Political Posturing & Vulgar Vote-Gathering

If I ever decide to run for politics, which is unlikely as I have a past as loud and colourful as Al Grassby's jacket, I know exactly how I'm going to get all the plebs out there to vote for me.  Instead of presenting a well formulated speech or video on some sensible platforms and policies, I'm going to ask some attention-seeking old hag to get her fun-bags out in my name!  Is this a good idea, or what?  If Madonna's people can just email me her deets to the address included in my blog bio, I promise to be in touch as soon as I throw my hat into the political ring.  I'm sure a picture of Madge with her norcs dangling and swinging like windsocks in a mild breeze is bound to get me some votes. 

Seriously, what are people like Katy Perry and Madonna thinking?  I know what Madonna's thinking: 'Golly willickers!  Another excuse to get my tits out as I try to stay relevant, because fuck knows my singing voice is awful!'  But back to my question: does someone getting nude really encourage people to vote for a particular party?  And if people are only going to vote on the basis of some chanteuses stripping down, then these people really should not be partaking in a process that decides the civic and political direction in which their nation will be travelling.  Hell, they should probably be forcibly sterilised.

But on the bright side, yesterday I emailed to my editor a list of errata in the manuscript of my upcoming novel.  The list is very short.  This will hopefully mean when I go through it AGAIN, when the amended manuscript is emailed back to me, I will find ZILCH errors/typos.  Nada, none, nil, and then just maybe I can sign off and the book can go to print.  There are still some things to which I must attend.  Mr Bingells has taken my author photograph for the book jacket. I am wearing a pretty lilac top and a scarf (leopard print, naturally).  Seeing today's news about the songstresses and their, er, unique style of campaigning makes me wonder should we do our photo sesh again, only instead of that pretty top that flatters my Celtic type complexion, I will stand there with my boozies on display to all and sundry.  Now THAT might see some books sold!  Might also see some therapy bills for my kids.  I might update my author bio, although it's still pretty relevant to the one from my last book.  Must do the list of dedications and acknowledgements, too.  This time the book will be dedicated to my dear old dad, whom some of you will be aware passed away late last year.  I miss him so.

Well, today will bring something wonderful: the return of my family as they have been out west for a few days.  In Australia, 'out west' can mean anywhere beyond Newtown if you're living in Sydney, or anywhere from fifty kilometres to seven hundred kilometres away, if you're living anywhere else.  But yes, this afternoon will mean hello to my husband and children, and goodbye to the tidy house I have managed to maintain these past few days!

Found it.

I said yesterday I wasn't going to repeat what the Twitter abuser said to me, because I thought the tweet had been deleted.  Turns out it hasn't, so since it's still out there in cyberspace, here's the link to it.  My abuser hasn't seen fit to delete it, so one can only assume he doesn't mind me sharing his sewer-worthy thoughts.  Here 'tis, folks:

https://twitter.com/lucinho_rabiot/status/779543892945350656

Such Wildean repartee.  Pffffft!

The Dilettante Gets Abused

G'day folks, how yas doin'?  Yas orright?

Forgive the somewhat lazy sounding bogan vernacular with which I have started this post.  I was thinking of starting, 'This post goes out to...' as in a dedication, and it made me think of someone on stage performing, and dedicating a number to a particular person, which segued to someone taking the stage and bellowing such a greeting into a microphone.  Does that make sense?  If it doesn't, then I'm doing something wrong as a writer; it was meant to make lots of sense.

Well, this one (as in this post) goes out to the people following the Derryn Hinch Justice Party social media feeds.  I know, I know, gentle reader.  I get onto this sort of stuff like a bulldog shaking a ragdoll with its teeth, but there is such a colossal amount of misinformed bull dung lying around, one would think one had wandered into the yards after muster at the O.K. Corral.  Anyway, what happened is I happened upon an article penned by the newly minted senator regarding the decision of a magistrate to vary the bail conditions of a 12-year-old, such variance will enable him to go on a holiday with his parents.  This kid has been charged with a monstrously ugly crime, and I am not going to comment upon the case because (1) I'm not the lawyers who are appraised with the facts and instructions, and (2) I'm not fucking stupid.  As predicted, the tone of the article is designed to whip up outrage and scandal about this kid being 'allowed' to go on holiday, and being 'rewarded' for bad behaviour.  I've copped some abuse on the threads when pointing out a few things regarding bail variances.  I don't care.  I'm going to point out a few things here, too, and if you don't like what I'm saying, then that's your problem.  If you want to comment, I invite you to do so.  If you are abusive to me, then I will pre-empt your abuse by cordially inviting you to eat a bowl of dicks.  If you are particularly vile, as one person was on Twitter, I may or may not delete your comment.  Be aware that if you are particularly abusive and nasty, your employer or future spouse might see it and respond accordingly, and not in your favour; this is one of the reasons I am inclined to leave abusive remarks because you know the old saying, 'Give 'em enough rope...'

