel to arrive... you can even track it online to see where in the world it currently is... neato! Therefor, quibbling over postage is a bit silly, when the buyer already knows the who, why, where and cost they should be paying.

Neddy...dude... once a person pays you for an item, it belongs to them! You are actually obligated to provide them with not only the item, but the tracking details/options they have paid for. This should happen reasonably soon, not when you happen to wander past the post office on your way to the beach because the surf is really gnarly today!

PayPal Neddy, PayPal... is the buyer's friend. If we pay for something and don't get it, we get our money back. One of the best ways for a seller to protect themselves is by following PayPal guidelines and insuring the item, and by following PayPal guidelines and making sure the buyer also pays for tracking on the item. Your ass is then covered... unless you take the payment from the buyer who requested this coverage and then fail to do so... then Neddy... your ass is grass...

... and you suddenly have your first overhead... from PayPal.

So, Neddy... I'm still waiting for an email from you to let me know that you have received my payment, have mailed my item and have a tracking number for me. If you haven't got around to that yet and are having trouble understanding the concept, I know of an awesome blog that will give you the finer points of starting an eBay business.

There's a really good paragraph on not getting greedy about postage fees, and there's even one about good communication. You may want to give them a quick flick over when you get back from the beach... I hear the surf down at the beach near the post office is pretty gnarly at the moment.

Me? I'll just sit over here in a nice spot and wait for Neddy to see the Light...

Bang bang... you're red...

I was down at Woollies the other night grabbing the biggest bag of Mozarella cheese I could find (for the biggest Mozarella eating boyfriend I know), when I happened to take a short cut down the aisle that hosts all things feminine.

I wandered past a pair of ladies chatting happily away at the top of the aisle, meandering past cosmetics and cheap cotton underwear, until I came across two cute little boys - aged about 3 or 4 - sitting on the floor.

From the sounds of them, they were having a blast. The instantly internationally recognisable sounds of pretend gunfire and bombs, and yells of 'incoming' and 'charge', indicated that they were playing soldiers... very cute.

It wasn't until I actually stopped to look in on their game that I realised what their weapons of choice were...

They'd torn open about 3 boxes of tampons (ensuring they each had a different colour in order to define ranks and sides) and were having a great old time bombing, blowing up, shooting and maiming the opposing tampons.

I wanted to hang around to see what happened when their mothers noticed their game but was short on time, so I trotted off laughing to myself.

I wondered on the way home who had actually won the 'Great CareFree Battle of 2009 on the Woollies Plains'... and whether two small boys got their asses whooped when they got home.

Smells like...

I just got back from dragging my sick, sorry arse out to shop for supplies - no shoppie, no eatie - basically.

The Hills Orchid Society had a massive display of stunning flowers at the Winston Hills Mall... very impressive. So, I figured I would walk through the display and inhale the luscious scent of expensive flowers, hoping to make myself feel a little better... only to find out that...

Orchids smell like piss.

Knock knock...

I had a rather heated discussion the other night with a work colleague over the rather annoying (and in my opinion, extremely rude) habit of certain religeous groups to knock on your door, touting their god-products.

First up, before all you god-fearing folk start burning my house down... this is not just about religeon, it's about respecting other people's ideas and the fact that 'a man's home is his castle'. You don't just march up to someone's home and tell them that everything they have ever believed in is wrong. THAT is just bloody rude!

Whether it's football, religeon or politics - in this country, everyone has the right their own opinion and, above all, the right to do as they please in their own home.

Which includes discouraging 'door-knocking-opinion-givers' in whatever way they choose. I choose to be rude to them, quite simply because they are being rude to me by having the gall to think they have the right to tell me what to do in my own home. They use the excuse that they are spreading 'the word' or only trying to help me. Bullshit...

Did 'your' Jesus doorknock? No... he would have got his arse kicked to the curb. So, instead of door knocking, how about you try doing what 'your' Jesus did... call the people unto him! Drop a pamphlet in my mailbox - if I want to be saved, I will call you. It's that easy, people... practise what you preach and for crying out loud... READ YOUR BIBLE. Don't just pull out the bits that are relevant to you and adapt them to suit yourself.

Personally... I have waged a little war against 'door knocking' or 'money-grabbing' religeons - sometimes with the help of two unknowing friends who - of all things - hate each other based entirely on the other's choice of 'door knocking' team. Pretty stupid, eh?

Here's a sample of a few things I've done over the years, I've pulled out a few that relate to god-squaddas - I like to refer to them as 'Global Domination by Methods of Hilarity':

1) Watch the Benny Hind god-squadda show... listen to tale of 'How I gave my last 10c to the lord and he gave me $1000' (whilst noticing he has diamond buttons and cufflinks)... ring the 'donation' number and try to convince the lady to agree to the deal that I will donate 10c if they send me a cheque for $1000.00.

2) Take details of a friend who is a member of one 'door-knocking' religion... fill them into a form on the website of another 'door knocking' religion... of which another friend is a member... then return the favour with their details to the first friends website.

3) Blind 'Conference Call' two people from opposing 'door knocking' teams who hate each other... a lot. Best time to do this is on a Sunday morning around 7am, just as everyone is getting ready to go to church. Snicker quietly to yourself as you listen to them accusing each other of trying to make them late for church!

4) When a 'door knocker' comes to your door, politely refuse them, but give them the details of a dear, dear friend who really needs their help (namely your friend from the opposing 'door knocker' team.) Return the favour when the alternate team arrives on your doorstep (as they always do) a few days later!

5) Listen patiently - and with a big smile on your face - when a couple of young blokes riding bikes and wearing name tags stop you in the street for a chat. Wait until they notice you haven't replied then ask, "May I borrow your bike? I had to sell mine to buy beer and my welfare payment isn't due until next week'.

6) When 'door knockers' come to your home, have one of your children bark and growl at them through the security screen door. Explain to them that he/she is possessed and the blood of christians is the only thing that quietens them. If they offer to assist in any way, thank them and ask if they have AIDS or Hep' C. Give your child a big hug as the offenders make their escape at high speed down your driveway.

Seat 666 has just been reserved for me in the first-class section of Hell...

Burying the past

I was watching a piece on TV the other day about a bunch of school kids out west somewhere burying a 'time capsule'. It brought back memories of when I was in primary school, how we all put something we thought would be interesting to people in the future into a plastic container and buried it under a tree.
We put in class photos, coins, newspapers... the usual stuff a seven-year-old would think people would be interested in.

