I've been a bit lax on the old blogging lately, owing to a hectic work and home schedule. My 12yo played the Knave of Hearts in his school's production of 'Alice - The Musical'. The children were amazing. The sets and costumes were a triumph to the parents and teachers who put aside the time to bring the production together. And I will admit to a bit of pushy stage-mum syndrome here a la Mama Rose in 'Gypsy' ('Sing out, Louise!'), but he was very good as he acted the sneaky little tart thief, surreptitiously nibbling away from the tray he held during the croquet match. And when it was time for him to stand trial for the theft of those tarts, my breath caught and my heart was in my throat as he was marched up the middle aisle of the hall by two kids in executioner garb. Staying in character, he whispered, 'Help me, help me...' to audience members as he made his solemn way past, but bestowed us with a 'Help me...hi, Dad!' to Mr Bingells, who was seated at the end of the aisle. On the second night, I brought him to the school and hung around to be a parent helper. Being a pushy stage mum, I decided he needed extra eyeliner for the second half. He wouldn't hold still as I tried to apply it. I warned him he would end up looking like Alice Cooper. He asked who was Alice Cooper. I have since shown him some clips of the Gruesome Glammer, and Master 12 thinks looking like Alice Cooper would be kind of cool. But thankfully he looked more Russell Brand than Alice Cooper, and like Russell, kind of rocks the guy-liner look. After the final bows, the kids did a dance to 'Can't Stop The Feeling', and I am going to put this song on my iPod. Yes, Justin Timberlake is going to be gracing my iPod alongside AC/DC and Rainbow.
Maybe there's more to this than what the media is feeding us, but I am really - if not actually hating on - seriously DISLIKING on Joe Hockey at the moment. This is a dude who bleated and blathered to us that the age of entitlement was OVER, and we are all to tighten out belts. Hey, Hockey-sticks, if the age of entitlement is over, then pay for your OWN fucking babysitters instead of making a claim for fees. I'm feeling just a touch jaded at your lecturing because if I tighten my belt any more, I'm going to look like a figure eight, and I don't see you tightening YOUR belt - possibly because you need a boomerang to get the damned thing around your waist.
I'm just disliking on the government in general over proposed legislation for asylum seekers arriving by boat to be banned from receiving Australian visas. Dutton, you are an utter prick and a disgrace. Seeking asylum is NOT illegal, regardless of how you arrive. Aren't we signatories to the convention set by the United Nations? Most illegals are people who arrive by aeroplane and overstay their visas, so pick on them, you dumb mutt. This government makes me want to just vomit. Cruel and demoralising, and with the compassion of a sociopathic snake - all of you!
The other person upon whom I am directing some serious shade is the clown in the white car (didn't get the make - he was going too fast) who fairly flew through the roundabout near my local Coles this morning, the busted muffler sending out ear-shattering flatulent bursts in his wake. Seriously, mate, what was the problem? Were you experiencing the warning tummy rumble that heralds a bout of explosive diarrhoea? Why else would you need to race through a roundabout doing at least 50kph? You are a tool and a fool of the highest order.
Well, that's me for now. I'm off to put Justin Timberlake on my iPod. Seriously never thought I'd write that.
Saturday, 29 October 2016
Tuesday, 25 October 2016
Doctor Disciples & Other Things
We should take joy in the little things that make up this wonderful tapestry that is life. Oh, 'Tapestry' is also a beaut Carole King album. I think I might put 'Hard Rock Cafe' on my iPod. I know that's not from 'Tapestry', but it's just a vagary that floated through my mind. I'd rather think about Carole King songs than the usual cesspit of emotions that swirls there, dark and sinister. There is something for which I am very grateful in this crazy old pile of embroidery and cross-stitch. I am thrilled to bits that I knew the apostle Luke was a physician. And if you didn't know before, now you all know, too. You're probably wondering why in heckety-heck it should matter if you know the apostle Luke was a physician. You're probably wondering why I'm so delighted I knew this. Yes, the bulk of Our Lord's apostles were fishermen, but there had to be other jobs, too. Like I said, Luke was a physician. This is something I happened to know, but for years and years I've wondered how I can possibly make use of this knowledge. Well, last Saturday night I was at the club playing trivia, as is my wont. I was all by myself because my usual team mate is in hospital. I didn't ask to join any other teams, I wanted to fly solo. The questions were pretty good, but I wanted to kick myself for writing 'Tony Grieg' instead of 'Keppler Vessels' for a cricket related question. I had thought about writing Vessels, but wasn't sure if he had played for both South Africa and Australia, and I was pretty sure Grieg had. Anyway, you guessed it: the answer was Keppler Vessels. But back to the point. As the questions wore on, and my confidence increased, the host said something along the lines of, 'Question twenty-five: who is the patron saint of doctors?' This is a moment I've been waiting for. It's like a singer who gets picked to perform the national anthem on Grand Final Day. It's like an athlete getting chosen for the Olympic team. Although I have never been actually told, or read, or absorbed via osmosis that St Luke is the patron saint of doctors, I made the connection in my crazy old mind that having been a physician, then it would stand to reason the Doctor Disciple is the patron saint of doctors. So I wrote 'Luke' on my answer sheet. And I got it right!!! And, even better, I won the game. Playing alone. I got to pocket the $200.00 prize money all to my greedy, avaricious self. On the way home, I sat behind the wheel of my car doing a victory dance to Huey Lewis & The News' 'Hip To Be Square', which happened to be coming from the radio. But for years, I have wanted to put my knowledge about St Luke to good use, and I did. I fuelled my car, and bought the groceries the very next day.