Moving right along, to those who blindly believe what the senator blathers about, please read carefully.  It is not uncommon for bail conditions to be varied.  Without having seen the bail conditions to which this particular kid is subject, it is hard for me to say but I can make an educated guess (and yes, it would be a very educated one) that his bail conditions include he reside with his parents at a particular address.  Now, the address of his parents is going to be temporarily altered whilst they go away, and it is quite possible the holiday was booked and paid for ages ago.  The paperwork has to be noted accordingly, and this will facilitate the kid going away with and staying with his parents.  Also, it is possible he has to report to a local police station, and that will have to be factored in the variation of bail conditions.  Now please take note, all you fuckwits (and some of you have behaved thus, and I have no compunctions about addressing you as fuckwits): This. Is NOT. A. Holiday/Reward.  This is a procedural thing carried out by the court.

Also, oh twerpy ones, the parents are allowed to take their planned trip.  It is nobody's business if they go away somewhere. 

To those who were offended that a female magistrate varied the bail conditions: do you really think she studied, qualified, and practised as a lawyer before being appointed a magistrate only to be influenced by her gender when carrying out her mandate when presiding over the court?  That is naïve at best, unpardonably idiotic and sexist at worst.

But best of all, try and remember this: the kid hasn't had his trial yet.  Okay?  Trial by social media is one of the blights of modern day society, right down there with reality television.

As aforementioned, I copped some rather nasty comments from a mass of cankerous cells with a Twitter account the other day.  I don't know how to link the conversation here, and I was going to try to, but I couldn't find the comment.  Maybe the lowlife realised his folly and deleted the comment (or more likely, someone with a bit of common sense pointed out that remark really isn't one he'd want a future employer to see).  Anyway, as I told the cock, that he would make the comment he did says much more about him than it did me.  I will point out to those of you who need it pointed out: I don't condone rapist or rape etc.  Shit, no.  But this turd reckoned I did, and then said something particularly nasty.  I'm in two minds about repeating it, so I will take the safe option and not repeat it.  If you're curious about the rest of our conversation, my Twitter handle is @Bingells, although I mainly use my Twitter account to post the links to the articles I write here, anyway.  I will take the opportunity to say that I was delighted to find a kind of 'fuck you' emoticon in my iPad keyboard function - it's a fist with the middle finger raised in that time-old gesture - and I used it in a reply to the arrogant beast who saw fit to abuse me merely because I don't happen to agree with what Hinch was trying to do, and because I have a modicum of knowledge about the legal industry.

Well, I've been emailed the reedited manuscript of my next novel.  I must prove my notion that I'm a writer is not merely dilettante fantasy swirling around in my head, and start perusing the text.  Book will hopefully be available by early next year, and will hopefully sell.  I'm hoping you guys reading would like to purchase it.  It's very different in style to my rantings here, so if I've offended any of you, put your distaste aside and check out the work.  Keep watching this space for updates.