But sitting here now, I realise back then that while that stuff was cool, how accurate a picture of life would it have been?

I decided that I would make up a list of things that should go into a more realistic representation of our lives in 2009...

1) An iPod loaded with a 'Rick Roll' to really screw the bastards up... never gonna give you up.. never gonna let you down... never gonna AAAARRRGGH!!
2) A hand-shaped back scratcher on a long stick from Go-Lo. Ha Ha! Imagine the buggers trying to work that one out! One of them would write a thesis on how we must have been hand-worshippers and it was probably a sceptre of some description
3) A packet of cigarettes... let's show them how silly we really were
4) A picture of John Howard... they'll think we all looked like badgers
5) A Ralph magazine, some twat will think it is a guide to fertility rituals
6) A Chiko Roll. Why? Because it will STILL be edible
7) A can of Coke - in 2000 years it should still be drinkable
8) Michael Daley... well hell, WE don't want him!
9) A Star Wars figurine - they'll think we knew more about space travel then we actually do
10) A Snuggy... so we all look like Yoda!

So, basically this will confirm to them that we are junk food worshipping fat bastards, who love Rick Astley, dress like Yoda, root a lot and worship hand-sceptres... that ought to screw 'em!

Tell ya what I want, what I really really want!

Ring Ring... Ring Ring... Ring Ring...

S: Hello?
T: Hi, I'm from 'Blah Blah Telemarketing' in Melbourne and we are doing research into what NSW people want.
S: (silence)
T: Hello?
S: Sorry, I'm just thinking about what I want...
T: Oh...
S: (silence)
T: (silence)
S: Got it!
T: Uh... yes well..
S: Dinner!
T: Sorry?
S: I want pain in the ass telemarketers from Melbourne to piss off and let me eat my dinner in peace
T: CLICK!

Mating rituals

I've been house-bound for some weeks due to being ill (not under home detention for stealing donuts from small children, as rumours seem to indicate) so it was with great delight that I was unleashed back into the general populous yesterday morning. I had to renew my driver's license so headed off to the local RTA.

As usual there was a massive lineup, so I grabbed my ticket from the machine and grabbed a seat. Directly in my line of sight was a young bloke of around eighteen, of unidentifiable nationality, who was so blatantly intent on picking up that it was laughable. Let's call him Wally... for obvious reasons.

The first indication that Wally wasn't in the same mindframe as everyone else, was that he wasn't holding any paperwork, or even a numbered ticket. Add to that, he was paying no attention whatsoever to the indicator board ticking over the numbers as they were called to the counter. Wally was in foreign territory, it seemed.

Next up was the fact that it was 8.45 on a Saturday morning, it was only around ten degrees, foggy and rainy. People were bleary eyed, sniffly and rugged up to the hilt, with many (including myself) who looked like they had just got out of bed. But not Wally... he was primed to go.

He was wearing a tight singlet-like top, fashionably creased jeans and shiny leather boots. He had just about every piece of jewellery he owned around his neck and had obviously spent a great deal of time and hair product getting his tossled look just right. Notably, he had postioned himself directly under the airconditioning heating duct... which made me assume that this was not the first time he'd hunted in this terrain.

The body language was obvious: Aggressive crotch-display seating position, arms carefully folded to ensure his wrists pushed out his bicep muscles, casual lean to one side and oh-so-sexy half-smirk on his face. He knew he was the Alpha Male in the room and had staked his claim to any females that strayed into his domain. Thing is, poor Wally wasn't exactly the most attractive of guys...

He would've weighed around sixty kilos wringing wet and had a rather frighteningly large over-bite. Add acne and body odour... you get the picture. But these appeared to go unnoticed by Wally and he hunted on, regardless.

First target was a young Asian girl who wandered into his strike zone. She sat directly across from him and made the mistake of making eye contact. Wally fluffed himself up, leaned forward and gave her a wink. I nearly laughed out loud when the young lady responded by coughing loudly and moving seats. But Wally was undeterred and postured himself, ready for the next female to approach.

Next up was a woman, 30-ish and well dressed. She sat nearby and was honoured with Wally shifting into a standing crotch-display position (thumbs hooked into beltloops and index fingers pointing to 'the goods'). He gave her his best chin-lift and dazzling smile. She simply looked away, but Wally pushed on. The next time she glanced up, he winked and motioned for her to come over. At this point I could no longer stifle my amusement and laughed out loud.

This resulted in the entire room craning to look at the crazy lady laughing to herself, so I hunched down in my seat, pulled my jacket around me and pretended I wasn't there.

The lady gave him one of the best 'Go Fark Yourself, Buddy' looks I have ever seen. It was beautifully executed and a ten-out-of-ten. Wally sat back down and concentrated his efforts to the next closest target, a woman with two small children. He was dutifully ignored, despite him trying every trick he knew. Again, I laughed and was met with quizzical looks - one man even moved away from me.

I was called to the counter at this point, had my photo taken and then returned to my seat to wait for my new license. In the meantime, Wally had managed to get a girl to talk to him. She was a rather scruffy looking lady (totally out of place in Castle Hill), but this didn't seem to bother Wally, he was putting on his best mating display - and it seemed to be working for him. He was grinning from ear to ear posturing his little heart out, he was a man on a roll...

...until she tried to bum a few dollars off him.

I burst out laughing when he got up and walked out. Funny thing was, she followed him outside and as I was getting into the Jimny, she was hitting him up for a cigarette as well... he looked suitably horrified.

Seems beggars can't be choosers... either way!

Oh, joyous bounties!

Now, I'm not one to buy trashy women's magazines in the first place, therefor when I do read one I am suitably horrifed by their contents. Scary stuff like: 'How do I make my man jealous?' or 'Oh my god, my arse DOES look big in jeans!' or 'Paris Hilton wears underwear!' Gimme a break...

So, it was with the same curiosity that causes you to poke your head into dark places that I opened up one of those 'shop at home' catalogues during a break at work. Dear god... WTF are these people on?!

In order to give you a better idea of what delights-of-random-boganess are available in these leaflets, I'll give you a sample and review - making sure I include some of the incredibly talented copywriting in the ads:

1) FAUX SHEEPSKIN RUG IN NATURAL WHITE: Sumptuous, fluffy, comfy and cosy. These realistic faux sheepskin rugs are so soft and silky that nobody will ever know they aren't real.
* Faux, natrual, sumptuous and fluffy in the same sentence is downright scary. In the dead of night, these faux sheepskins leap onto your bed and tear your throat out... and you wondered where all the bad faux sheep go.

