Oh, dear. People do get sillier by the day, do they not? I sometimes wonder if people are just coming out with ludicrous ideas to get attention they desperately crave, or if they should in fact have their medication tweaked. I often watch a bit of breakfast television to prime me for the day, and to learn what's happened overnight on this planet. Well, this morning I heard of the news of a former Labor minister Gary Johns' dickwad of an idea for it to be compulsory for people on welfare benefits to use contraception. Now, the main problem with this arsehat of an idea is this is Australia, and not China. Also, Johns, you TWAT, here's another thing: you cannot force a person of sound mind to take medication. I do believe the contraceptive pill could be classed as medication. Truly, man, what the total fuck? Seriously? So wrong and stupid on more levels than you'd find in a game of Donkey Kong. Is this some warped idea of social engineering you dreamed up one night? Have you been sucking on a crack pipe? Wrong, offensive, and elitist. And throwing in her two cents' worth was Pauline Hanson, the Boomerang Kid of Australian Politics. She said it was her opinion (to which she is entitled, don't get me wrong, but here's MINE....) the taxpayer should not be subsidising the second and subsequent children for women who have children - are you sitting down? Is your bladder emptied? - OUT OF WEDLOCK. Yeah, she said 'out of wedlock'. Who the fuck says 'out of wedlock' these days. Oh, that's right: Pauline Hanson. Does this mean only married people should have kids? Some of the most worthy parents I know didn't actually legally marry. It knocked me for six, let me tell you all. Enforced contraception sounds like it's targeting women, too. And what if the contraception fails? What's Plan B, you useless bunch of morons?
Let me tell you a story. A true story. Back in 1452, a peasant girl of known 'easy virtue' (commit that phrase to memory, Pauline; I'm sure you're going to use it in one of your next speeches) gave birth to a kid, 'out of wedlock'. Oh, even TYPING that stupid phrase makes me ashamed. The kid's biological father was well-to-do, but no matter because the woman was a rather impoverished lass who liked sex. But remove your socks, because this will knock them off. That illegitimate kid with the less than prosperous single mother turned out to be LEONARDO DA VINCI!!!! Yes, talent and genius don't care WHO the parents are!!! This is a very good reason to not decide who and who cannot sow the seeds of their loins.
And a few other names on the Illegitimate List: Confucius, Lawrence of Arabia, and William the Conqueror. So Johns and Hanson, dismount that fucking high horse before it bucks you off. I don't care if the poorer types have kids. I'd rather our politicians undergo mandatory testing to see whether or not they are in fact clinically brain-dead, and I suspect some of them are.
What do you guys think of sledging in sports? I personally think trying to throw someone off their game is incredibly bad sportsmanship, but I don't mind a good sledge. Especially if it's a good comeback. Naturally, racist and homophobic sledges are not on, but every now and then, a player comes out with a good one. Ian Chappell is apparently concerned sledging could lead to biffo, but not if the players are falling about laughing. Apparently, Glenn McGrath was frustrated at being unable to bowl out portly South African Eddo Bandes. McGrath, in a less-than-Wildean moment, demanded, 'Why are you so fat?' Bandes replied, "Because every time I fuck your wife, she gives me a biscuit!' Ka-ZING! Full points to Bandes, and apparently the rest of the Aussie team were falling about laughing. Laughter is a great thing.
Monday, 29 December 2014
Saturday, 27 December 2014
A Batty Idea
I'm aware what I am about to write might cop me some flack. The flack will be from people who have never met me, people who misunderstand me either by accident or design, or people who hide anonymously behind their computer screens firing off abuse at people they have not met, nor are likely to ever meet whilst they drink calorific soft drinks and masturbate to Miley Cyrus clips on You Tube, their miserable jizz dried under their fingernails (fingernails already grimy because these people don't ever tub as they're too busy looking at Miley Cyrus on You Tube) as they clack said fingernails over their keyboards (where there are flecks of dandruff from the heads of these miserable SOBs) to fire off abusive missives at folk they don't know.
I will take this opp to advise that if you wish to disagree with me, that's fine. It is your entitlement to do so. If you abuse me, I will delete your comment and block you. Or if your comment is interesting, I will store it for future use in my writing, and give you no credit whatsoever, so suck on that until your mandible aches.
But what has brought this on? Well, it was a You Are Fucking Shitting Me moment I had the other night. I was doing an evening medication run, and as I was pulling over in front of a client's home I heard something on the radio that almost caused me to crash the vehicle in my incredulity, so I was thankful I was slowing the vehicle to a halt. I was listening to a sports commentator on the AM station. Why was I doing this when my fondness of sport is right down there with my fondness for root canal surgery? It was because the FM station was streaming the Top 40, and I had trouble coping with what I was hearing It's not that I am old, it is because a lot of modern stuff just sucks. So I thought I'd just listen to some talking head (radio journalist, not US punk-ish band from the 70s). And the guy on the radio said the Cricket Association of Nepal is planning on placing Phillip Hughs' bat on Mt Everest. And yes, that's what got my eyes bugging in abject disbelief, and I just slammed on the brake, and gasped aloud to the radio band, as though the bloke could hear me, 'You are fucking shitting me!'