When I was a kid, it was important to me that I be liked. Now that I am older, I think I have grown up not only physically, but emotionally. Oh, I guess I have a very small wanting to be liked, but if people I don't know don't really like me, I'm finding I'm vascillating between either not giving a shit, or being rather amused. Twice in as many weeks I've been abused by different people online, and then blocked. The only thing annoying me is I can't respond to the stupid comments because I'm blocked. It's all very well for folk to say, 'Simone, don't respond. Don't give them ammunition.' The snag herein is that the comments or accusations are often fallacious, and I just want to defend myself. Oh, and deliver a worthwhile zinger in the form of the written word that in a boxing ring would have my abuser lying flat on the canvas with a ring of stars circling over their stupid unconscious countenances. So if anybody wants to abuse me for my views, then at least give me the opportunity to respond, or answer your criticism.
I could choose to not ark up over idiotic stuff I read on Derryn Hinch's Justice Party threads, but a veritable tsunami of pig-ignorance must be addressed. Well, in my mind (which in its recesses stored the information that Christ's disciple Luke was a physician; let's not forget that), it must be addressed. Any regular readers know what I'm going to say to this lot, and I won't repeat it here. We know I will point out to folks what the judiciary take into account upon formulating sentences. This particular court matter, from Victoria, involved a defendant with a Middle Eastern name. There were calls for the dude to be deported. But what got me really blinking was some remark about how all the 'sand monkees' could just rot on Manus and Nauru. I had to ask the poster to clarify exactly what were 'sand monkees'. I asked him were they a commercially constructed pop band designed specifically to appeal to adolescent girls, and was the lead singer a diminutive baby-faced cutie with an appealing accent, and was he - as was the drummer - a former child actor. Were the others probably more serious as musicians, and was one of them financially set up for life because his mother had invented liquid paper? (If you don't know, Mike Nesmith's mother invented liquid paper. Remember this, it's often the subject of trivia questions, and you too might win $200.00 all to yourself).
Anyway, the hour groweth late. Your blogger groweth tired. Your blogger had a lovely day off work, and went to lunch with her husband - using one of the club vouchers she had won at the trivia. Your blogger also sent off the manuscript of her next novel back to the publisher with only four errors found, so hopefully after this it will be ready for print!
When I was a kid, it was important to me that I be liked. Now that I am older, I think I have grown up not only physically, but emotionally. Oh, I guess I have a very small wanting to be liked, but if people I don't know don't really like me, I'm finding I'm vascillating between either not giving a shit, or being rather amused. Twice in as many weeks I've been abused by different people online, and then blocked. The only thing annoying me is I can't respond to the stupid comments because I'm blocked. It's all very well for folk to say, 'Simone, don't respond. Don't give them ammunition.' The snag herein is that the comments or accusations are often fallacious, and I just want to defend myself. Oh, and deliver a worthwhile zinger in the form of the written word that in a boxing ring would have my abuser lying flat on the canvas with a ring of stars circling over their stupid unconscious countenances. So if anybody wants to abuse me for my views, then at least give me the opportunity to respond, or answer your criticism.
I could choose to not ark up over idiotic stuff I read on Derryn Hinch's Justice Party threads, but a veritable tsunami of pig-ignorance must be addressed. Well, in my mind (which in its recesses stored the information that Christ's disciple Luke was a physician; let's not forget that), it must be addressed. Any regular readers know what I'm going to say to this lot, and I won't repeat it here. We know I will point out to folks what the judiciary take into account upon formulating sentences. This particular court matter, from Victoria, involved a defendant with a Middle Eastern name. There were calls for the dude to be deported. But what got me really blinking was some remark about how all the 'sand monkees' could just rot on Manus and Nauru. I had to ask the poster to clarify exactly what were 'sand monkees'. I asked him were they a commercially constructed pop band designed specifically to appeal to adolescent girls, and was the lead singer a diminutive baby-faced cutie with an appealing accent, and was he - as was the drummer - a former child actor. Were the others probably more serious as musicians, and was one of them financially set up for life because his mother had invented liquid paper? (If you don't know, Mike Nesmith's mother invented liquid paper. Remember this, it's often the subject of trivia questions, and you too might win $200.00 all to yourself).
Anyway, the hour groweth late. Your blogger groweth tired. Your blogger had a lovely day off work, and went to lunch with her husband - using one of the club vouchers she had won at the trivia. Your blogger also sent off the manuscript of her next novel back to the publisher with only four errors found, so hopefully after this it will be ready for print!
Thursday, 20 October 2016
Boring Ballad & Tempestuous Tostee Tantrums
I am somewhat partial to a bit of Johnny Cougar, or John Cougar Mellancamp, or John Mellancamp, or whatever the blue blazes he wants to call himself these days. Hell, in my second novel 'Abernethy' I even had the protagonist's parents' backstory being they met at one of his concerts. Some of his earlier hits are on my iPod. What I am not partial to is his song 'Small Town'. This is seriously one of the most pointless, shit-boring songs I've ever heard. It goes nowhere, and tells a story nobody cares about. The narrator just goes on that he was born in a small town, he lives there, he'll probably die there (of boredom, from the sounds of it), he taught the fear of Jesus there, and his job provides little opportunity. If it wasn't for the rather contented sounding delivery, I'd think he was the 'hero' of one of Bruce Springsteen's more depressing working class ballads. Worst thing is, it was on the radio when I was driving home from work today, and now the aggravating song is stuck in my head.