2) WONDER BANANA SLICER: Just press this banana-shaped, multi-bladed, plastic slicer down on a banana and you will have uniform slices in a jiffy!
* WTF...you'd spend just as much time washing the bits of banana out of it as you would slicing a banana. Add to that, anyone obsessed with their banana slices being uniform really needs a punch in the face!

3) LUXURY CLASSIC PATCHWORK LEATHER HANDBAG: Made of high quality, soft and supple patchwork leather, this handbag will delight you with its versatility and style.
* Delight?! Farking hell, obviously someone found a box of these in a storage shed that's been locked up since the 1970's! Dags of leather that have been swept up off the cutting room floor do NOT a luxury handbag make!

4) UNISEX PORTABLE URINAL: Made for both men and women, these sturdy plastic urinals remove the need to leave your bed if infirmed due to illness.
* Unisex? Either someone failed biology or there are a bunch of REALLY uncomfortable old folk out there busting for a pee.

5) ADULT WATERPROOF APRON: This stylish apron is perfect for those times when you need to keep your clothes clean and free from careless food spills.
* IT'S A BIG-ARSE BIB, PEOPLE! Looking at the pictures though, it appears to be pretty heavy-duty plastic around the neckline - may save you from faux sheepskin attacks.

6) MULTI-COLOURED FLORAL KAFTAN - ONE SIZE FITS MOST: Imagine your friends admiring glances when you wear this stylish and functional kaftan. 100% polyester in rainbow colours, it will delight you with it's classic look.
* Oh, dear god...

7) SOFA SAVERS: Correct your sagging sofa seats with this ingeniously designed and easily fitted sofa corrector. Make your sofa look like new!
* It's a stupid piece of cardboard you shove under your cushions because your fat-arsed mates have destroyed them... all for $29.95! For that price, they'd better lift my actual arse, too...

8) LUCKY CRYSTAL CHARM: Delightfully sparkling, this faceted and colourful gem will bring you luck and beauty! 100% unbreakable poly-plastic - a wonderful gift!
* Oh well, being plastic means it won't break into deadly shards when you shove it up the arse of the person who gave it to you...

9) BRAIDED CAT-SHAPED RUG: This amazingly beautiful rug will be a delightful addition to anyone's home. Made from totally recycled materials, it's environmentally friendly and cute too!
* Oh for farks sake... come aaawn...

10) DELUXE NAIL CLIPPERS WITH LIGHT AND MAGNIFIER: This deluxe set of nail clippers will allow even the most sight-deficient person to cut their own nails easily!
* Uh... if you need a magnifying glass and a light to even FIND what you are cutting, shouldn't someone else be doing it for you?

And to top all of this off, if I order within the next 30 days, I get a free goldplated, designer inspired, created diamond, fully adjustable one-size-fits all engagement ring... value $29.95!

Oh! Be still my beating heart!

No kidding, eh?

I've just had an argument with a friend about a few posts I've made on various websites over the last few days, regarding my use of a dirty word. The dirty word I've been using is... wait for it... MISANTHROPE.

What's a misanthrope, you ask? (Please assist by pressing your *RANT ON* button now).

Depending on who you speak to, the explanation ranges from raging sociopaths (think Hitler) to sniping holy-than-thou gay poets with a dislike of society in general (think Oscar Wilde). Personally, I like to compare myself to a (currently) famous character - Dr Gregory House.

I find most of the things humanity involve themselves with to be trivial, time-wasting and futile. I am no slave to fashion, have no interest in fads or current trends, I don't care if my non-conformity costs me 'popularity points'. I lack the 'herd mentality' required to accept religion and become a slave to the expectations of others.

Whilst my list of friends is rather compact, those that do understand and accept me as I am have my undivided loyalty and respect, for life... even if they do stupid things some times and piss me off. I'm not easy to make friends with as I am so finely attuned to your body-language (a gift from my grandmother, apparently) that I preempt your next move and can have you tagged as an arsehole even before you open your mouth. I can hate you on sight... and 99.9% of the time, my original instinct is correct.

I have no time for: multi-generation-single-mum-welfare leeches, people who whinge about how life has passed them by (while sitting on their asses... watching life passing them by), women who whine about not finding the perfect man (my advice to you all is 'Don't set your standards too high and you'll never be disappointed'), people who bitch about their ill health (while smoking their 43rd cigarette and drinking their 21st scotch), those who complain about being overweight (whilst eating a kilo of deep-fried balls of bacon-fat) and those who rely on (insert your Holy Entity of Choice here) for someone to thank/blame depending on their current circumstances because they are too frightened to make their own decisions and then claim the responsibility of their actions.

People... you are what you eat. You are what you do to yourself. You are what you think is real. You are what you believe. Stop blaming outside influences, bad luck, (insert the god of your choice here), other people, family history and social restraints... get OFF your arse and make the life that you want HAPPEN. If you never accomplish all your life's goals... IT'S YOUR FAULT.

In short? Humanity needs to pull it's head in and accept responsibility for causing death, destruction, wars, famine, cruelty, crime, over-population, opression and destruction of the planet. We busy ourselves with fashion trends, power-struggles, earning too much money, bickering over who is pissing in who's corner and whether our 'god' is bigger and better than your 'god'... then killing each other because we disagree.

Have I upset you? Good... now get off your arse and make your life better.

I don't care if people find me weird... anti-social... irreverant... or just downright 'acidic' (a moniker placed on me by one of the most indecisive, uncoordinated, two-faced and socially caustic individuals I have ever had the misfortune to encounter) - if I can improve one persons life by insulting them into living another 10 years, clip the wings of some soul-damaging gossip or embarrass a woman into leaving their fist-happy husband, I've justified my place in the universe without having to make any effort.

Whilst I hate many (with justification) and love very few (with all my heart)... I fear nothing and am content with who I am...

...and I'm happy about that :)

Muesli tastes good... WTF?

I have been making a concerted effort to eat healthy lately... it's amazing what a blood pressure reading of 172/112 will incite you into doing.

Since man first found a way to mix a concoction of grains together that was gritty enough to wear down his teeth to the point that the word 'attrition' was invented, muesli has been - for want of a better word - 'enjoyed'. Seeing as it is talked up as the healthiest way to start the day on a regular basis, I figured I'd give it a go.