Dumb-Arsed Pollies, Polys, & Wallies

Hello, it's your illustrious blogger hard at work, um, blogging, and guess what?  I am super pissed off!  I don't know if that's a good way to start a post, or an entertaining way to start a post because I do kind of sound like a hyped up teenager.  But it's hard not to get pissed off at the level of dumb-arsery to which we are subjected by our politicians.  And it seems this subjection of dumb-arsery occurs on a daily basis.  Seriously, do you guys actually wash the pesticides off the fruit before you eat it?  I am not sure if this is the brain-child (and I use the word 'brain' very loosely, as loose as a sixty year old redneck's teeth, in fact) of Social Services Minister Christian Porter, or if an acolyte suggested it, but maybe more likely he found it on the toilet paper after he last took a dump, but I saw on breakfast television 'they' are talking of cutting the welfare benefits of parents whose children skip school. The only thing pissing me off more than this dumb-arse suggestion are the legions of dumb-arses supporting it.  How is this fair on parents who might be rushing out the door to start work at 7.30am, to a low-paying job being supplemented by the welfare, and who are trusting their kids to get to school?  Why make struggling families suffer more?  What if the kid is wagging school because there is a bullying issue?  Why not focus on the issue that is luring the child to play truant?  If there is bullying, a mediation (and a good kick up the bully's arse).  If the kid is a little turd deciding to wag school, then some counselling (followed by a good kick up the truant's arse).  But there is no need to make struggling families suffer more.  This whole notion is just dumb-arsed on every level.  It also has an undercurrent of inherent snobbery regarding low income families.  What are you going to do about the high income families whose children wag school?  Take away their holiday sailing around the Bahamas?  Seriously, there must be a better way to attend to your so-called 'crackdown on welfare'.  Does the government need more money in its coffers for health, infrastructure, and education?  I'm sure it does.  Well, how's this for an idea?  REMOVE THE TAX-EXEMPT STATUS FROM THE CHURCHES AND HIT THEM UP FOR SOME OVERDUE TAX!!!

Another questions being asked today: has Disney gone to far with its costume of Maui, a Polynesian character from an upcoming movie.  It is accused of promoting 'brown face'.  Um, let's just let kids play dress-ups, okay?  As far as I can tell, this promotes diversity and makes kids aware of other cultures.  The people having a gripe about it - go change your tampon.  Actually, here's a fun idea: have a look at some 'Summer Heights High' on DVD, with Chris Lilley's portray of a rather troublesome kid named Jonah, who happens to be Polynesian.  And if any of these people decide to watch the series, it is advisable that a trained paramedic be on standby, with a defibrillator ready to go.

Okay, so yesterday I bit the bullet and watched 'Bridget Jones' Baby'.  I went in expecting to loathe it as much as I had loathed the second in the movie series.  I did not loathe it.  Can't say I particularly liked it, but the feelings coursing through my veins as I sat in the local cinema were nowhere near loathing.  But they did not come close to excitement either.  I personally considered the movie to be two hours of utter prosaic meh-ness.  Well, maybe not quite two hours.  I kind of enjoyed the final twenty minutes when she had the baby.  Oh, if you think I've just revealed a spoiler with that bit of information, then please don't breed.  But Renee Zellweger's pommy accent just grated on me, and it was, in my humble opinion, just an exercise in banality for the most part.  Still think she's a bit of a wally.

Fools I Have Noticed In The Past Week

Dumb-arses I have been thinking of lately:

1. The narrator of the Lesley Gore song 'It's My Party (And I'll Cry If I Want To): I actually like the late Ms Gore's delivery of this.  I like her delivery in most of the stuff by her I've heard.  But I listen to this, and hear this milquetoast bleating, 'Nobody knows where my Johnny has gone, but Judy left the same time. Why was he holding her hand, when he's supposed to be mine?'  Cue the eye-roll.  My dear girl, why do you THINK he is holding her hand?  What do you THINK is going on?  The situation is mostly likely this: Judy puts out.

