This one goes out to the dog who last night upended my garbage bin and strewed the rubbish all over the road: I am a dog lover. I have always been fond of dogs. Even as a pre-schooler when playing Monopoly with my older siblings, I didn't care if I won or lost the game (I always lost, and still do) as long as I had the little Scottish terrier token. But I don't love you, you rotten fucking mutt. I hate your guts. I didn't hear you last night, but I am plotting revenge. I'm guessing you can't read this but maybe your owner will. I'm not sure how I am going to have my vengeance. I don't know where to buy Semtex. But I'm thinking a spectacular form of revenge, and a warning to all dogs who are thinking of strewing mine, and some of the neighbours', rubbish all over the road will be to place an amount of Semtex moulded to resemble a rubbish bag in my bin, and wait nearby with a detonator. I will also have my iPod and earphones so I can listen to an audio of 'Moby Dick' whilst I wait for you, and I will have a thermos of coffee to keep me awake. Because, believe me, I am on a mission here. Blowing things up isn't always a great idea - does anyone remember the story of the townsfolk who decided to use dynamite to deal with a beached whale carcass? The laws of mass displacement certainly came into force as property was damaged by flying clunks of blubber and ambergris. But you're not a whale; you're a dog and it's my reasoning you won't cause as much damage. I might have to enlist the assistance of an explosives and ballistics expert to minimise the damage your miserable detonated corpse will cause. There are lots of mines around here, so I'm sure I can find someone with the appropriate qualifications. Maybe some of those who have the skills to handle explosives have also had you at their garbage bins, and are feeling as murderous and vengeful as I am right now.
Or maybe I could just head off to the supermarket and buy some cayenne pepper; I've heard that's a good deterrent for dogs, too. But the Semtex would certainly be a more spectacular and permanent result regarding this scavenging mutt, and coldly satisfying for the victims of his or her garbage bin marauding.
I didn't think I'd get it done today, but I managed to complete the worksheets and assessment section of my first aid handbook. I cannot believe it, but I have to renew my first aid certificate this Saturday. It seems like only yesterday that I last renewed it, but nope, it was three years ago. But we're all going to be sensible with the mannequins, and not pretend to hump them when the trainer's called away momentarily, which is what the kids at school used to do. Well, I didn't, but the boys did. Someone took it a step further and actually stuck his dick into the mannequin's mouth. Nobody was awarded their Bronze Star because nobody would do mouth-to-mouth on the mannequin. Also, this is your usual first aid - not surf lifesaving. I will not be called upon to do the safety jump into the swimming pool and swim out to the kid pretending to drown, promising I would help him or her to safety. It was usually a him, and I'm not going to say his name but he was the fattest kid in the class, and I would almost drown trying to tow the behemoth back to 'shore', 'shore' being the edge of the swimming pool. Tugboats are designed to tow liners. I don't think I'm designed to tow a kid who was a sumo wrestler in training. Once at the pool's edge, the 'victim's' arms would be lain over the cement, and the rescuer had to get out of the pool, and do the safety lift. You had to cross your arms over, grab the kid's wrists, go 'one-two-three' and pull the kid from the water, and uncross your arms which would result in the kid turning and being sat - presumably safely - on the edge of the pool. I was the 'victim' once, and the kid doing my rescue banged me into the side of the pool, thus winding me, and dragged me along the edge which almost barked my entire ribcage. Never again.
The opening of this post was addressed to that rotten dog who keeps dragging my rubbish all over the road. The closing is to certain bloggers, and everyday people who are moaning that Gable Tostee has been paid by 'Sixty Minutes' to give his interview. A certain blogger has been carrying on how the family of the poor woman who died after that unsuccessful Tinder hook-up deserve better. Look, they would find that interview distressing. They also have the right to turn off and not watch it. Also, Tostee was found not guilty in a court of law by a jury of good faith. Did you not get that memo? Or do you choose to ignore this fact because Tostee is a man and therefore guilty of every infraction and wrong under the sun? Also, to everyone surprised 'Sixty Minutes' would pay a controversial figure for an interview, here are some other things you might be surprised to learn: the sun rises in the east, and gravity makes things fall. If a tabloid television production are willing to fork out money to interview somebody, then that somebody is entitled to take the money if that somebody so desires. Hell, if someone wants to pay me some coin to talk, then I just might do so, too. Quit the judgement, folks.
Another thing I've noticed in my newsfeeds today is everyone's weighing in on the plans of a bride-to-be to have a 'dry' wedding. No, this does not mean a wedding in a drought-stricken paddock, but a wedding where alcohol is not served. I've heard some derision from commentators like 'it's un-Australian...'. Aside from the phrase 'un-Australian' making the enamel peel from my teeth in strips, whereupon it curls like those decorative ribbons when you run the scissor blades down them, why is this news? God, who bloody cares? Why did someone sit down and say, 'This woman's not serving alcohol at her wedding, I'm going to inform the media'? I was under the impression a wedding is about the couple coming together in an official union and public declaration of their love, not to see how much booze you, as a guest, can put away. Can people please stop making this sort of stuff news?
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