Damn... there is SO much to learn about muesli!

Now, it's very rare that I have anything nice to say about something found on a supermarket shelf (unless it contains bacon, chocolate... or both) but after careful research involving annoying the living crap out of any shop assistant who strayed too close... I've actually found a muesli worth eating. Seriously... it's actually edible.

Woollies put out their own brand of healthy crap called Naytura - stupid name, but the muesli is good. After wasting large quantities of cash on 'healthy' mueslis that consisted mainly of either burnt blobs of crumbs held together by copious quantities of sugar and sprinkled with nuts or what could only be described as left over cattle-feed, I gave up on finding a muesli that I could eat.

Wandering around the aisles looking for cheap, tasty stuff that I could mix in with my rat's usual grain-food (I like to throw together a concoction I call 'Rat-Crunchies' from cheap cereals) I noticed the Naytura muesli in the healthy section. It had nuts, it had fruit, it had no toasting, it had no added sugar and it was on special - perfect!

Whilst making up my Rat-Crunchie mix, I figured 'what the hey' and tipped some into a bowl and chucked on some soy milk... awww maaaah gawd... it was good. It was probably the only one I tried that didn't have so much sugar in it that my lips hit the back of my head.

So, in a nutshell - Woolworths Naytura Fruit and Nut Muesli tastes good, and that's a fact... according to rats, both large and small.

January, September, March, April...

Since when - in Australia, anyway - is the second month of the year September?

I've just got off the phone from (insert name of phone company here). The purpose of my call was to find out when my contract expired and possibly lower my plan as I rarely use my mobile for anything other than a handy alarm clock.

After sitting on hold long enough to make a sandwich, I was put through to a lady with an American accent. Now, considering the current situation with call centre hiring policies, I automatically assumed she was somewhere in Delhi and had just finished a course on 'How to Sound Like an American, Australian or New Zealander'... until she had to tell me when my contract expired.

After confirming my ID, she advised me that my contract would finish on the ninth of the second this year.

So... assuming that my contract had already expired, I asked her what deals I was eligible for. I was met with silence, then a rather curt 'but your contract has not expired'. I reminded her that she had told me that my contract expired on the ninth of the second this year, to which she responded, 'yes this year, not last year'.

S: Okaaaaaaay, let me get this straight. My contract expires on the ninth of the second this year, yes?
O: That's correct
S: And it hasn't expired yet?
O: (sigh) That's correct
S: Are you drunk?
O: I'm sorry?
S: Let me rephrase that... what time-warp continuim have you transported yourself into?
O: (silence)
S: Can you please explain to me how, if my contract expires in the second month - being FEBRUARY this year - that it hasn't expired yet?
O: Oh, I'm sorry you must be confused, it's....
S: No, I am not the one who is confused. You are calling from a call centre in Australia, right?
O: Of course I am...
S: Now I KNOW you have been drinking!
O: (silence)
S: I hate to tell you this, but in AUSTRALIA February comes before September. Also - in Australia - the 2nd of September is described as the SECOND OF THE NINTH. We don't 'arse-up' our days and months like Yanks do.
O: (Silence)
S: So... once more for the dummies, my contract is not up until the 2nd of September, yes?
O: That is correct.
S: (Silence)
O: Did you wish to pre-extend your contract?
S: *CLICK*

Mmmmmm.... bacon!

... my name is Squik, and I am a Bacon-Addict. It has been 17 minutes since I had my last bacon... and with the grace of the almighty, I will last another 17...

Mmmmm... what is it about bacon that drives people mad? Is it the smell of succulent rashers frying in the pan? The taste of that salty, bacony goodness? Is it the crispy, crunchy texture of the rind as it snaps in your mouth?

Dammit, I simply cannot go past the stuff. If I had to define a food that I would crawl over broken glass for, bacon would be it. Regardless of what health regime I am inflicting upon myself, I must have bacon. When I am being really good, I grill it... but when I am being really bad it's fried and garnished with mozarella cheese... my second favourite food of choice.

Such is the effect bacon has on people, even the mere suggestion of it can have people running for their nearest deli. This was the case about a week ago, when a work colleague and I stumbled upon the topic in the last hour of our shift. I can't even remember how it started, but my colleague just casually mentioned how good bacon was and it went on from there.

What ensued was a marathon discussion of the virtues of bacon, which then escalated to an ever-widening trap that ensnared those that walked into it. We hit upon an idea - a social experiment, if you would - and as staff began to arrive, we would simply look them in the eye and say 'bacon'. Their faces would change and they would respond with something like 'yeah... that's what I'd like for breakfast, bacon! Damn, bacon... where can I get a bacon and egg roll?'

There was no 'why did you just say bacon?' or 'bacon? what do you mean, bacon?'... it seems that people are just programmed to buy bacon when the command is made.

It was like launching a plague and by 8am, we had just about everyone in the office estolling the virtues of bacon and arranging for someone to pop down the road and grab a shitload of egg and bacon rolls.

What other food can create such instant hysteria? Chocolate tends to be just a mid-afternoon or late-night fixation, but bacon transcends time and space. Slap a rasher of bacon on the grill and within seconds you have a room full of people asking what you are cooking... it doesn't happen with steak or chicken... only the magic of bacon has this power over the common man.

Don't believe me? Check out the Royal Bacon Society website: www.royalbaconsociety.com, they even have a pattern for knitting yourself a bacon scarf! Their slogan of "Bacon is Meat Candy" says it all...

So, when the clock hit 08:00 and my shift ended, I raced down to the local Woollies and purchased a big-ass pack of bacony wonderment... and a big-ass packet of grated mozerella cheese...

... I can stop any time I want, really... I can...

Curdy Milky Bits

Being an avid... uh, let me rephrase that... vaguely enthusiastic participant in various weightloss programs, I've become a bit of an armchair expert on them. This brings me to my latest disappointment.

I've been on the Tony Ferguson weightloss program for around 4 months now and have quite happily lost 11 kilos. However, out of curiousity - and the convenience of being able to get supplies at a supermarket 24/7, I decided to give The Biggest Loser a go. I grabbed a pack of soups (just over twenty bucks) and a few chocolate shakes (nearly four bucks each) and gave it a whirl.