WHY would they do this? Many years ago, I trekked with one of my best friends through the Himalayas in Nepal. Before childbirth, I can truly say this was the most amazing thing I have ever done in my entire life. There was an overwhelming air - not due to the rarified oxygen but the vibe from the people - of peace, tranquillity, spirituality, and acceptance of everybody. There were some manmade structures there, but they were for 'good'. Prayer walls and prayer wheels, and when one walked by the prayer wheel one was meant to give it a spin and say a prayer. It didn't matter if you weren't Buddhist, a prayer to your own God was more than welcome, I was told. My friend and I strode along the meandering path carved into the sides of the mountains, and we would put our hands together in a prayer-like gesture and greet the Nepalese with 'Namaste', as we passed. One day I waxed lyrical about the valleys below, the snow blowing from distant mountain peaks, the blueness of the skies above, the majesty of the place, the gaudy saddle cloth on one of the yaks that was led by via a nose-ring; my friend, suffering a niggling headache from altitude-sickness, finally grunted, 'Simone. I've got eyes.' Oh, how we would laugh when we reached camp because the sherpas couldn't pronounce my name, and would call, 'Hello, Semen!' as I arrived. No matter how many times I told them, 'It's Sim-MONE' (over my friend's hysterical laughter), they never got it right. But it's a happy, wonderful memory. One afternoon my friend and I sat at the campsite, which was up a high mountain, and a cloud rolled in, engulfing us so we couldn't not see at all. It was crazy. It was amazing. Those mountains are a place of mystical, spiritual beauty and majesty.
SO WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO STICK A FUCKING CRICKET BAT ATOP THE GREATEST MOUNTAIN OF THEM ALL?
I am aware that following Hughs' death there was the 'outpouring of grief'. I used quotation marks because it's a hackneyed phrase that gets done to death and over played, like an irritating earworm of a Christmas song in a department store in the week leading up to December 25. Yes, I also thought what happened to him was sad, and my heart went out to his family, as well as the young bowler in this accident. But after a while, I got just a tad fed up with the click-bait and grief porn that saturated my Internet, and social media news feeds. So, I did the best thing in these circumstances: ignored it. I did not partake in the exercise of putting a cricket bat out the front of my house because (1) like I said, I will not take part in grief porn when I don't even LIKE cricket, and (2) there's this feral little self-entitled prick up the street who is likely to have stolen my son's cricket bat had I chosen to leave it outside.
I daresay I will be accused of being an unsympathetic troll lacking empathy, a cruel sociopath playing with people's emotions. That's not true. As mentioned above, I had immense sympathy for the family. You know what? When aged only 23, my oldest brother died from head injuries sustained in an accident, so yes, I think I can state I have a fair idea what the family are going through, and they will always have my kind wishes, as will his friends. It's the sickening media saturation that roused my irritation, as well as the attendance of both the Prime Minister and Federal Opposition Leader at the funeral. I don't get it.
Likewise, I don't 'get' why anybody would want to sully the landscape of one of the world's most forbidding, untamed, and reverent places with a piece of sporting paraphernalia. To me, this is absurd. Apparently, 'they' want this done before climbing season commences in March/April.
Maybe 'their' counterparts in Sydney might stick Alvin Stardust's black studded gloves on a flagpole at the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, so I can do a bridge climb and look at them? This to me would be an achievement; I have no desire to do this climb because I don't like heights. That might seem strange, given I've walked through Himalayan mountains, which are pretty high, but the difference there is even on the mountains, I felt I was 'on the ground', whereas it's different with the Bridge. I don't like standing to close to the windows of the Centrepoint Tower Observation Deck, either.
Oh, well.
I will take this opp to advise that if you wish to disagree with me, that's fine. It is your entitlement to do so. If you abuse me, I will delete your comment and block you. Or if your comment is interesting, I will store it for future use in my writing, and give you no credit whatsoever, so suck on that until your mandible aches.
But what has brought this on? Well, it was a You Are Fucking Shitting Me moment I had the other night. I was doing an evening medication run, and as I was pulling over in front of a client's home I heard something on the radio that almost caused me to crash the vehicle in my incredulity, so I was thankful I was slowing the vehicle to a halt. I was listening to a sports commentator on the AM station. Why was I doing this when my fondness of sport is right down there with my fondness for root canal surgery? It was because the FM station was streaming the Top 40, and I had trouble coping with what I was hearing It's not that I am old, it is because a lot of modern stuff just sucks. So I thought I'd just listen to some talking head (radio journalist, not US punk-ish band from the 70s). And the guy on the radio said the Cricket Association of Nepal is planning on placing Phillip Hughs' bat on Mt Everest. And yes, that's what got my eyes bugging in abject disbelief, and I just slammed on the brake, and gasped aloud to the radio band, as though the bloke could hear me, 'You are fucking shitting me!'
WHY would they do this? Many years ago, I trekked with one of my best friends through the Himalayas in Nepal. Before childbirth, I can truly say this was the most amazing thing I have ever done in my entire life. There was an overwhelming air - not due to the rarified oxygen but the vibe from the people - of peace, tranquillity, spirituality, and acceptance of everybody. There were some manmade structures there, but they were for 'good'. Prayer walls and prayer wheels, and when one walked by the prayer wheel one was meant to give it a spin and say a prayer. It didn't matter if you weren't Buddhist, a prayer to your own God was more than welcome, I was told. My friend and I strode along the meandering path carved into the sides of the mountains, and we would put our hands together in a prayer-like gesture and greet the Nepalese with 'Namaste', as we passed. One day I waxed lyrical about the valleys below, the snow blowing from distant mountain peaks, the blueness of the skies above, the majesty of the place, the gaudy saddle cloth on one of the yaks that was led by via a nose-ring; my friend, suffering a niggling headache from altitude-sickness, finally grunted, 'Simone. I've got eyes.' Oh, how we would laugh when we reached camp because the sherpas couldn't pronounce my name, and would call, 'Hello, Semen!' as I arrived. No matter how many times I told them, 'It's Sim-MONE' (over my friend's hysterical laughter), they never got it right. But it's a happy, wonderful memory. One afternoon my friend and I sat at the campsite, which was up a high mountain, and a cloud rolled in, engulfing us so we couldn't not see at all. It was crazy. It was amazing. Those mountains are a place of mystical, spiritual beauty and majesty.