Now, those of you who have had a perusal of my third book, 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' will know from my author bio that (and yes, I know I often refer to it when posting here), my background is in criminal law. I had actually considered undergoing a Diploma of Law, but the call of the Writing Siren was too seductive, and held my heart. Now, because of this background, I am pretty well qualified to give what's commonly referred to as an informed opinion on the subject that's been clogging my media feed since yesterday afternoon, and that of course, dear blog-browser, is the Tostee verdict. Let me give it to you in a nutshell: Gable Tostee (a man with a degree of Aspergers, not a roof design) had an unsuccessful Tinder date (when your date ends up deceased, it's not a good evening). He was charged in relation to this death, had a trial in the Queensland Supreme Court, and yesterday afternoon a jury of twelve men and women good and true returned their verdict: not guilty of murder and not guilty of manslaughter. Tostee (who has changed his name) is now a free man. Look, I don't know if he 'did it' or not, but the evidence is that he did NOT, and furthermore, I'd rather see a guilty man walk than an innocent man go to gaol.
The verdict, which was reached by the jury who were appraised of all the relevant evidence and the judge's rulings on points of law, has aggrieved some of the hoi polloi. To the aggrieved, I say this: eat a bowl of dicks.
I sat reading some of the comments, and thought to myself, 'Great steaming shitballs, what a bunch of stupid people are out there!', and being unable to help myself (well maybe I COULD help myself, but chose not to), argued with some of them. I now repeat my points. For the benefit of the infuriated woman who insisted the Crown appeal this verdict: I am pretty sure the Queensland DPP cannot appeal a not guilty verdict delivered by a jury, so suck it up, buttercup. To the woman who cited the Gittany case in her cruddy argument and told me she had better things to do than argue with someone who was misinformed: Bitch, please. Stop stealing my script, ie, YOU'RE the one who's misinformed, not me. Particularly if you'd cite a completely unrelated case with unrelated circumstances and unrelated, oh, EVERYTHING!!! To the woman who told me to butt out of an argument I commented on and go paint my nails: It was a public forum and I was entitled to comment, particularly as I pointed out Tostee has been charged, tried and acquitted on evidence and law. As for painting my nails, I cannot be arsed.
Oh, and Channel 7 Sunrise, what is to be served by running a story about Tostee's criminal record, which is in the past and totally irrelevant to the case of which he has just been acquitted? You are behaving like utter grubs.
Oh well, must away. Things to do, groceries to buy.
Now, those of you who have had a perusal of my third book, 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' will know from my author bio that (and yes, I know I often refer to it when posting here), my background is in criminal law. I had actually considered undergoing a Diploma of Law, but the call of the Writing Siren was too seductive, and held my heart. Now, because of this background, I am pretty well qualified to give what's commonly referred to as an informed opinion on the subject that's been clogging my media feed since yesterday afternoon, and that of course, dear blog-browser, is the Tostee verdict. Let me give it to you in a nutshell: Gable Tostee (a man with a degree of Aspergers, not a roof design) had an unsuccessful Tinder date (when your date ends up deceased, it's not a good evening). He was charged in relation to this death, had a trial in the Queensland Supreme Court, and yesterday afternoon a jury of twelve men and women good and true returned their verdict: not guilty of murder and not guilty of manslaughter. Tostee (who has changed his name) is now a free man. Look, I don't know if he 'did it' or not, but the evidence is that he did NOT, and furthermore, I'd rather see a guilty man walk than an innocent man go to gaol.
The verdict, which was reached by the jury who were appraised of all the relevant evidence and the judge's rulings on points of law, has aggrieved some of the hoi polloi. To the aggrieved, I say this: eat a bowl of dicks.
I sat reading some of the comments, and thought to myself, 'Great steaming shitballs, what a bunch of stupid people are out there!', and being unable to help myself (well maybe I COULD help myself, but chose not to), argued with some of them. I now repeat my points. For the benefit of the infuriated woman who insisted the Crown appeal this verdict: I am pretty sure the Queensland DPP cannot appeal a not guilty verdict delivered by a jury, so suck it up, buttercup. To the woman who cited the Gittany case in her cruddy argument and told me she had better things to do than argue with someone who was misinformed: Bitch, please. Stop stealing my script, ie, YOU'RE the one who's misinformed, not me. Particularly if you'd cite a completely unrelated case with unrelated circumstances and unrelated, oh, EVERYTHING!!! To the woman who told me to butt out of an argument I commented on and go paint my nails: It was a public forum and I was entitled to comment, particularly as I pointed out Tostee has been charged, tried and acquitted on evidence and law. As for painting my nails, I cannot be arsed.
Oh, and Channel 7 Sunrise, what is to be served by running a story about Tostee's criminal record, which is in the past and totally irrelevant to the case of which he has just been acquitted? You are behaving like utter grubs.