My first mistake was to take them to work with me meaning that, due to the fact I am literally in lockdown for eight hours, they were my only source of food for eight, long hours.

Now, with the Tony Ferguson shakes, I can add a spoonful of coffee, boiling water, stir and end up with a creamy, yummy vanilla latte or mocha coffee. Figuring the Biggest Loser shakes were basically the same, I tried making a mocha coffee with a chocolate one. YUK!

What's a nice way to say 'consistancy of ground rat droppings'? It was watery, and developed a crust on the top which, when stirred in, gave the impression that fibre glass had been finely ground up and blended in. I tentatively took a mouthful and gagged. I let it sit for a while hoping that it would all 'blend in' but it simply turned into a fibrous mess... it was like drinking something that had curdled.

So, this experiment was stamped 'DUD' and filed in the big white filing cabinet with the flip-top lid, in the kitchen.

Round two was a stab at the Roast Chicken and Vegetable soup - which I was hoping would be successful as by this time I was starving.

With the Tony Ferguson soups, my favourite thing to do is grab a single-serve bag of steamer veges, steam them, sprinkle an Asian Curry or Creamed Chicken Soup over the top and add boiling water. Stir it up and you have either a two-minute laksa or a chicken/vege stew of sorts. I figured it would be the same with The Biggest Loser soup...

I steamed up the veges and sprinkled on the soup. Upon closer inspection, it looked as if the soup was comprised of powdered glass! There were tiny little crystals of an unknown substance throughout the mix... weird. Throwing caution to the wind, I added boiling water and stirred... and the whole thing separated and congealed. It looked like a thin, curdled custard gone horribly wrong.

It was watery with little lumpy, milky-bits suspended in it. However, being as hungry as I was, I gave it a burl. It tasted like it looked... curdled and with a grainy texture. Little lumpy white fibres clung to the veges... so I filed it in the same cabinet the shake went into...

... and scammed half of my colleagues pizza.

In short, fantastic television concept... but it's no wonder they all lost so much weight... they starved.

Busted...

We all do things automatically... stuff you do every day without even thinking about it.

If it's something 'anti-social' - like scratching, picking your nose or adjusting yourself - you take a quick look around to make sure nobody is watching before proceeding. However... why do we throw caution out the window (literally) when we are in our cars?

On my trips home from work each morning, I'm amazed at the amount of people I see scratching, picking and preening, totally forgetting they are out in public. They wouldn't do it standing on the footpath or even in the middle of the road, yet they will do it in their car.

I found out just how public doing stuff in the 'privacy' of your own car can be this morning... and I will NEVER do it again!

Sitting in the traffic at a set of lights, I was waiting to turn right. The traffic was banked up both ways as either heading north or south will still get you onto a freeway heading into the city.

I was contemplating just how much the hot cross buns I had eaten earlier were bloating my stomach, when the need to 'pass wind' came on. Without a second thought - and as I had done on numerous occassions due to being the only person in the car - I decided I'd simply let one rip.

I lifted myself off the seat slightly, twisted a little for maximum effect and gave the appropriate facial expressions of a job well done. Excellent... I felt instantly better and relax back into the seat.

The 'bip bip bip bip bip' of a horn beside me from the traffic banked up in the opposite direction brought me back to reality...

I looked over and there are two council workers in a white Hi-Ace truck, hanging out the window laughing and applauding...

... oh... dear... god...

Realising that my fart had not gone unnoticed, I did the only thing I could... I rested my head on the steering wheel and pulled my hair around my face. I was mortified! I hoped that the traffic would simply move on, but no, it sat still for a few minutes more allowing my tormentors the thrill of watching me slide as deep into my sheep skin seatcovers as I could - all the while yelling, honking and giving me the big 'thumbs up'.

I started laughing and, figuring I might as well try and save the last shred of dignity I had left, I turned to face them and gave them the sweetest smile I could muster. The driver just grinned and gave me an 'okay' sign... then they drove off.

Slinking home, I told my other half what had happened and he just burst out laughing... I will never live this one down it seems.

Delinquent Pigeons

I was out the back yard this afternoon putting some stuff in the bins and have been bailed up by a pigeon. And not just any pidgeon, it was the Punk Pigeon of Death.

As well know... pigeons are known for being placid little guys who only really care about scamming free meals, crapping on anything of value and having bird-sex in the background of your carefully composed wedding photos. They scoot off when you approach and the most agressive thing they do is coo pigeon-abuse at you from a great distance.

But not this little guy... he was on a mission. Whilst the reasons for his full-scale attack on me will never be known, it has now made me wary of these deceptively passive guys. It's like being bailed up by a pensioner... with a pointy stick.

I was simply dumping stuff in the bin, when I became aware of a foofing noise and movement next to me. Looking down, I saw a pidgeon fluffed out to the max strutting back and forth, jumping at me and 'foofing' every now and then. I actually laughed at it and turned away to continue with my task - which must have annoyed it, as it took it's display one step further... it pecked my bloody ankle!

Spinning around I did what any normal person would do under attack - I kicked at it... further enraging it. It jumped up and made a swipe at my knee... then returned to foofing and strutting around my feet... WTF??!!... it's a pigeon for christ sake!!

I pretty pissed by now and picking up a plastic bottle, hurled it full-tilt at the little bastard. The bottle went right, he dodged left... which left my ankles open for attack again. Bugger this, I figured, you want war you little bastard... you'll get it!

I jumped at him with my right foot swinging and managed to connect this time. I punted him fair across yard, causing him to bounce off the fence. But did this stop him? Nooooooooo! He righted himself and got airborn, then literally divebombed me. WTF?? This - again - is a bloody pigeon!!!!

It landed back on the roof of my car and strutted back and forth, foofing and jumping... then flew off. So, here I am with a bloodied ankle standing under the carport wondering what the hell had just happened.

So.. be careful of those cute little pigeons with the punk-spikey-hairdo... the little bastards are planning global domination... one peck at a time.

Ninja Undie Attacks

What is it with men and washing machines? My other-half is pretty good at separating whites from coloureds and not putting fluffy towels in with work pants etc... but it's those BLOODY burrs that get me!

Anyone that knows me knows that we are involved in Tuff Truck and this means that for weeks prior to the event there is a lot of work to be done on the property to get it ready. Some of this work involves fencing and clearing, of which my other-half is an active participant.