SO WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO STICK A FUCKING CRICKET BAT ATOP THE GREATEST MOUNTAIN OF THEM ALL?
I am aware that following Hughs' death there was the 'outpouring of grief'. I used quotation marks because it's a hackneyed phrase that gets done to death and over played, like an irritating earworm of a Christmas song in a department store in the week leading up to December 25. Yes, I also thought what happened to him was sad, and my heart went out to his family, as well as the young bowler in this accident. But after a while, I got just a tad fed up with the click-bait and grief porn that saturated my Internet, and social media news feeds. So, I did the best thing in these circumstances: ignored it. I did not partake in the exercise of putting a cricket bat out the front of my house because (1) like I said, I will not take part in grief porn when I don't even LIKE cricket, and (2) there's this feral little self-entitled prick up the street who is likely to have stolen my son's cricket bat had I chosen to leave it outside.
I daresay I will be accused of being an unsympathetic troll lacking empathy, a cruel sociopath playing with people's emotions. That's not true. As mentioned above, I had immense sympathy for the family. You know what? When aged only 23, my oldest brother died from head injuries sustained in an accident, so yes, I think I can state I have a fair idea what the family are going through, and they will always have my kind wishes, as will his friends. It's the sickening media saturation that roused my irritation, as well as the attendance of both the Prime Minister and Federal Opposition Leader at the funeral. I don't get it.
Likewise, I don't 'get' why anybody would want to sully the landscape of one of the world's most forbidding, untamed, and reverent places with a piece of sporting paraphernalia. To me, this is absurd. Apparently, 'they' want this done before climbing season commences in March/April.
Maybe 'their' counterparts in Sydney might stick Alvin Stardust's black studded gloves on a flagpole at the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, so I can do a bridge climb and look at them? This to me would be an achievement; I have no desire to do this climb because I don't like heights. That might seem strange, given I've walked through Himalayan mountains, which are pretty high, but the difference there is even on the mountains, I felt I was 'on the ground', whereas it's different with the Bridge. I don't like standing to close to the windows of the Centrepoint Tower Observation Deck, either.
Oh, well.
Wednesday, 24 December 2014
My Christmas Message
Just a quick note for tonight. Haven't been blogging much these past few days, what with Christmas preparations. Tonight I have prepared the dressing for the Caesar salad I am contributing for lunch tomorrow. I have prepared another frozen dessert, kind of a bombe, I think it would be classed. Mixed some basic chocolate cake mix (used the generic brand mix, it's all you need, and just do it to the instructions, only instead of pouring into a cake tin, you pour it out flat on some pizza trays, or something similar. Once it is cooked, slice it into 'triangles', and line a bowl - by the way, line the bowl with glad wrap first - so you have a kind of basin of chocolate. And for the filling get some good quality vanilla ice cream, soften it, and add some liqueur - the choice for your blogger was Bailey's Irish Cream, and not just because of her surname - and some tinned berries. When the filling is in, use the left over bits of flat cake to make a lid, and seal it with the glad wrap, and freeze that baby. When ready, turn it over on a plate and serve, so it looks like a dome. Now, because I'm feeling charitable, and because I always like to stun with my amazing general knowledge, let me give you all a hint. When cooking with chocolate, add a pinch of salt. Yes, salt. Want to know why? It really enhances the flavour of the chocolate.
The kids are in bed, but I don't know if they're dreaming of sugarplums. They're more likely dreaming of x-box games. The youngest has left a carrot out the front for the reindeer. I don't know if he actually still believes, or is maintaining the ruse to score extra gifts. He had to be dissuaded from leaving out a glass of milk for Santa Claus, and I did this by pointing out this is the Australian summer, and the milk will spoil, and Santa will not enjoy flying along, hurling over the side of his sleigh. Will he believe in Santa for sure next year? I don't know. It doesn't matter that the baby/little boy stage is over. I relish observing my kids reach every new milestone and phase of their lives. Yet, I wistfully think of a Christmas morning when my oldest, then aged about five, ran to the lounge room and jumped up and down, clapping his hands. 'He's been! He's been!' he cried, in the tones of pure delight that are the sole province of an innocent child.
But in any event, I've already got what I wanted for Christmas. Open lines of communication.
A merry, safe, and (if you are religious) holy Christmas to all reading.