Oh well, must away. Things to do, groceries to buy.
Wednesday, 19 October 2016
Playing A Frustrating 'Game'
I've been making valiant attempts to keep my head above water, and just when I think I'm doing well, and keeping those waves lapping gently at the level of my throat with the seductive, yet reassuring gentle caress of a lover, bloody Satan decides to hoon past on a jet ski, causing a massive bow wave to drench and chunder me. By this I mean a mysterious transaction appeared on my credit card statement, such transaction making my card haemorrhage more, and go over the limit. I was confounded by this, and telephoned Microsoft.
The clerk to whom I spoke sounded much younger than I am, and spoke with a heavy accent. I think she was trying to be hip and colloquial as she asked, 'Do you have, like, an x-box?' Annoyance at the use of a verb as an interjection caused me to respond sarcastically, 'Yes, I do have, like, an x-box.' However, I think my subtle dig at the bad grammar was completely lost on her, lost and vanished like the crew of the Marie Celeste.
Anyway, I was transferred to the department that deals with x-box accounts, and placed in the - I think - capable hands of the clerk to whom x-box accounts have been entrusted. But here's the rub: I don't know. I couldn't understand a fucking word she was saying. Compounding my confusion and frustration, the very few words and phrases I could understand were asking me about a topic with which I am very unfamiliar: gaming. Now, had the woman wanted to discuss classic late twentieth century American literature with me, I would have been all over it. Irving, Wolfe, Ellis, maybe some Updike - I can wax lyrical for hours. But gaming? Gimme a break! Don't ask me the gamer tag of the household user - please!! I had to hand the telephone to Mr Bingells who, along with our oldest son, does like to game. By the way, when did 'game' become a verb? Back in my youth, it was a noun ('Who wants to play a game of Scrabble?') or an adjective ('I'm game to sneak through the cemetery if you are.'), but now it's a verb, as well? Soon it will be an article and conjunction, too! Somebody will say, 'Game game game game game', and it will make perfect grammatical sense! This is utter dystopia, in my eyes.
Even though he is far more au fait with the topic at hand that me any day, Mr Bingells was soon very perplexed and frustrated as he dealt with the clerk. He finally wound up the conversation and pressed 'End', and looked at me, stunned. When he regained his powers of speech, he said, 'That was painful.' I felt bad about abrogating my responsibilities in handling the telephone call, but really, I know nothing about the x-box and our account therewith. At least Mr Bingells had been able to work out some of the problem, and understand some of the conversation.
What it boils down to, we suspect, is the annual account fee for the x-box. I don't mind if it is, at least it means we haven't been hacked and someone's running up bills on my credit card. But in the meantime, it must be paid. I might just have to beg for everyone to buy my books, to help alleviate these bills, and enable my husband and kids to continue with their - *shuddering at the verb* - gaming.
Speaking of books, I've still been going through the edited manuscript of the upcoming 'Howling On A Concrete Moon', and am quite happy. It's not a big tome, by any means, but it's just that I have been rostered to do quite a few hours work-wise, and therefore haven't had as much time as I would like to spend reading. It will be released next year - early - and hopefully sell well.
The clerk to whom I spoke sounded much younger than I am, and spoke with a heavy accent. I think she was trying to be hip and colloquial as she asked, 'Do you have, like, an x-box?' Annoyance at the use of a verb as an interjection caused me to respond sarcastically, 'Yes, I do have, like, an x-box.' However, I think my subtle dig at the bad grammar was completely lost on her, lost and vanished like the crew of the Marie Celeste.
Anyway, I was transferred to the department that deals with x-box accounts, and placed in the - I think - capable hands of the clerk to whom x-box accounts have been entrusted. But here's the rub: I don't know. I couldn't understand a fucking word she was saying. Compounding my confusion and frustration, the very few words and phrases I could understand were asking me about a topic with which I am very unfamiliar: gaming. Now, had the woman wanted to discuss classic late twentieth century American literature with me, I would have been all over it. Irving, Wolfe, Ellis, maybe some Updike - I can wax lyrical for hours. But gaming? Gimme a break! Don't ask me the gamer tag of the household user - please!! I had to hand the telephone to Mr Bingells who, along with our oldest son, does like to game. By the way, when did 'game' become a verb? Back in my youth, it was a noun ('Who wants to play a game of Scrabble?') or an adjective ('I'm game to sneak through the cemetery if you are.'), but now it's a verb, as well? Soon it will be an article and conjunction, too! Somebody will say, 'Game game game game game', and it will make perfect grammatical sense! This is utter dystopia, in my eyes.
Even though he is far more au fait with the topic at hand that me any day, Mr Bingells was soon very perplexed and frustrated as he dealt with the clerk. He finally wound up the conversation and pressed 'End', and looked at me, stunned. When he regained his powers of speech, he said, 'That was painful.' I felt bad about abrogating my responsibilities in handling the telephone call, but really, I know nothing about the x-box and our account therewith. At least Mr Bingells had been able to work out some of the problem, and understand some of the conversation.
What it boils down to, we suspect, is the annual account fee for the x-box. I don't mind if it is, at least it means we haven't been hacked and someone's running up bills on my credit card. But in the meantime, it must be paid. I might just have to beg for everyone to buy my books, to help alleviate these bills, and enable my husband and kids to continue with their - *shuddering at the verb* - gaming.