2. The parents of the feral adolescents at the trivia last Wednesday.  The kids were runners-up in the dumb-arse stakes. At first the three kids, boys apparently aged between eight and fifteen, were not that annoying.  They were skylarking a little bit, but not enough to cause concern to other patrons trying to listen to the host, and work out brow-furrowing stuff like the capital city of Lithuania.  I don't furrow my brow over this one because I happen to know it's Vilnius.  The kids piled $2.00 coin after $2.00 coin into the claw machine in a valiant attempt to win toy footballs representing every team in the NRL.  I will take this opportunity to point out the balls could have just as easily been purchased for about $1.00 at the local Reject Shop.  Eventually, their pocket money was fed into the snack vending machine, which sits on a tiled strip of floor in very close proximity to where my team sit.  It would seem the machine neglected to dispense a packet of Nobby's Nuts.  The boys started to shake it.  And I mean shake it with the vigour and abandon of a bunch of drunken yobs trying to tip over a Port-a-Loo at a Day on the Green concert.  The noise coming from the machine as its base bashed against the tiles was at first disconcerting.  As the boys became more determined to dislodge that packet of peanuts, the noise became downright un-fucking-bearable.  One of my team mates pointed out to me the likelihood of the tiles chipping from this unholy activity.  I glared at the boys, who were too stupid to realise those peanuts were going nowhere, and shot a positively evil look at the parents, who were the very embodiment of nonchalance, sipping their chardonnay or VB, and probably trying to figure out how to spell 'cat' when answering 'What type of creatures is the Warner Brothers cartoon character Sylvester?'  As the vending maching continued to be banged, causing a cacophonous racket that would make the noise of an MRI machine sound like a recording of whales in nature, I became more and more angry.  Finally, I stormed over and snapped at the little trolls, 'For the love of Christ, will you speak to the staff here about unlocking that machine, and stop rocking it!'  The kids, thereto unaware what obnoxious little fucks they actually were, looked at me and pleaded that they HAD spoken to the staff, and the staff had said to give the machine a shake.  A shake to dislodge a packet of Nobby's Nuts is one thing.  Rocking the thing with the force of a 7.1 Richter scale earthquake and risking breaking the floor tiles, all the while pissing off other patrons is another thing altogether.  And all this for a 50g packet of nuts!  This talk of nuts gives me the opportunity to segue to an idea I had, which was to feed the nuts of those three little monsters into a paper shredder, and prevent them breeding.  And parents of these kids, can you please try and, you know, tell your spawn to stop acting like flogs next time?

3. Adrian Knuth of Katter's Australian Party.  You know, it's funny, but whenever a political party is named for its founder, that party seems to be stocked full of twits.  I just read a Buzzfeed interview with Mr Knuth, whose party voted against the introduction of same sex age of consent laws relating to anal sex in Queensland the other night. It's his stance the consenting age should not have been reduced to sixteen years of age.  I cannot understand why politicians - or anybody else for that matter - tries to legislate against people of legal age making their own informed decisions regarding their bodies in their own bedrooms (or in the kitchen, or in the dining room etc).  What's got me rolling my eyes is his assertion lowering the age of consent to sixteen 'will give more of a possible predatory approach to the younger generation'.  Ades, listen to me.  If some sick fuck is going to make predatory overtures to young people, the legal age of consent will make no difference and will not deter them.  The predators are going to attempt to do what they do regardless of age of consent laws.  They are not going to say, 'I won't try to groom that kid because he's three years under the age of consent.'  I'm pretty sure their twisted minds don't work that way.  What made me spit my coffee across the room was when I read his response, 'No, I'm just... We don't support anal sex full stop.'  Ades, shouldn't that be 'We don't support anal sex colon?'  Bahbahahahahaaaa!  I slay even myself sometimes.  But seriously, why don't people just - ahem! - butt out of what people are doing in privacy?  There are people who are into all sorts of what could be described as kinks or fetishes.  There are people who love the smell of freshly baked bread to the point of sexual arousal.  If they are keeping it out of view of the general public and thus not frightening children on their tricycles, why does it matter?

Feeling The 'Draft'

My upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon' is undergoing editorial changes at the publishing house.  This is exciting.  Maybe not as exciting as the concept of opening my front door to see Hugh Jackman in a white naval uniform holding a spanking paddle and saying, 'Simone, I hear you've been a naughty girl.  Guess what's going to happen now?', but exciting nonetheless.  Actually, it is just as exciting as my hypothetical scenario, but a different category of excitement, but I won't go on about that just now.  The book, which is a meander away from my usual satirical smart-arse ways, is told from the point of view of a distressed seventeen year old girl in 1982, attempting to write her memoirs.  The prose is first person narrative in present tense, except when she's recalling something, or doing her actually 'writing'.  She is doing her writing at an old golf ball typewriter in her father's study.  Remember those?  I learned to type on one.  So, to differentiate from my prose and her memoirs, and to make it easier on the reader both visually and mentally, I have elected to have the text which forms part of her memoirs in a different font, that font being similar to the golf ball courier font of yore.  The first reviewed draft I received didn't have the change of font, so it was necessary for me to make a list of the passages where font must be altered.  This list was lengthy.  It had been my great plan to type the list in a Word document and attach it to an email.  My great plan was foiled by the expiration of my Office subscription, and the fact I am unable to renew it until tomorrow or Monday. Blame my impecuniosity on that one.  So I had the totally brilliant idea of typing the list in an email to the editor.  This list took me a while to type because I had to keep cross-referencing with my original hard copy when faced with some of my handwritten notes.  I try to write neatly, but really my handwriting occasionally resembles the tracks of a drunken spider that has crawled out of an inkwell. My terrible scrawl saw me punished many a time by sadistic nuns, but I might save that one for my therapist.  But back to my original story.  I started to type, and realised I had to run an errand.  I saved the email as a draft, mentally patting myself on the back.  The other day, I went to finalise the draft and send the list to the publisher.  I typed.  I cross-referenced.  I fortified myself with a cup of strong tea.  After an hour's mental toil, I was finished.  I did the final paragraph thanking them for their assistance, and signing off 'Simone'.  I clicked on 'send'.  What appeared on my screen was the sign-in function for my email.  What appeared from my ears was billowing clouds of smoke when I realised my email had timed out, and aside from the few lines I had typed in the first session, absolutely nothing was saved!  Nothing! Fuck-all!  I got up from the desk.  I stomped around like a bad tempered grizzly bear with whose hind feet have gone to sleep.  I swore like an offended sailor (or like some of the ferals I see at the local shopping centre, in tight singlet tops teamed with frayed pyjama bottoms, or ill-fitting active wear.  Why they wear active wear when it's obvious most of them avoid the gym like it was a pit of taipans is beyond me).  I debated crawling behind my lounge and lying there in a foetal position, my body wracking and heaving with sobs coming from deep within my gut.  I took deep breaths.  I made another cup of tea.  I opened my email again, went back to 'drafts', and started to re-type the list, only clicking on 'save draft' every ten minutes or so.  I finally signed off, and clicked 'send'.  It was sent.  I have had telephone contact with the editorial staff about my changes, and things are underway.  Life is reasonably good again.

Aaah, me.  It's not due for release until next Valentine's Day, which by my feeble calculations is not for about five months for so, but there trailer for the film 'Fifty Shades: Darker' has been released.  I actually didn't read the sequel to FSOG because FSOG really hurt my eyeballs.  I did watch the movie of FSOG because being a blogger, I felt I should watch in order that I would be qualified to comment and warn my readership.  Those of you who know me well know that I did not consider that movie to be a seat-soaker.  How do you like that?  I made a new phrase to describe the arousing properties of art, film, or literature: seat-soaker.  Shall I trademark that?  Maybe.  I did not enjoy that cinematic experience.  I think I experienced a more enjoyable occasion the day I got on a bus in Elizabeth Street, Sydney when the only seat left was the one at front that faces the rest of the passengers, and so I sat in it and was assailed with the sight of a slob sitting on the back seat merrily picking his nose and eating it.  No, I didn't make that up!  Ick! 

What I'm wondering: was Pauline Hanson stuck for material when writing her speech for parliament the other day?  If so, did she go to the cupboard and dig out her 1996 speech, and crib from that, only substituting 'Muslim' for 'Asian'?  What do you guys think?

Working It Out

I'm counting down the days until I take annual leave, which will be in about ten of 'em.  Is it just me, or do the final days leading up to a break really suck hard.  I mean suction of an imploding black hole hard.  Oh, who am I kidding?  What about Bangkok-bargirl-in-imploding-black-hole suction power?  I've had episodes of late where I've lifted the lid on a commode to be faced with the product of a bowel movement that should qualify as an evisceration.  I had a flashback to my visit to India in 1994 where I saw a cobra coiled in a basket. 