The kids are in bed, but I don't know if they're dreaming of sugarplums. They're more likely dreaming of x-box games. The youngest has left a carrot out the front for the reindeer. I don't know if he actually still believes, or is maintaining the ruse to score extra gifts. He had to be dissuaded from leaving out a glass of milk for Santa Claus, and I did this by pointing out this is the Australian summer, and the milk will spoil, and Santa will not enjoy flying along, hurling over the side of his sleigh. Will he believe in Santa for sure next year? I don't know. It doesn't matter that the baby/little boy stage is over. I relish observing my kids reach every new milestone and phase of their lives. Yet, I wistfully think of a Christmas morning when my oldest, then aged about five, ran to the lounge room and jumped up and down, clapping his hands. 'He's been! He's been!' he cried, in the tones of pure delight that are the sole province of an innocent child.
But in any event, I've already got what I wanted for Christmas. Open lines of communication.
A merry, safe, and (if you are religious) holy Christmas to all reading.
Friday, 19 December 2014
How Can I Fix It?
What can I say? What can I write? I am grieving. We grieve different things. I grieve for eight children stabbed to death in Cairns, poor little buggers found by their older brother/cousin, and I grieve for that guy, too.
I grieve for something I seem to have lost, as well. I am not sure exactly what I did to facilitate this loss, but I think I have an idea. Have you seen 'Cool Hand Luke'? Remember that line, 'What we have here is a failure to communicate'? I suspect that's part of the problem. I think my friend has misconstrued a view of mine. Maybe to my friend I appear to be an insensitive clot. That was NEVER my intention, and of course I don't agree with the terrible things that upset my friend.
So, I'm sitting here with tears in my eyes, and an ache in my throat which I attribute to the lump that's formed there. I feel like I've been run through with a bitter poniard, such is my grief. Oh, I know other people have lost worse this past week, and I am so sad for them. But today I am sad for myself, and just want to make things right again. It hurts so much when someone to whom you have become close, and have a deep affection for, severs you from his life like this.
Hurting or causing offence to my friends is never on my must-do list, and I am horrified to think I just might have inadvertently done this, and possibly lost someone very dear to me over it.
A good strong friendship is worth fighting for, and bitter wounds can be treated with some genuine kindness and care. I hope we will be friends again.
How can I fix it?
I grieve for something I seem to have lost, as well. I am not sure exactly what I did to facilitate this loss, but I think I have an idea. Have you seen 'Cool Hand Luke'? Remember that line, 'What we have here is a failure to communicate'? I suspect that's part of the problem. I think my friend has misconstrued a view of mine. Maybe to my friend I appear to be an insensitive clot. That was NEVER my intention, and of course I don't agree with the terrible things that upset my friend.
So, I'm sitting here with tears in my eyes, and an ache in my throat which I attribute to the lump that's formed there. I feel like I've been run through with a bitter poniard, such is my grief. Oh, I know other people have lost worse this past week, and I am so sad for them. But today I am sad for myself, and just want to make things right again. It hurts so much when someone to whom you have become close, and have a deep affection for, severs you from his life like this.
Hurting or causing offence to my friends is never on my must-do list, and I am horrified to think I just might have inadvertently done this, and possibly lost someone very dear to me over it.
A good strong friendship is worth fighting for, and bitter wounds can be treated with some genuine kindness and care. I hope we will be friends again.
How can I fix it?
Monday, 15 December 2014
To Be Pointed Out:
Things to be pointed out:
1. There are about half a million Muslims in Australia. What happened yesterday was carried out by ONE fuck-knuckle with mental health issues and a criminal record that reads like a phone book.
2. The worst act of terrorism committed in Australia to date has not been by a swarthy bearded man, but a clean shaven dude with blonde hair and blue eyes. The name Martin Bryant ring a bell with anyone?
3. Muslims are going to be targeted, as are refugees because I understand this miserable piece of filth was an Iranian refugee.
4. It's not just the legal system. There are probably other bodies that can have the pointed finger in their general direction: mental health, and immigration for starters. So stop blaming lawyers and saying they have blood on their hands.
5. I'm thinking about unfriending a few people on Facebook over their posts re this.
6. I'm tired. It's just rained and now the steam is starting to appear. I hate being hot (literally, not metaphorically. Metaphorically 'hot' is my natural state of being, heh-heh!). Got my work Christmas party, a lunch, on Thursday, and I've decided to contribute a salad. I did offer to bring along the glamour and scintillating conversation, but it would appear my colleagues wish to eat, too. Yep, just a quick lunch with no alcohol. Nowadays there are directives sent around, and suggestion lists about how not to conduct oneself at the work Christmas party. I have read these lists and must say I've committed a few of the offences. Never tried to hit on the boss, and no doubt never will. A guy I once worked with told me one of his support staff was dancing with him at the party, and ground her knee between his legs asking, 'Don't you think I've got a good body?' I asked him had he replied, 'Yeah, but you've got a dog of a head'. He should have. There have been parties I've attended where I would have sooner set my hair on fire, but have had to attend for political reasons. I was attended one such lunch under duress and sufferance, and refused to speak to anybody all through the lunch. I had told one of the partners I had no intention of going, and was told that the administrator would view this as a 'slight'. Well, fucking duh because it WAS intended as a slight. You know, it really annoys me that people are expected to attend work functions when they would rather do anything else. I hate office politics. So I sat at this lunch, and stared at the wall. I did not partake in the toast - hell, it was with a glass of chardonnay and I seriously cannot stand that stuff; who ordered the fucking slop at that execrable party? - and ordered the most expensive items on the menu. I bolted down my food, and the minute I had placed my knife and fork together on the plate, left the bistro. Said goodbye to one of the other secretaries. Said 'Merry Christmas' to NOBODY. Oh, I did tell a couple of blue jokes to annoy the old bag who has the main reason I had not wished to attend.