Speaking of books, I've still been going through the edited manuscript of the upcoming 'Howling On A Concrete Moon', and am quite happy. It's not a big tome, by any means, but it's just that I have been rostered to do quite a few hours work-wise, and therefore haven't had as much time as I would like to spend reading. It will be released next year - early - and hopefully sell well.
Wednesday, 12 October 2016
My Brush With Egyptian Royalty
"Esteemed Madam Pharaoh,
Thank you for taking the time from your busy schedule of marrying your brothers, fucking a few Roman generals, and having your servants hunt up asps to stick down your décolletage to contact me. I am indeed humbled and flattered that you would send me a private message, albeit one with the grammatical, spelling, and punctuation skills of a dyslexic Martian.
I would have responded to you via your preferred method of communication, being the private message function on Facebook. However, I cannot do this because you have blocked me. This cannot be right. Surely the Queen of Egypt is not so frightened of a writer living in rural New South Wales that she would send a rather terse and insulting message, and then BLOCK said writer before said writer can formulate her reply? Nonetheless, this appears to be what has happened, hence I have chosen this more public method of response. Yes, I AM a writer. So therefore, you must be the Queen of Egypt. That's what you said: 'If you're a writer; I am the Queen of Egypt'. Madam Pharaoh, forgive me for taking the liberty of correcting the spelling and punctuation of your sentence, by the way, but 'if your a writer I am the queen of Egypt' is not how that sentence was supposed to be presented. It's capital 'I' for the beginning, it's 'you're' (the contraction for the phrase 'you are'), and there should probably be a semicolon after 'writer' because you haven't used a conjunction between those clauses. In this case, the conjunction should be 'then'. Also, it's a capital 'Q' on 'queen' because you are referring to your title. Again, Madam Pharaoh, I crave pardon for punctuating your sentence, but how you presented it to me really did hurt my eyeballs.
Madam Pharaoh, you're probably expecting me to refer to myself as 'your humble servant', but I will not do that because I am an Australian citizen and therefore not subject to your reign over there in Egypt whilst I'm here in Oz, however I seek leave to attend to the other part of your message, to wit, ' you are on the side of paedophiles'. No need for capital 'Y' on 'you' because I have only copied the second half of the sentence (maybe I should have stuck an ellipsis in). A paedophile is someone who loves children, but in our modern lexicon it has become the word to describe someone who would be better described as a 'pederast'. Now, Madam Pharaoh, this is where I start to get a touch truculent. If you will recall our Facebook convo (we Aussies like to shorten words), I pointed out some judicial procedures. Being stuck on a throne in Egypt as you are (and getting fanned with palm leaves by buff loin-clothed slaves, and then getting banged stupid by Roman generals - lucky gal!), you're clearly not au fait with how it works here. Please unblock me, and take the time to read my comments again. Slowly. Or have someone read them to you, because being the Egyptian Queen, I'm guessing English is not your first language. I have neither the linguistic nor translation skills necessary to convert my words to hieroglyphics for you, but certainly your court will have a translator to do the job. However, to say I am supportive of somebody who would molest a child merely because I (1) pointed out judicial procedure, and (2) stated somebody's suicide does not prove he was a criminal but merely tortured, is seriously fatuous to say the least, and downright offensive. Madam Pharaoh, to engage in spurious ad hominem rhetoric in the manner in which you have done is the last bastion of the impotent.
Your misspelled messages state you are reading law for a hobby. I would suggest a different hobby because you clearly do not understand the subject matter. Perhaps resuming the solving of those nice easy puzzles in 'Take Five' magazine would be less taxing for you. Have one of those buff loin-clothed slaves bring you some crayons.
I will admit to having been somewhat star-struck to have been contacted by Egyptian royalty. However, the excitement proved meretricious and all I could do was roll my eyes and laugh at the imbecility of the fallacious arguments, followed by a blocking.
I leave you now, Madam Pharaoh, as I must peruse the edited manuscript of my upcoming novel. But in the interest of bestowing upon you some cultural learnings, as well as letting you know how I feel about your communication with me, this good old Aussie idiom beautifully encapsulates my feelings: Go stick your head up a dead bear's bum.
Yours,
Simone (who is a writer)"
Do you like, peeps? That's what I would have told this person had they not blocked me. But as mentioned, I am a writer and if any of you, (including the Queen of Egypt) are interested in my novels, here are links to the first chapters:
http://www.zeus-publications.com/calumny_while_reading_irvine_welsh.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm
Thank you for taking the time from your busy schedule of marrying your brothers, fucking a few Roman generals, and having your servants hunt up asps to stick down your décolletage to contact me. I am indeed humbled and flattered that you would send me a private message, albeit one with the grammatical, spelling, and punctuation skills of a dyslexic Martian.