The problem is that getting stuck into this type of work means that he has to walk through acres and acres of long grass and scrub that has these nasty little burrs - ones that look like little Ninja throwing discs. They are three sided and these little bastards are SHARP.

So, these nasty little pricks (take that anyway you like) have a habit of adhering themselves to his socks. When he comes home after a weekend up at the site, there are literally HUNDREDS of them hitching a ride back with him. A solution we used to have was our little 'prickle remover'... my rat, Fee Fee. These seemed to be the rat equivalent of chocolate, and if I laid out the socks for her (or if Greg was sitting somewhere with her) she would spend ages picking them off and stashing them in her 'pantry' to enjoy later. We no longer have Fee'... so the little buggers remain intact.

The problem lies with washing these socks. Greg has the really annoying habit of just tossing them in with the 'first' load of washing... which includes all my lacy bras and undies. Burrs + lacy undies = OUCH!

I first became aware of this factor during an important meeting. I was deep in conversation with a client and was suddenly aware of a sharp sensation in my... ahh.. 'nether regions'. I shifted in my chair to get comfortable and was met with a similar sensation elsewhere in my underwear.

Attempting to soldier on with the meeting, I spent the next 30 minutes shifting around in my chair (much to the odd looks of those around me), attempting to discretely deal with the sensation of having 1000 bull-ants in my undies. Once the meeting was over, I raced off to the ladies to try and work out what the hell was going on.

Bolting into the loo, I tore off my underwear and inspected them closely. There were literally HUNDREDS of tiny little burrs (unseen as when I dressed that morning it was still quite dark) imbedded in the lace and elsatic, that had slowly worked their way to the surface, inflicting what can only be described as the equivalent of 'chilli powder in your undies-type' injuries to my 'bits'.

I decided that I would take an early mark for the day and went home to deal with my injuries... you've gotta love Savlon... and spend the afternoon doing a major 'pantie inspection'.

To say there was some major lecturing on sock washing that evening would be an understatement.

Amen!

For some reason, I find THIS hilarious... I am SO going to hell!

A Dead Pussy in Her Drawers

First up, no cats were hurt when this happened... so all you cat lovers out there settle down. After writing my previous post, I remembered something that happened back in the nineties that, to Jo and I, was a source of endless amusement for years afterwards... know as the 'Dead Pussy in Your Drawers' incident.

Jo never had 'more than one cat'. In her own words, she had one 'major cat' and any others she owned at the time were referred to as 'minor' cats... and if there was only one 'minor' cat, it was always referred to as her 'Spare Cat'. She believed that everyone should have at a Spare Cat, in the event that a 'Cat Disaster' should occur - you would always have your 'Spare Cat' to fall back on. I never found out exactly what a Cat Disaster entailed, but Jo seemed to take the whole thing very seriously.

At the time of this event her Major Cat was a funny-looking ginger moggie called Rocky who had a fixation about driving in cars and sleeping on the ironing board while you were trying to iron. I can't remember the name of her Spare Cat, but she was a smokey coloured, fluffy little thing that Jo had taken in as a stray. They all lived in a little weatherboard cottage that Jo shared with a guy that we simply referred to as 'Some German Guy'.

Anyway, one Saturday afternoon she invited me over to assist her with the serious task of emptying two casks of one of those fruit-n-wine concoctions, something that we did with great enthusiasm as she had also made a 'cheesy-fruity-crunchy-platey-thingy' to go with it. Jo and I literally had a language all of our own going, much to the annoyance of our mothers as it allowed us to discuss things without them catching on.

So, we spent the afternoon getting stuck into this serious task and by the time we had completed our mission we were pretty much blind roaring drunk. Around this time, I happened to ask why I had seen Rocky around, but not her Spare Cat. Jo explained that she hadn't seen her for a nearly a year and had assumed that (like cats tend to do)it had decided to move out to greener pastures. It suddenly became obvious to us that finding this Spare Cat was paramount, in case we had a Cat Disaster happen!

We staggered around the house slurring "Herrrre pushy, pushy, pusssss... pushy pusss" - or something along those lines - for some time, looking under beds and in cupboards in case she had become trapped. Jo insisted that if that was the case, her Spare Cat was verrrrrry intelligent and would have found a means to survive. I figured that if the Spare Cat was verrrrrrry intelligent, she would have written notes and pushed them out under the doors to let us know she was there.

In our drunken stupor, we decided that this would have indeed happened, as she was a verrrrry intelligent Spare Cat, so moved our search out to the front yard.

At this point Some German Guy came home. What greeted him in the front yard was two very drunk women wandering around the front yard calling "Herrrrrrrre pushy cat... pushy cat... pusss pusss...herrrrrrre pussy". It was all very Monty Pythonesque and if it had been filmed would have probably earned us a large sum of money on Funniest Home Videos. Anyway, after watching us for a few minutes, Some German Guy asked us what was wrong and our reply about looking for the Spare Cat didn't seem as important to him as it was to us... so he went inside to escape the embarassment of being seen with us.

Once we had scoured the front yard, we moved our search to the back yard - stopping to grab a bottle of wine from the fridge to assist us in 'maintaining our focus on the serious task ahead'. After checking every nook and cranny in the yard (as much as you can when you are blind drunk) we came upon an old chest of drawers. These drawers, explained Jo, were chock full of memory-stuff-goodness-and-bits that she couldn't fit inside. We decided that this was a good time to go over this memory-stuff-goodness-and-bits, so opened the top and middle drawer. There was nothing inside... this caused Jo to burst into drunken tears, as she couldn't even remember what exactly had been in the drawers in the first place.

Then we opened the bottom drawer... and there was the Spare Cat, curled up with her tail around her nose, sound asleep.

Jo was extremely pleased about finding her Spare Cat (she was now fully prepared for a Cat Disaster) and began calling and cajoling her to come out. To which, the cat ignored her and continued its slumber, so it all went something like this:

J: That cat is ignoring me. I've spent the last few hours looking for her, and she ignores me.
S: That's the thing with Spare Cats, they are so ungrateful.
J: Really? Spare Cats are ungrateful?
S: Yup. I've heard it has something to do with only being a Spare Cat, emotionally devastating to them.
J: Where did you hear that? I can understand being an underling to a Major Cat could be traumatic... is that the same as being devastating... to a cat, I mean?
S: Yup, and being a verrrrrry intelligent Spare Cat with an extended vocabulary, it would have been even more devastating. In short, your Spare Cat is angry at you and is ignoring you.