Well, I must prepare the evening meal now. Goodbye, and thanks for reading. I haven't posted for a few days because I've been caught up with this siege, and worried, and heart-broken for the families of the victims. Had a chat on FB about the likelihood of this guy wanting to be martyred for his cause, which would lead him to Paradise and into the arms of 67 virgins. I offered the opinion that the reason some people want virgins is because with no prior experience, the virgins cannot tell what dud fucks they actually are. Of course, at this time of posting, we don't know the full motives of this twisted fuck's actions. But I've no qualms about calling him a twisted fuck, because how else would you describe someone who arranges for the delivery of hate mail to the families of fallen soldiers in Afghanistan, sometimes at the funeral service? I can't think of anything flattering, sorry.
1. There are about half a million Muslims in Australia. What happened yesterday was carried out by ONE fuck-knuckle with mental health issues and a criminal record that reads like a phone book.
2. The worst act of terrorism committed in Australia to date has not been by a swarthy bearded man, but a clean shaven dude with blonde hair and blue eyes. The name Martin Bryant ring a bell with anyone?
3. Muslims are going to be targeted, as are refugees because I understand this miserable piece of filth was an Iranian refugee.
4. It's not just the legal system. There are probably other bodies that can have the pointed finger in their general direction: mental health, and immigration for starters. So stop blaming lawyers and saying they have blood on their hands.
5. I'm thinking about unfriending a few people on Facebook over their posts re this.
6. I'm tired. It's just rained and now the steam is starting to appear. I hate being hot (literally, not metaphorically. Metaphorically 'hot' is my natural state of being, heh-heh!). Got my work Christmas party, a lunch, on Thursday, and I've decided to contribute a salad. I did offer to bring along the glamour and scintillating conversation, but it would appear my colleagues wish to eat, too. Yep, just a quick lunch with no alcohol. Nowadays there are directives sent around, and suggestion lists about how not to conduct oneself at the work Christmas party. I have read these lists and must say I've committed a few of the offences. Never tried to hit on the boss, and no doubt never will. A guy I once worked with told me one of his support staff was dancing with him at the party, and ground her knee between his legs asking, 'Don't you think I've got a good body?' I asked him had he replied, 'Yeah, but you've got a dog of a head'. He should have. There have been parties I've attended where I would have sooner set my hair on fire, but have had to attend for political reasons. I was attended one such lunch under duress and sufferance, and refused to speak to anybody all through the lunch. I had told one of the partners I had no intention of going, and was told that the administrator would view this as a 'slight'. Well, fucking duh because it WAS intended as a slight. You know, it really annoys me that people are expected to attend work functions when they would rather do anything else. I hate office politics. So I sat at this lunch, and stared at the wall. I did not partake in the toast - hell, it was with a glass of chardonnay and I seriously cannot stand that stuff; who ordered the fucking slop at that execrable party? - and ordered the most expensive items on the menu. I bolted down my food, and the minute I had placed my knife and fork together on the plate, left the bistro. Said goodbye to one of the other secretaries. Said 'Merry Christmas' to NOBODY. Oh, I did tell a couple of blue jokes to annoy the old bag who has the main reason I had not wished to attend.
Well, I must prepare the evening meal now. Goodbye, and thanks for reading. I haven't posted for a few days because I've been caught up with this siege, and worried, and heart-broken for the families of the victims. Had a chat on FB about the likelihood of this guy wanting to be martyred for his cause, which would lead him to Paradise and into the arms of 67 virgins. I offered the opinion that the reason some people want virgins is because with no prior experience, the virgins cannot tell what dud fucks they actually are. Of course, at this time of posting, we don't know the full motives of this twisted fuck's actions. But I've no qualms about calling him a twisted fuck, because how else would you describe someone who arranges for the delivery of hate mail to the families of fallen soldiers in Afghanistan, sometimes at the funeral service? I can't think of anything flattering, sorry.
Thursday, 11 December 2014
Hello, Bureau of Meteorology? Did A Stormcell Form In A Teacup?
Over the past few days I've been reading comments about how Yumi Stynes turned up to the premiere of 'Paddington' with her six month old baby, gracing the red carpet attired in nought but a nappy. I will point out to the fetishists and thick-skinned that it was the baby wearing the nappy, not Yumi (oh, for the fetishists, there is to be a protest at the British parliament about the banning of certain acts in the pornographic film world, so watch this space and I'll keep you appraised, if you don't end up Googling it). Yumi wore an outfit I didn't particularly like, but that's not he point of this post. Hey, I don't particularly like the outfit I'M wearing at the moment, either. There were Aussie celebs at this premiere, mainly mums with children in tow. I might have to check with the Bureau of Meteorology whether a storm cell has manifested itself in a teacup. There are two main sides in the ensuing brouhaha (yeah, there's a brouhaha about a celeb of some sort who does not particularly rate on my radar who had an infant clad in a nappy. I know, sheesh, right?): there are those who defend her right to dress the bubster how she sees fit, given it was likely stinking hot given it's the Australian summer; then there are those who think she is the worst mother since that old bag who lived in the shoe, and kept popping out kids until her uterus exploded. I am not a fan of Yumi Stynes, and this is due to the disgraceful comments she and her cronies on the now defunct 'The Circle' made about a decorated war hero, a man who has more integrity and achieved more than the lot of those scum-balls combined. If I met the woman, I might feel differently. Hey, it's happened before: I used to bag another television talking-head, met the woman in person, and was charmed. But back to the point. I am not going to champion her right to dress the kid in nothing but a nappy, nor am I going to demand a FACS intervention. What I will question is: why would you do this? Possibly the kid had barfed pureed carrots down the front of its outfit before stepping out of the car, but having had a couple of kids myself I know you venture NOWHERE without a spare change of clothes in tow when kids are that small. Let me remind you the event they were attending was held in a cinema. I enjoy movies. I attend when I can and my experience has always been there are only two settings on the air conditioning unit in these venues, depending on the time of year, and they are (1) Glacial, and (2) Thermonuclear. I just hope she had a shawl or something for the kid. And one final thing: babies will occasionally release a poo of volcanic force, with the mustard-coloured contents seeping and leaking through leg-holes and up the baby's back at the top of the nappy. Clothing can absorb some of the impact, which is another good reason to clothe the kid.