I would have responded to you via your preferred method of communication, being the private message function on Facebook. However, I cannot do this because you have blocked me. This cannot be right. Surely the Queen of Egypt is not so frightened of a writer living in rural New South Wales that she would send a rather terse and insulting message, and then BLOCK said writer before said writer can formulate her reply? Nonetheless, this appears to be what has happened, hence I have chosen this more public method of response. Yes, I AM a writer. So therefore, you must be the Queen of Egypt. That's what you said: 'If you're a writer; I am the Queen of Egypt'. Madam Pharaoh, forgive me for taking the liberty of correcting the spelling and punctuation of your sentence, by the way, but 'if your a writer I am the queen of Egypt' is not how that sentence was supposed to be presented. It's capital 'I' for the beginning, it's 'you're' (the contraction for the phrase 'you are'), and there should probably be a semicolon after 'writer' because you haven't used a conjunction between those clauses. In this case, the conjunction should be 'then'. Also, it's a capital 'Q' on 'queen' because you are referring to your title. Again, Madam Pharaoh, I crave pardon for punctuating your sentence, but how you presented it to me really did hurt my eyeballs.
Madam Pharaoh, you're probably expecting me to refer to myself as 'your humble servant', but I will not do that because I am an Australian citizen and therefore not subject to your reign over there in Egypt whilst I'm here in Oz, however I seek leave to attend to the other part of your message, to wit, ' you are on the side of paedophiles'. No need for capital 'Y' on 'you' because I have only copied the second half of the sentence (maybe I should have stuck an ellipsis in). A paedophile is someone who loves children, but in our modern lexicon it has become the word to describe someone who would be better described as a 'pederast'. Now, Madam Pharaoh, this is where I start to get a touch truculent. If you will recall our Facebook convo (we Aussies like to shorten words), I pointed out some judicial procedures. Being stuck on a throne in Egypt as you are (and getting fanned with palm leaves by buff loin-clothed slaves, and then getting banged stupid by Roman generals - lucky gal!), you're clearly not au fait with how it works here. Please unblock me, and take the time to read my comments again. Slowly. Or have someone read them to you, because being the Egyptian Queen, I'm guessing English is not your first language. I have neither the linguistic nor translation skills necessary to convert my words to hieroglyphics for you, but certainly your court will have a translator to do the job. However, to say I am supportive of somebody who would molest a child merely because I (1) pointed out judicial procedure, and (2) stated somebody's suicide does not prove he was a criminal but merely tortured, is seriously fatuous to say the least, and downright offensive. Madam Pharaoh, to engage in spurious ad hominem rhetoric in the manner in which you have done is the last bastion of the impotent.
Your misspelled messages state you are reading law for a hobby. I would suggest a different hobby because you clearly do not understand the subject matter. Perhaps resuming the solving of those nice easy puzzles in 'Take Five' magazine would be less taxing for you. Have one of those buff loin-clothed slaves bring you some crayons.
I will admit to having been somewhat star-struck to have been contacted by Egyptian royalty. However, the excitement proved meretricious and all I could do was roll my eyes and laugh at the imbecility of the fallacious arguments, followed by a blocking.
I leave you now, Madam Pharaoh, as I must peruse the edited manuscript of my upcoming novel. But in the interest of bestowing upon you some cultural learnings, as well as letting you know how I feel about your communication with me, this good old Aussie idiom beautifully encapsulates my feelings: Go stick your head up a dead bear's bum.
Yours,
Simone (who is a writer)"
Do you like, peeps? That's what I would have told this person had they not blocked me. But as mentioned, I am a writer and if any of you, (including the Queen of Egypt) are interested in my novels, here are links to the first chapters:
http://www.zeus-publications.com/calumny_while_reading_irvine_welsh.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm
Saturday, 8 October 2016
Reputations, Rantings, Rude Budgie Smugglers
I have a reputation. Not entirely sure what it is, but it would appear I have one. Last night I was informed it precedes me. This was at one of the local clubs where I have taken to playing trivia on Saturday nights. It was a different host last night, and he said to me, 'Your reputation precedes you.' I said, 'What reputation would that be? The one written on the dunny wall?' Anyway, he did not inform me and I am still none the wiser. I had my fifteen-year-old with me last night in case we got asked a real curly maths problem. No such question was asked, but he did help with suggestions about the most common spoken languages, and explained his theory about the gravitational pull of certain planets which would lead to them having 'rings'. We got those questions correct, so he is due a certain percentage of my share of the winnings.
I still haven't gone through the re-edited manuscript of the upcoming 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'. If you're reading this post, my friends at Zeus Publications, I do apologise. I promise to get onto it this week, when the fruits of my womb have returned to school.
If the cretinous pile of carbon-based cells who sent me the private message on Facebook is reading this, I think the word you're after is 'weight'. No 'wait'. 'Weight'. 'Weight' refers to mass, and 'wait' refers to what one must do when enduring the passage of time before an anticipated event occurs. Anyway, according to you, dear, I need to shed some of my body mass. Now, a woman who looks like a mature Daphne from 'Scooby Doo' but with Velma's brains doesn't really care that much what a total cockhead like you thinks. Given I stand about 5'7' and am a size 12-14 in Australian sizing, being a fatty-boom-sticks is probably not high up on my list of problems. I do have a problem with ignorance and stupidity. Those of you who follow my ramblings will know that I take umbrage with the hoary old chestnuts about the judiciary being out of touch. This is why I usually make a well-formulated reply to Facebook threads about how the judiciary works, and how judges and magistrates arrive at the decisions and sentences they do. These comments are usually saved for the Fb page of a certain senator who was voted into the Senate, yet has never voted in an Australian election before, and often gloated about that.