At this Jo began to cry. She sat down in front of the chest of drawers and began to tell her Spare Cat how much she loved and appreciated her, and how important she was in the grand plan of being prepared for a Cat Disaster... and still the Spare Cat ignored her.

S: She's a verrrrry deep sleeper
J: Hmmm, maybe we should yell at her?
S: Okay, like in the Pet Shop skit then?
J: Yup

So, we began to do Monty Python's Pet Shop skit about the dead parrot... very loudly. This resulted in Some German Guy coming out to see what was going on. After explaining that we had indeed found Jo's Spare Cat (thus ensuring that everything was in place should a Cat Disaster occur) Some German Guy wandered over to the half-open drawer and peered in.

SGG: Uh, Jo... your cat is dead
J: No she's not, she's just sleeping
SGG: No, Jo...your cat is definately dead... mummified and very dead.
J: Nope, that cat is definately sleeping.
S: Yes... Spare Cats tend to sleep verrrrry deeply, it's a trait of theirs.
J: Really?
S: Yup
J: I never knew that. Maybe that's why she has been missing for so long, some form of cat-apoenea or something? Good thing cats don't drive, she'd probably fall asleep at the wheel.
S: That's a good thing, probably one of the gooder-rest things I've ever heard.
J: What's that?
S: That cats can't drive, they'd have accidents as they wouldn't be able to stop
J: Why is that? I'm sure cats would be verrrry responsible drivers - if they could drive!
S: They wouldn't be able to reach the brake pedal...
J: Ah! That makes sense.

At this point, Some German Guy decided that we'd lost the plot and went back inside, with a parting comment that the cat was indeed... dead.

Jo was going to have no part of this, so picked up a broom and began prodding the sleeping Spare Cat. It still didn't move, so I offered to prod it in the head, to teach it a lesson about ignoring people. Jo reluctantly agreed, so I prodded the sleeping Spare Cat right between the eyes, all the while yelling "Wake up Spare Cat, wake up!"

The broom went straight through its forehead... and out the back of its head.

I screamed... Jo screamed... and in my panic, I staggered back with the broom still in my hands. This resulted in the - now obviously deceased - cat, swinging wildly about as it hung on the end of the broom handle, making a terrible 'crunchy' noise as it did. I raised the broom in the air, intending to get the offending Dead Spare Cat as far away from me as possible, but this resulted in it sliding down the broom and onto my hand, which went through its head. Screaming, I threw the broom in the air, which completely dislodged the Dead Spare Cat so I was now wearing it like a crunchy, furry boxing glove.

I went into a crazed dance - hopping around and screaming - until I managed to fling the Dead Spare Cat off my hand, which resulted in it flying off directly at Jo.

What resulted was lots of drunken running around the yard screaming, Jo crying as her Spare Cat was indeed dead... and that she was now unprepared for a Cat Disaster. The noise caused Some German Guy to come outside, which at this point saw him coming across Jo, myself and a mummified Dead Spare Cat sitting on the back lawn crying (not the Spare Cat though, as it was dead).

SGG: What the hell are you two doing???
Jo: My Spare Cat is dead
S: Yes... it is indeed dead. Jo now has no Spare Cat
SGG: I told you that while it was still in your drawers, Jo
Jo: Oh... so you knew it was dead while it was in my drawers?
SGG: Yes Jo, your pussy cat is dead
S: Jo...
J: Yes...
S: You had a dead pussy in your drawers...
J: Uh... I had a Dead Pussy in My Drawers, didn't I?
S: Yup

We both collapsed with laughter about having a Dead Pussy in Your Drawers, totally forgetting that Jo was now indeed, Spare Cat-less. Some German Guy grabbed a shovel and quietly disappeared with the now deceased Dead Spare Cat to give it a decent burial in the garbage bin, leaving us rolling around the ground laughing...

Once we had sobered up, we mourned the Dead Spare Cat... and opened another cask to give it a wake of sorts. Funnily enough, Some German Guy declined to join in, instead muttering something about needing to get away from this madhouse, as he grabbed his keys then drove off.

To this day, somewhere in Germany, I'm sure he stills thinks we are nutters.

1800 Jerk My Chain

My best friend of 35+ years passed away late last year, and I am still mourning a loss that is going to break my heart until the day I die. Jo was my bestest-estest buddy and we both have a rather obscure way of looking at things, so she would fully understand the amusing side of the following post.

I received a phone call a few days ago from ****** finance company, in regards to a credit card she had that I was listed as a reference for. To say that the guy who called was persistant is an understatement, but he was a source of amusement to me on a subject that saddens me. And there is also something oddly satisfying about poking another human being to see how long takes to make them explode...

T: Hi, my name is Toby from ******, may I speak to *****?
S: That's me, how can I help you?
T: I'm calling in regards to Jo ******, we need to contact her urgently.
S: Mmmm, I have a fair idea where she is, but not exactly.
T: I'm sorry? So you have contact details for her?
S: Nope...
T: So, you can't get in contact with her then?
S: Not by what you'd call normal channels, but I do believe it can be done...
T: So, do you or do you not know where she is, we need to speak to her urgently.
S: Umm... depending on what your personal beliefs are, she may speak to you... yes.
T: Look, can you get her to contact us urgently?
S: What's your address then?
T: I will give you a number to get her to call.
S: Hmmm... far as I know, she won't have her mobile with her.
T: Can you give me her home number then, so we can call her?
S: Even I don't have that one
T: What about a work number then?
S: Wow... if I had her boss's number... damn, I'd be a squillionaire!
T: Sorry? *long pause* I don't understand? This is not a joke you know!
S: Okay, how about I give you my personal opinion on where I think she may be?
T: Thank you, that would be a great help.
S: Okay... there are fluffy white clouds, a dude in a long gown with a flowing beard and lots of little guys with wings flying around and...
T: Are you jerking my chain? This is not funny...
S: No Toby, death is not funny
T: Death? What do you mean death?
S: Jo passed away late last year, dumbass...
T: *long pause*
S: Are you there?
T: Umm, sorry. It *pause* seems our records are...
S: Yes, out of date
T: CLICK!

Use by date: 4507AD

Part of my plan to finally get back into my size 10 jeans, is to increase my water intake. This has resulted in me becoming somewhat of a connoiseur of bottled water.