'Wash away my troubles
Wash away my pain
With the rain of Shambala'
Ring any bells? It's 'Shambala' by Three Dog Night. It's a great song, one I'd forgotten until a friend reminded of it the other night. I love the harmonies and delivery, so much so I put it on my iPod tonight. It soothes me a bit. And we've had a bit of rain here today. It poured for a while this morning, and I got alarmed, which is a by-product of having had my house flooded in a freakish storm on Anzac Day.
Another one I put on my iPod tonight is 'Blurred Lines'. I've been meaning to do this for ages. It's a guilty pleasure of mine. Some will criticise my choice, but let me point out the song is not 'rapey', as other commentators will scream until they are blue in the face. At no point, to my knowledge, does the narrator of the song say words to the effect, 'I'm going to have sex with you against your will'. Wanna ban something? Go after networks that screen the old Pepe Le Pew cartoons. No that fucking stinking rodent is rapey!
'Wash away my troubles
Wash away my pain
With the rain of Shambala'
Ring any bells? It's 'Shambala' by Three Dog Night. It's a great song, one I'd forgotten until a friend reminded of it the other night. I love the harmonies and delivery, so much so I put it on my iPod tonight. It soothes me a bit. And we've had a bit of rain here today. It poured for a while this morning, and I got alarmed, which is a by-product of having had my house flooded in a freakish storm on Anzac Day.
Another one I put on my iPod tonight is 'Blurred Lines'. I've been meaning to do this for ages. It's a guilty pleasure of mine. Some will criticise my choice, but let me point out the song is not 'rapey', as other commentators will scream until they are blue in the face. At no point, to my knowledge, does the narrator of the song say words to the effect, 'I'm going to have sex with you against your will'. Wanna ban something? Go after networks that screen the old Pepe Le Pew cartoons. No that fucking stinking rodent is rapey!
Sunday, 7 December 2014
Grinche and Imbeciles
I used to love Christmas when I was a kid. I loved going to the pool, and then I'd walk down the street and hear the Christmas carols wafting through the conical loudspeakers attached to the top of the telegraph pole. My dad would bring home a cardboard box from his employers, stuffed full of Christmas pudding (which I happen to hate, but never mind), and walnuts and brazil nuts packed in a string bag kind of contraption, not dissimilar to the way onions are packaged. I remember the sharp, rifle-shot onomatopoeic qualities of the sound a walnut shell being cracked open with some instrument that could have been used to extract information from captured spies. Or to maybe cut my father's yellowing, keratin-horned toenails.
Nowadays I'm kind of wondering is there a red button I can press in order to stop the planet and climb off. Seriously. Every year there are the usual apocryphal tales about how we cannot say 'Merry Christmas'. It seems someone is trying to say that this innocuous greeting is going to offend other cultures. This just in, folks: by and large the Muslims, Jews, and Hindus don't give a shit if we celebrate Christmas. Take a moment to let that sink in.
Whack-job politicians try to sway us from buying what kids might actually LIKE for Christmas, and instead buy some beige, neutered, um, thing. I ranted and raved about this in my previous post, and haven't the energy to re-type it, so just re-read my last post.
And today's fresh Hell comes in the form of a notion put forward for children to not sit on Santa's lap for photographs. It's getting like the 1950s, only instead of Reds under the Bed, we have PEDS under the Bed! I liked going to see Santa at my local supermarket when I was a kid. I would be playing at the local pub (my grandmother owned it), and my older siblings and a cousin would excitedly say, 'Come down to Campbells (the supermarket) and see Santa Claus, Bing!' And they would escort me down there, my sister holding one hand, and my cousin holding the other, and we would wait with the other children as some poor sap who drew the short straw and had to bung on the outfit in the Australian rural heat would come in with a shopping trolley full of white paper bags stuffed with lollies. Now, Santa might have driven that sleigh like a boss, assisted by Donner, Blixen et al, but he's total pants at wielding a shopping trolley. The fat bugger ran over my foot with it. I was a little disenchanted with Santa that day because of this, but soon forgot about my sore foot when I was handed a white paper bag of lollies.