Because I am fair and not stupid, I am not going to say this twit's name, but she did demand the instant dismissal of some judges. I've tried to copy the comments, but can't because I'm not all that technologically adept. Anyway, I just replied with my usual reply about the factors that judges take into account when making their rulings, and that it is fatuous to call for the sacking of somebody who is doing their job. Anyway, the lady did not like this. No siree, she did not like this one bit. With a bilious rant, peppered with judicious use of capitalised words, she told me she is a mother and a grandmother and as a woman is blessed with gut instinct. She is also reading the law as a hobby, and told me my comments were disturbing. She told me people in high places are often paedophiles, and the suicide of a judge some years ago who was accused thus just proves it. Well, if you are reading this, imbecilic crone, let me say this: the suicide of someone who was the subject of Ms Arena's accusations years ago, someone who denied having knowingly had sex with anybody under the age of 18, and someone who battled with his double life, just proves he was tortured - doesn't really prove he was guilty. But hey, well done on discovering how to use the 'caps lock' button on your keyboard, by the way. Go, you!
However, this woman then told me to go to Jenny Craig and lose some 'wait', and finished it with 'go away you not normal'. Anyway, she then told me she was blocking me. Kind of reminds me of a snivelling little poltroon in the school yard who picks and pokes and teases, before running to the teacher when their victim responds. However, she did PM me with a different profile - same first name, and same woeful grammar - telling me how I sit on my arse too much writing all day, and that I should go for a walk to lose some 'wait'.
This to me is hysterically funny. Also, it is kind of my definition of 'chickenshit'. That's definitely a step forward for womanhood: insulting another woman's appearance because you don't like what she said before blocking her. Problem is, you fathead, I have no issues about my weight (which as abovementioned is perfectly normal and healthy). And like I said, all you did was make me laugh like a drain when I received your moronic message. So ha-ha all over you.
Now, in closing, I would like to get my tuppence worth on the Budgie 9. I do not think you are a bunch of loveable larrikins who made an error of judgement. Yes, you made an error of judgement, but loveable larrikins you are not. You are a group of men aged from your mid- to late-twenties, and from what I can tell have the education sufficient to realise if you are going to visit a conservative country, it is really, really stupid to strip down to swimwear designed as the flag of that country in a public place. You lot give Aussie tourists a bad name. For the love of Crimony, when visiting another country, show some respect!!!! That being said, I am glad you were not punished more than you have been, and glad you are home safely. Now grow up, lads. Listen to Auntie Bingells. Learn your lesson, and try to be productive human beings from now on.
I still haven't gone through the re-edited manuscript of the upcoming 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'. If you're reading this post, my friends at Zeus Publications, I do apologise. I promise to get onto it this week, when the fruits of my womb have returned to school.
If the cretinous pile of carbon-based cells who sent me the private message on Facebook is reading this, I think the word you're after is 'weight'. No 'wait'. 'Weight'. 'Weight' refers to mass, and 'wait' refers to what one must do when enduring the passage of time before an anticipated event occurs. Anyway, according to you, dear, I need to shed some of my body mass. Now, a woman who looks like a mature Daphne from 'Scooby Doo' but with Velma's brains doesn't really care that much what a total cockhead like you thinks. Given I stand about 5'7' and am a size 12-14 in Australian sizing, being a fatty-boom-sticks is probably not high up on my list of problems. I do have a problem with ignorance and stupidity. Those of you who follow my ramblings will know that I take umbrage with the hoary old chestnuts about the judiciary being out of touch. This is why I usually make a well-formulated reply to Facebook threads about how the judiciary works, and how judges and magistrates arrive at the decisions and sentences they do. These comments are usually saved for the Fb page of a certain senator who was voted into the Senate, yet has never voted in an Australian election before, and often gloated about that.
Because I am fair and not stupid, I am not going to say this twit's name, but she did demand the instant dismissal of some judges. I've tried to copy the comments, but can't because I'm not all that technologically adept. Anyway, I just replied with my usual reply about the factors that judges take into account when making their rulings, and that it is fatuous to call for the sacking of somebody who is doing their job. Anyway, the lady did not like this. No siree, she did not like this one bit. With a bilious rant, peppered with judicious use of capitalised words, she told me she is a mother and a grandmother and as a woman is blessed with gut instinct. She is also reading the law as a hobby, and told me my comments were disturbing. She told me people in high places are often paedophiles, and the suicide of a judge some years ago who was accused thus just proves it. Well, if you are reading this, imbecilic crone, let me say this: the suicide of someone who was the subject of Ms Arena's accusations years ago, someone who denied having knowingly had sex with anybody under the age of 18, and someone who battled with his double life, just proves he was tortured - doesn't really prove he was guilty. But hey, well done on discovering how to use the 'caps lock' button on your keyboard, by the way. Go, you!
However, this woman then told me to go to Jenny Craig and lose some 'wait', and finished it with 'go away you not normal'. Anyway, she then told me she was blocking me. Kind of reminds me of a snivelling little poltroon in the school yard who picks and pokes and teases, before running to the teacher when their victim responds. However, she did PM me with a different profile - same first name, and same woeful grammar - telling me how I sit on my arse too much writing all day, and that I should go for a walk to lose some 'wait'.
This to me is hysterically funny. Also, it is kind of my definition of 'chickenshit'. That's definitely a step forward for womanhood: insulting another woman's appearance because you don't like what she said before blocking her. Problem is, you fathead, I have no issues about my weight (which as abovementioned is perfectly normal and healthy). And like I said, all you did was make me laugh like a drain when I received your moronic message. So ha-ha all over you.