I've worked out that Perrier is the best 'fuzzy-water', but basically there is no difference in the 'not-moving' stuff - apart from the price. But what has me confused is the habit of putting a Use By Date on them... on water... wtf?

From what I was taught back in my school days, water is basically recycled anyway: In the sea, evaporated into the clouds, rains into the rivers which then flow back into the sea. If you chuck lifeforms into the equation, it goes something like this:
In the sea, fish pee in it, evaporated into the clouds, rains into the water catchments, fish pee into it, into the cities/towns, out of the taps, into the lattes and soups, down the gullet, out of the gullet, into the toilet, off to Bondi, back into the sea... where fish pee in it.

Considering that 'all water is all water' - we have simply been recycling the same water since day dot, with even the polar caps giving up and taking some back throughout history. Wow... maybe someone should do a study on the percentage of fish pee in the polar caps!

If you stop to think about it, your cup of coffee probably contains dinosaur pee (this info would be intriguing to a 5-year-old with a dinosaur fixation and would be handy as a blackmail tool for getting them to drink water!) or maybe even the pee of some infamous historical figure!

Maybe I should open a Water Bar! For $2.50 you could have your choice of:
Beethoven's 5th Pee
Hilter's Power Pee
Einstein's Spelling Pee
Pee Wee Herman's Pee
Custer's Last Pee

Dammit... I'll be a millionaire!

It's pronounced 'Pee-Lah-Tays'... darling!

Figuring that I really need to get some exercise happening, I bought one of those Malibu Pilates Chairs you see on TV late at night... late at night when people who live on Tim Tams and Lattes are generally gathered in front of the TV waiting for a miracle cure for their obesity and acne.

After watching the DVD a few times, I figured I had the whole thing worked out and proceeded to stretch myself into various positions with funny-sounding names, much to the amusement of the other half. I tried this for a few days, but was left feeling the DVDs didn't really get to the heart of the whole 'joining of body and mind' thing that Pilates is touted for. So, I trotted off to do a Pilates class, hoping to better educate myself in the use of my new toy at home.

First up... people that do Pilates on a regular basis (and who don't live on Tim Tams) look like greyhounds. Lean... racey... fast-looking.

Me? I look more like a Staffy...

So, here I was looking like an escapee from a K-Mart 50% sale in my t-shirt and trackie dacks... surrounded by a bunch of whippet-like ladies in yoga pants and lycra. My first and fatal mistake was my mispronounciation of the word Pilates. Apparently calling it 'Py-lates' is not a good way to start your lesson.

You could literally hear the whole room gasp. The instructor - a rather lanky woman by the name of Ariel (pronounced 'Arrr-reeee-arrrrrl') literally launched at me spitting 'It is pronounced 'Pee-Lar-Tays' darling... 'Pee-Lar-Tays'! She threw her chin in the air and stalked off as only an ex-ballerina can... and then ignored me for the rest of the class.

Lucky for me, another 'Staffy' was in the class (her name was Sarah... pronounced as just 'Sarah') and we (well, just me actually) managed to get through the class without hurting or further embarassing ourselves. I made a mental note that this would be my first and last 'Pee-Lar-Tays' class and that I would simply have to pay more attention to my DVDs and do a little Googling.

After the class, I asked 'just Sarah' why she put up with this crap and she simply said the classes are convenient, close to home and got her away from screaming kids... and she had dropped around 14kgs to boot. You've gotta be happy with that.

She also pointed out that there is a Gloria Jeans across the road for 'post-class' recuperation...

Oh... Gloria Jeans is pronounced 'Oh Mah Gawd I Need A Muffin With My Latte'...

The Happy Van of Evilness

I've started a diet in earnest.

When you can hide two Tim Tams between your belly rolls, it's time to acknowledge that you indeed have a weight problem. With this in mind, I started on that Tony Ferguson weight loss program and it works for me... until I hear that bell, that is.

I'm doing okay, most of my cravings have disappeared and I've dropped a few kilos over the last couple of weeks. I'm making myself exercise - I've bought one of those Pilates Chairs, but that's another story altogether - and have discovered that I don't need to eat 'bad stuff' to feel happy... until I hear the bell, that is.

Think of it like Pavlov's Dog: The dog is fine until the bell rings.

It is this conditioning that causes my dilemma... with the bell ringer in question being the Home Icecream man in his 'Happy Van of Evilness'. This nasty little man is like your local drug dealer... skulking along loaded with his wares, pouncing on unsuspecting, good folk going about their business.

I mean, seriously... how unfair is it to turn up JUST BEFORE DINNER during school holidays when the streets are covered in kids, whose mothers have been spending the last hour trying to get them inside to eat their dinner? C'mon... this guy just ain't playing fair!

When you are dieting, that bell could be two tones short of a cat's howl... but it still sounds like a symphony - a symphony of chocolately bits and crunchy cones, filled to the brim with creamy delights and... ... you know what I mean. It hurts... just as bad as any addiction you are trying to kick.

But I have come up with a solution!

Next time the nasty little man in the 'Happy Van of Evilness' comes calling, I am going to beat him at his evil game... I'm going to load up with Sugar Free, Low Fat Icecream beforehand... shovel myself full of the stuff... overload myself...

... then I won't be able to get to his van...

...the stuff is so full of Malitol, I will be stuck on the toilet for days. From past experience, when they say 'excessive consumption may have a laxative effect' believe it...



... oh dear God... believe it...

Buying Australian

With all the hoo-hah about Aussie jobs going overseas (and rightly so) what is the *right* thing to do in regards to buying Australian?

The suggestion seems to be to just turn our backs on products made by companies that have moved operations overseas. The problem with this though is that whilst 3 out of 5 employees who worked for the company have lost their jobs... do we have a moral obligation to try and protect the other 2 that managed to keep theirs?

On TV the other night, they showed how much cheaper buying Aussie products actually is - which is great - but seriously, is the Australian public going to actively search out these products over 'preferred' brands. It's up to the supermarkets to make sure these items are prominently labelled and placed, but I really can't see many big companies punting well-paying companies off the middle shelf so the Aussie stuff is what you see first.

But again.. what about the ones who managed to keep their jobs? Do we really want to risk making it a 5 out of 5 job loss statistic? There's no easy answer...

On a lighter note, something occurred to me about products made by the well-known promoter of Australian made products - Dick Smith...

... there is no way in hell I will ever get my other half to eat a product that has the words 'Dick' and 'Cheese' on the one wrapper....