But now we've got another truckload of shit to contend with, that being the suggestion that kids don't sit on Santa's lap. Here's an idea: if the kid doesn't want to, don't force them to. If they want to, let them. My two weren't keen on the local Santa because whoever did the job actually scared kids. Memo to shopping centre managers: as well as police checks, it is a good idea to make sure your Santa Claus is not repellent to children, because this can prove problematic. To all the PC crowd: what the fuck do you think is going to happen? Prospective Santa Clauses have to go through stringent police checks (and yes, I know, they COULD be a perve who just hasn't yet been caught - I KNOW that!) before they're even let within an ass's roar of the big chair in the grotto. As well as Santa, there is a photographer, parents and/or guardians hovering, a photographer in an elf costume, various shoppers, sometimes other kids queuing for a picture, and at all times Santa must have both hands in full view. So, get real, would you?
Dr Seuss got it wrong. It's not the Grinch thieving Christmas, it's a pack of misguided and complete imbeciles.
PS: stuck for Christmas presents? Check the links in my bio, maybe your 'recipients' might like some books. *Cough - hint - cough*
Nowadays I'm kind of wondering is there a red button I can press in order to stop the planet and climb off. Seriously. Every year there are the usual apocryphal tales about how we cannot say 'Merry Christmas'. It seems someone is trying to say that this innocuous greeting is going to offend other cultures. This just in, folks: by and large the Muslims, Jews, and Hindus don't give a shit if we celebrate Christmas. Take a moment to let that sink in.
Whack-job politicians try to sway us from buying what kids might actually LIKE for Christmas, and instead buy some beige, neutered, um, thing. I ranted and raved about this in my previous post, and haven't the energy to re-type it, so just re-read my last post.
And today's fresh Hell comes in the form of a notion put forward for children to not sit on Santa's lap for photographs. It's getting like the 1950s, only instead of Reds under the Bed, we have PEDS under the Bed! I liked going to see Santa at my local supermarket when I was a kid. I would be playing at the local pub (my grandmother owned it), and my older siblings and a cousin would excitedly say, 'Come down to Campbells (the supermarket) and see Santa Claus, Bing!' And they would escort me down there, my sister holding one hand, and my cousin holding the other, and we would wait with the other children as some poor sap who drew the short straw and had to bung on the outfit in the Australian rural heat would come in with a shopping trolley full of white paper bags stuffed with lollies. Now, Santa might have driven that sleigh like a boss, assisted by Donner, Blixen et al, but he's total pants at wielding a shopping trolley. The fat bugger ran over my foot with it. I was a little disenchanted with Santa that day because of this, but soon forgot about my sore foot when I was handed a white paper bag of lollies.
But now we've got another truckload of shit to contend with, that being the suggestion that kids don't sit on Santa's lap. Here's an idea: if the kid doesn't want to, don't force them to. If they want to, let them. My two weren't keen on the local Santa because whoever did the job actually scared kids. Memo to shopping centre managers: as well as police checks, it is a good idea to make sure your Santa Claus is not repellent to children, because this can prove problematic. To all the PC crowd: what the fuck do you think is going to happen? Prospective Santa Clauses have to go through stringent police checks (and yes, I know, they COULD be a perve who just hasn't yet been caught - I KNOW that!) before they're even let within an ass's roar of the big chair in the grotto. As well as Santa, there is a photographer, parents and/or guardians hovering, a photographer in an elf costume, various shoppers, sometimes other kids queuing for a picture, and at all times Santa must have both hands in full view. So, get real, would you?
Dr Seuss got it wrong. It's not the Grinch thieving Christmas, it's a pack of misguided and complete imbeciles.
PS: stuck for Christmas presents? Check the links in my bio, maybe your 'recipients' might like some books. *Cough - hint - cough*
Wednesday, 3 December 2014
Change.org - Nanny State Butt Out!!!!
I often receive notifications from Facebook about a new petition I might be interested in signing, generated through a page or site known as Change.org. Invariably I am not interested in signing whatever new petition is going around because the ones I hear about make me with to God people would find something more constructive to do with their time. Volunteer at an aged care home, or maybe just go out into the road and pick up rocks and then eat them, because seriously, folks, I am usually not interested in your whiny bullshit online petitions. However, I might just have to go on Change.org and get one going along these lines: Stay Out Of Our Lives With Your Nanny State Censorship Horse Poop. Target have acquiesced to the demands of one such petition and withdrawn Grand Theft Auto V from their shelves. Target, get some bleach and a bandage to treat that self-inflicted bullet wound to your foot, because gamers are just going to buy that game elsewhere, and deny you a sale. The so-called problem with GTA5, as the hip call it (I'm not hip, but my husband is a gamer), is it includes violence against women. The fact that it includes violence against men as well is apparently of no consequence. Today I had a chat with my 13yo, and asked him if he understood violence against any member of society regardless of gender is unacceptable. He looked at me as though I had taken leave of my senses and replied, 'Of course I do, Mum.' I said to my children, 'You know what you see on TV, and in games, is not what happens in real life, don't you?' Again, they wondered had I gone completely bonkers because my kids are sensible enough to know that if Wile E Coyote detonates a bundle of dynamite and it goes awry, he is going to be pretty much blasted into miniscule smithereens that will land everywhere like grisly hailstones, rather than stand there with a black charred face and a stunned expression. My kids are not likely to go handling dynamite for this reason. Given we live in NSW, they don't even go fart-arsing with Tom Thumbs and throw downs. Funnily enough, last night my son mentioned the land speed of a roadrunner, and that a coyote is actually twice as fast. 'Then why doesn't that coyote ever catch that roadrunner?' I asked, and my son rolled his eyes and replied, 'Because it's a CARTOON, Mum!' So yeah, I think my kids are smart enough to differentiate.