Now, in closing, I would like to get my tuppence worth on the Budgie 9. I do not think you are a bunch of loveable larrikins who made an error of judgement. Yes, you made an error of judgement, but loveable larrikins you are not. You are a group of men aged from your mid- to late-twenties, and from what I can tell have the education sufficient to realise if you are going to visit a conservative country, it is really, really stupid to strip down to swimwear designed as the flag of that country in a public place. You lot give Aussie tourists a bad name. For the love of Crimony, when visiting another country, show some respect!!!! That being said, I am glad you were not punished more than you have been, and glad you are home safely. Now grow up, lads. Listen to Auntie Bingells. Learn your lesson, and try to be productive human beings from now on.
Wednesday, 5 October 2016
Technological Twaddle
Technology is a dual-edged sword that really is all pervasive in our modern life, isn't it? Hell, I'm using technology to have a little rant here: I'm sitting at a computer and I'm soon going to click on 'Publish' and send my prose into cyberspace for the hopeful enjoyment of you, the reader. It's great for me as a writer - all I need do when researching is usually type a few words into a search engine and there will be a veritable cornucopia of choices and links for me to peruse. This doesn't stop me from preferring to speak to an actual person who is experienced in the field about which I have chosen to write. My household goes into meltdown if there is a power outage. How am I meant to brew my coffee? Have a hot shower? The other downside to technology is automated voice assistance when ringing financial institutions or government departments. Some years ago, I acquired some shares through an inheritance. Not enough to keep me dripping in diamonds by any means, but enough to perhaps send out for a pizza, maybe, depending upon how capricious and skittish the share market has been. Because I am to confer with an account tomorrow morn, I needed to ascertain some franking credits over the past financial year.
This afternoon I finished my cup of tea, and dialled the number provided on the company correspondence, squinting and cursing because I had left my glasses in the other room. I was greeted by a recorded voice telling me to state my customer ID number, which I actually did incorrectly. I occasionally wonder how these computers are equipped to cope with anybody who is heavily accented. Maybe the circuits are designed to 'read' any algorithms that might appear in voice prints. Shit, I don't know. This might be a question for Google, when I can be bothered to check it out. There are times when I get so frustrated dealing with recorded voice technology, I am tempted to announce my name as 'Mike Hunt', just to hear the smooth, dulcet, velvet-dipped-in-moisturiser tones enunciate 'You are my cunt. Is this correct?' Anyway, whatever the machine wanted to ask me today, once I had stated my customer number correctly, was what I wanted to know. What I want to know is why I cannot speak to a bloody person anymore! I said something like 'franking credits', and then it said it would direct me to the correct department. This it did not. It asked me another question just as I was swearing, and then it asked, 'I heard 'financial year'. Is this correct?' No, mate; not quite. What you heard was me muttering, 'Fucking hell!' Finally - FINALLY! - I got the information I needed, and not from another carbon-based lifeform, but a machine. Sigh.
There's something I've been wondering today. I saw an article about a person who was able to 'think' herself thin. She lost a substantial amount of weight, which I'm sure is beneficial to her health. The article was accompanied by 'before' and 'after' shots. Now, this is what got me thinking, and it's something I see in other stories about successful dieters. In the before shots, they always have the disgusted grimace of somebody who has just fellated a syphilitic camel. The hair is lank and greasy, and the clothing is drab. In the after shot, not only are they sylph-like compared to their former selves, but I am led to believe that a loss in weight is accompanied by the acquisition of a makeup artist, wardrobe consultant, and a hairdresser. Oh, and they suddenly realise they know how to smile, too. Am I alone in this theory?
I've not been writing much these past few days. It's school holidays and (1) hard to concentrate, and (2) kids keep hogging the damn computer. I shooed them away from it this evening so I could pour out my crazy quagmire of thoughts, and just see if I can still be creative on spec. Yesterday I took them on an outing to my home town, to get them out of the house, and because I wanted to see the plaque where my father's ashes have been interred. If you don't know because you haven't followed my blog, Dad's ashes were recently interred in my brother's grave, where my mother's ashes are also placed. We placed Dad's ashes back in April, but the plaque was affixed to the 'slab' only over the past month, and I wanted to see it. We took flowers there. Yesterday was my eighteenth wedding anniversary. On my wedding day, I handed my bridal bouquet to my father so he could place it on Mum's grave. Yesterday, in a poignant and bittersweet coincidence, I was placing flowers for Dad on that 'same' day. As I fiddled with my phone to get a photograph of the plaque, with a view to sending it to my sister, my twelve-year-old started to cry. 'What's the matter?' I sighed, thinking his older brother had been bloody teasing AGAIN. He pointed and wailed, 'Pop's grave!' I held him close for a long time, just cuddling him. Poor little lamb. He's normally as happy and bright as a box of budgies, but he does grieve for his Pop, and being at the cemetery must have been a fresh and bitter reminder. He did not attend the actual interment, although his brother accompanied me that day for support. Speaking of his brother, I was pleased he brought along is iPad that day, because he got some very nice pictures of the plaque, and I was able to share them with family. The ones I took on my phone were utter crud.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)