Today I had to do a domestic service - and I don't have that good a relationship with cleaning - which pretty much stole my will to live.  This entailed cleaning bathroom mirrors with Windex, and then the glass on the display cabinets.  I'm not too bad on mirrors (possibly the becoming reflection helps), but windows and glass doors just shit me to tears.  To save aches and pains, I alternated hands in clockwise and anticlockwise patterns as I rubbed the glass with the kitchen paper, and in my mind I could hear Mr Miyagi wisely intoning, 'Wax on, wax off...' over and over and over.  I even had a vision of myself posting like a gangling water bird on one leg, with my arms out and my wrists all limp, and then gearing myself up to leap and land a glass shattering kick on the doors of one of the shitful cupboards.  Don't get me wrong; I like display cabinets.  I just don't know why the Universe had me cleaning at a house where there was a multitude of the frigging things today.  Then what I heard was not Mr Miyagi's calming tones, but a shrill reminder I was to spray the front of the kitchen cupboards with a some product from a pressure can, and I'm sure the fumes have ripped a big gaping hole into the Ozone layer, and I can still taste them at the back of my throat.  I also think I'm still slightly wasted from them.

Keeping with the theme of work, today my specialty Facebook group is having a day of posting songs about working.  I don't know why, but I'm running with my spate of bad Karma today, but what happened is I thought about 'Best Looking Guy' by Uncanny X-Men.  It goes, 'I work all day....' and the chorus goes something like 'I'm the best looking guy in the factory...'.  If you haven't heard this before and choose to You Tube it, be it on your head.  If you do remember this, please accept my apology for reminding you of it.  It's a turd.  It's beyond a turd.  Yet, when I clicked on the You Tube link I was powerless to look away.  It drew me in with its tractor beam of unadulterated godawfulness.  All mullets, lurex, skinny jeans, and lyrics that go 'The girls are all dogs/The men are all wogs...'  Hardly the stuff of Sondheim, but there was almost an innocent sweetness to it as it evokes memories of a time, ie the yucky 80s, before everybody went all PC and lost their shit at the slightest, most insignificant thing.  I quite like Stephen Fry's philosophy in this regard, when people say they are offended as if it gives them special entitlement: 'So fucking what?'

Branching Out...

Is it egomaniacal to want to jump ship and sail solo?  Am I a hard-hearted Hannah for wanting to do my own thing?  I'm not breaking up the band, after all.  I am merely trying to pocket some nice moolah for doing what I do very well, and that's play trivia (we just won't mention the sports round).  One of my local clubs has started having a trivia night on Saturdays, and I've gone along with one of my regular team mates from my usual Wednesday night game, and we've done well.  Won it, in fact.  Yay, us.  However, our other team mates are interested in playing, too.  Wednesday's game is more a social thing; the prizes are not especially lucrative and we end up with vouchers and have a nice meal in the club's Thai restaurant.  The trivia at the Saturday night game is a slightly different style, both format and in terms of questions, and you know something?  I do pretty damn fine at it.  My younger team mate is keen to split into two teams if all of the team end up coming along.  The rest of the team is not; they see trivia purely as a social outing.  My viewpoint varies significantly in that I see it as a chance to feed my kids and pay bills.  My team mates do not struggle financially; I do at the moment.  They might see me as a treacherous traitor, a treasonous troll, a disloyal and dastardly desperado, a morally-bankrupted monster, or maybe they think I've outgrown my Size 9s.  Yes, it is a nice night out and fun, but I'm just a touch jaded at sharing a monetary prize with people who contribute no answers.

The scenario of someone in a confirmed group wishing to branch out is often shudder- and dread-inspiring.  For every Paul McCartney, or John Lennon, or Neil Young who has ever branched out and done a solo project, there is a countering Peter Criss (and I'm a Kiss fan), Mick Jagger (his solo stuff is execrable), or Bill Wyman (listen to 'Je Suis Un Rock Star', and I won't need to explain it to you.  If, after a listen, you still require an explanation, then for the love of God please don't breed).

But I'm going to actually give it a go.  I'm going to tell my team mates this is nothing personal, but when you spend your morning getting an extension on the time to pay your phone bill, you must seize the chance to earn a little extra cash with your extensive internal collection of useless knowledge and facts.  It's such fun trying to secure an extension on the day by which to pay the phone bill.  I rang Telstra and spoke to a clerk, and explained I needed an extension of time.  'Do you think you could pay by credit card today, Ma'am?' he asked.  I sighed, and it was a heavy sigh.  The sigh of a clinically depressed blue whale.  I tried to keep my syllables to a minimum, and said, 'If I could pay by credit card today, I WOULD, but I CAN'T.'  For this I must thank my kid who, minus my blessing, purchased some shit for this online game he plays, the account of which is linked to my credit card.  My kid is not enjoying the suspension of his privileges and the unending line of chores he must complete to pay me back.