So here's an idea slightly left of field, for all you petitioners: how about giving people enough credit to exercise common sense, and allow for the fact people know what's real and what isn't?
Okay, next target on my list is Senator Larissa Waters, who is calling for a No Gender December petition, or some such malarkey. This is based on the idea that gender based toys pander to sexist stereotypes that could stop girls achieving what they could. For fuck's sake, you dingbat, wasn't Barbie an astronaut at some stage? If not, she's been a doctor, a lawyer, a nurse, a teacher - she's done it all. And you are seriously going out on a limb (which will break and you are going to flounder like said Wile E Coyote before thudding to the ground) to suggest that there could be some connection to domestic violence with traditional gender based toys. Does my sister-in-law clocking my husband on the scone with his own Tonka truck when they were kids count? This is seriously the biggest load of bullshit since muster at The Okay Corral. I'm not going to be told what toys to get my kids, and great-niece and great-nephew, this Christmas. When I choose things for my kids, I don't give a fart in the high wind if it's gender specific. I wonder does it need batteries. I wonder will my kid like it. I wonder will it disintegrate within five minutes of being unwrapped. I wonder is it a choking hazard (not for my kids, my brother's grandkids). I wonder does it have tiny breakable bits that I'm likely to cut my foot on. I wonder lots of things, but whether it appeases some bloody Brave New World type notion that toys must be genderless ain't one of 'em. It's like Aldous Huxley and George Orwell had a baby, and this is what grew out of that unholy conception. An eminent child psychologist has pointed out kids are generally hard-wired and have a pre-disposition to certain types of toys, so just fucken go with the flow, okay?
Finally, it's the British Board of Film Censors for declaring certain acts to be illegal in pornography being produced. They're essentially fetish, from what I can see. I worry our Board might follow in their sensibly laced shoes. Not so much that I want to watch depictions of all these fetishes, but because I'd like to be able to in privacy in my own home, if it is MY CHOICE. Among the items on the No-No List are spanking, caning, female ejaculation, and urolagnia. I am guessing they're quite happy with violence in mainstream cinema, but a fetish enjoyed in private by a tax-paying citizen makes them hold their skirts and dance on the table, all the while going, 'Eeeeeek!' How are they going to cope with the film version of 'Fifty Shades of Shit, er, Grey' when it opens, if it is true to the book? Why do people care so much about what blows another person's hair back (when done in privacy)? Why should it matter what's being depicted in a porn flick if it is being portrayed by informed actors over the age of eighteen? Are they so afeared that someone might watch a water sports flick and then go out and piss on a passer by? Hell, we've got football players here who are probably happy to do that!
Sick of these meddling Nanny State-ers. So yep, might be time to get on Change.org.
So here's an idea slightly left of field, for all you petitioners: how about giving people enough credit to exercise common sense, and allow for the fact people know what's real and what isn't?
Okay, next target on my list is Senator Larissa Waters, who is calling for a No Gender December petition, or some such malarkey. This is based on the idea that gender based toys pander to sexist stereotypes that could stop girls achieving what they could. For fuck's sake, you dingbat, wasn't Barbie an astronaut at some stage? If not, she's been a doctor, a lawyer, a nurse, a teacher - she's done it all. And you are seriously going out on a limb (which will break and you are going to flounder like said Wile E Coyote before thudding to the ground) to suggest that there could be some connection to domestic violence with traditional gender based toys. Does my sister-in-law clocking my husband on the scone with his own Tonka truck when they were kids count? This is seriously the biggest load of bullshit since muster at The Okay Corral. I'm not going to be told what toys to get my kids, and great-niece and great-nephew, this Christmas. When I choose things for my kids, I don't give a fart in the high wind if it's gender specific. I wonder does it need batteries. I wonder will my kid like it. I wonder will it disintegrate within five minutes of being unwrapped. I wonder is it a choking hazard (not for my kids, my brother's grandkids). I wonder does it have tiny breakable bits that I'm likely to cut my foot on. I wonder lots of things, but whether it appeases some bloody Brave New World type notion that toys must be genderless ain't one of 'em. It's like Aldous Huxley and George Orwell had a baby, and this is what grew out of that unholy conception. An eminent child psychologist has pointed out kids are generally hard-wired and have a pre-disposition to certain types of toys, so just fucken go with the flow, okay?
Finally, it's the British Board of Film Censors for declaring certain acts to be illegal in pornography being produced. They're essentially fetish, from what I can see. I worry our Board might follow in their sensibly laced shoes. Not so much that I want to watch depictions of all these fetishes, but because I'd like to be able to in privacy in my own home, if it is MY CHOICE. Among the items on the No-No List are spanking, caning, female ejaculation, and urolagnia. I am guessing they're quite happy with violence in mainstream cinema, but a fetish enjoyed in private by a tax-paying citizen makes them hold their skirts and dance on the table, all the while going, 'Eeeeeek!' How are they going to cope with the film version of 'Fifty Shades of Shit, er, Grey' when it opens, if it is true to the book? Why do people care so much about what blows another person's hair back (when done in privacy)? Why should it matter what's being depicted in a porn flick if it is being portrayed by informed actors over the age of eighteen? Are they so afeared that someone might watch a water sports flick and then go out and piss on a passer by? Hell, we've got football players here who are probably happy to do that!
Sick of these meddling Nanny State-ers. So yep, might be time to get on Change.org.
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