But on the bright side, I got through the edited copy of my manuscript today, and compiled a list of alterations to send back to the publishers.  It's a tedious and stultifying task, but my novel must be polished and presentable for the reading public.

I was also told to go screw myself by some dick (ironic!) on a social media thread today.  My response was to explain again what point I had been making, that same point having fired up the twatwaffle in the first place.  I then thanked him for his suggestion I attempt self-impregnation, and added that my own self-defilement would be a much better bet than engagement in any type of carnal relations with him. 

To bed now.  I still have to finalise a costume for my credit-card-maxing little monster for the school play.  So much to do....

Strange Names, Strange Statues

Although an intrinsically gentle soul, I appear to have spent a large percentage of this weekend dealing with, and arguing with, and showing no sympathy toward butt-hurt sooks.  As a result, I can add to the list of Strange Things I've Been Called this entry: 'Snotty Nosed Alleged Solicitor'.  I've actually been called better (or worse, depending on your viewpoint), but this is an odd one.  The name-caller went on to tell me I sit in an ottoman sipping my fine red.  Uh, I don't have an ottoman to sit on OR in, and I haven't touched alcohol in weeks so there has been no fine red gracing my palate (nor a coarse one, for that matter).  But people who perpetuate spurious rhetoric and bilious bilge do make me hanker to break my sobriety. 

I've not had a chance to write here for a few days.  I have trying to work through the edited manuscript my publisher has forwarded me for my upcoming release 'Howling On A Concrete Moon', as well as the 1001 things we parents must do.  But last night I partook in a trivia match at a local club, when I finished my night medication run (for those of you not in the loop, although an author, my current paid employment is as an AIN - the reason some petulant curmudgeon called me a 'snotty nosed alleged solicitor' is because I have a staunch background in criminal law and a propensity to use big words).  It was a tad crowded and noisy there because my team were seated next to a table comprising the local netball team celebrating coming second in the grand final.  The cacophony of shrieks and squawks were reminiscent of an aviary of cockatoos who had been snorting the finest Bolivian booger-sugar.  Oh, the racket was unbearable, my friends!  I dread to imagine what it would have been like had they actually WON the grand final.  But at least they weren't cheating, unlike the motherfucker at another table who was googling on his phone all night.  But his cheating brought him and his team of slimy slugs undone when the host was announcing the winners.  He told them they would have placed second but because they had been cheating, they wouldn't get a prize.  And - *taking a second to buff nails* - my team won the game.

Today was spent with family as my niece's daughter was baptised.  I am not in the habit of regular church attendance, and therefore my children have been under-educated in the customs and rituals of the Catholic faith.  I took Master 12 though the steps of self-beatification with the Holy Water upon entry to the Church.  He dipped those little fingers of his and his cute mouth formed a moue of utter discomfort.  'Mu-um!' he hissed.  'This water's freezing!'

He then expressed concern about the hygiene of the Holy Water on the basis other people had been dipping their fingers in, fingers that might have had dried boogers encrusted under the nails.  This is probably a valid point.

My grand-niece was scheduled to be welcomed into the Church after the Sunday Mass service, so when the usual communicants had left, my family made our way to the front pews.  As mentioned, I do not make a habit of attending the local church, and I am unsure which saints the parish goes ga-ga over.  Inspection of one of the statues, set in a little nook high up on the wall behind the altar, leads me to believe it is Saint Matthew the Evangelist; the figure is depicted holding a long upright staff with a small purse tied to it.  The purse is quite a work of craftsmanship - it has bulges and wrinkles like a real drawstring purse.  Kudos to the artist.  However, from where we sat, it was a rather amorphous looking object with little bumps and bulges.  Master 12 leaned over and whispered as he pointed to the statue, 'Mum, why does Jesus have a grenade stuck to a stick?'  Many giggles and chuckles later, I have had the chance to explain to my kid that statue is probably Saint Matthew the Evangelist, who was allegedly a collector of taxes, which is why he is often depicted with a purse or a bag of money.  But I must say, in dim light and from a distance, it did look like it might be a statue of Our Lord about to hoik a frag with a stick, kind of like the principle of a catapult.  This is of course one way to drive the money makers from the temple!