Okay, I guess I'll weigh in on what appears to have taken over the world today. It is news that has world leaders gathering in an unprecedented and extraordinary conference, so extraordinary and important that Donald Trump hasn't even tweeted about it being 'fake news' yet (he's still trying to grasp the explanatory diagram one of his flunkies has organised for him, when he's not scribbling eyes and a mouth on it with his crayons). Ban Ki-Moon has been pleading for everyone to remain calm. Stock brokers and chalkies are hardened balls of tension as they chew on their fingernails, clenching their buttocks and feeling their testicles ascending into their stomachs, as they watch the screens and follow the market, fearing this major drama will have the Nasdaq plummeting like a rooted elevator. Astronomers and astrophysicists, and astronomers are putting aside their surface differences to study constellations and planetary ellipses, to ascertain whether the event of this magnitude has caused any skews in the alignments. Around the hallowed halls of Price Cooper Waterhouse, the entity entrusted with this Holy Grail like secret, the heads are rolling along the floor like Jaffas down the aisle of a cinema.
I was about to type 'Why, you ask?' I know that I don't have to type that because you all know what I'm getting at. But I am about to remind you, and the news will hit like a fresh tsunami wave of shock and sheer abject disbelief, and some appalled horror. There might be a bit of minor irritation there, too.
Yes, in a moment of bizarre brain-fartedness, Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway - and I'm guessing their appearance was a homage to their iconic roles of Bonnie and Clyde, or maybe a sneak preview of their upcoming roles of Plastic Man and the Corpse Bride - were given the wrong envelope, such action causing Faye to croak out 'La-La Land' instead of 'Moonlight' when announcing the Best Picture for the 2017 Oscars. Anyway, you probably all know that the relevant representatives of 'La La Land' took to the stage and began thanking everyone from the producers and directors, right down to the midwife who orchestrated their delivery at birth, and the pomp and ceremony had to be aborted by some floor manager who provided the correct information. The award was then duly handed to the appropriate recipients. That's all. Nothing to see here, folks. Move on.
But people seem determined to turn what's really just a small clerical error into the greatest scandal of our lifetime. I'm going to type this very slowly for everyone: It's. Not. That. Important. And. The. World. Hasn't. Spun. Off. Its. Axis. And. Disintegrated.
It's just so inconsequential, what has happened. Calm down, everyone.
And it's not even the biggest screw up in Oscars history. I still get squinty-eyed when I wonder how on earth the Academy could award Best Picture to the nausea-inducing, mawkish pabulum that was 'Forrest Gump' over the cinematic brilliance of 'Pulp Fiction'. Seriously, Academy, were you all sucking on a crack pipe when voting that year?
But it didn't stop me cracking a silly joke on my Facebook page that Beatty and Dunaway should wear their reading glasses in future. To my surprise, a complete random with whom I have never had any interaction left a snippy comment on my post about it being neither Beatty's nor Dunaway's fault, and that perhaps I should wear my reading glasses. I do. When I read. But who the fuck takes the time to read a complete stranger's page and leave a dumb comment because they're offended by a flippant remark? If you're reading this, hapless twerp, did you do a Facebook search to see who's commented about this? Why? And why be offended by me? When next on eBay, you might try bidding on a life.
Monday 27 February 2017
Thursday 23 February 2017
My Review of 'Fifty Shades Darker'
Because I like to consider myself as civic minded, I thought I'd take myself to see the 'Fifty Shades Darker' movie today and let you know what I thought of it, and then you can decide for yourselves whether to see it. I would suggest finding a more pleasurable and less boring way to pass the two hours. Perhaps bashing on piano keys with your elbows. Truthfully, Gentle Reader, it was even more idiotic than the first one. She's still a boring, whiny, lachrymose sounding milquetoast, and he's still a controlling, constipated looking fucked-up gronk with really amphibious eyes (and I cannot abide frogs). In just about every scene where Grey was fucking Ana, his jeans were almost all the way up over his arse. This might seem an odd thing to think about, but I guess that's just testament to how unerotic the sex was, if it's got me thinking how the man's jeans are covering his bum. Why does he not pull them down? Do they not prove an impediment when engaging in the act of coitus? Wouldn't the zipper at the front scrape his Jatz crackers? If any guys out there actually practise the bizarre act of fucking with jeans covering their arse, let me know; I'd appreciate it greatly.
The last time I wanted to track down a movie's producers and shake them by the lapels as I demanded they return the two hours of my life was probably in 1988, following a screening of 'Space Balls'. Mel Brooks, I will never forgive you for that. I sat there in the cinema in a delirium of disbelief that movie could suck that badly. My then flatmate was with me, along with a few others. My flatmate wasn't concentrating on the movie; he was trying to hit on one of the women who had come along.
So yeah, there are better ways I could have spent my sixteen bucks today. Here are some:
1. On a book.
2. On a tube of mascara.
3. On a couple of vodka/lime/sodas at the pub.
4. On a bottle of wine (and oh how I needed one after the viewing today).
Here are some of the times I've been more sexually aroused than I was whilst watching that movie today:
1. The time I sat up the front of the bus in the seat facing all the others, and saw a grot on the back seat pick his nose and eat it.
2. Watching Dave Mason give a flesh crawling live performance of 'Quasimodo's Dream' (that song is also just off).
3. The time I attempted a home bikini wax and didn't pull the skin on groin tightly enough to lessen the shock, and ended up with bruises all around my bikini line.
4. Visiting somebody whose dog had tapeworms hanging from its arse, and the subsequent observance of the rudimentary removal of said tapeworms by the dog's owner. My stomach still churns like an agitated washing machine when I remember that, and it was back in 1991 or so.
So, in my humble opinion, 'Fifty Shades Darker' is a cinematic manifestation of the used toilet paper pilled in the hairs around Satan's butthole.
Oh, and Pauline Hanson, can you get any more ludicrous? Your opposition to paid parental leave is that the women 'get themselves pregnant for the money'. Really, you are aware how conception occurs, aren't you? Or is it your assertion these women are hermaphrodites? God, just go away and take your arsehat ideas with you.
The last time I wanted to track down a movie's producers and shake them by the lapels as I demanded they return the two hours of my life was probably in 1988, following a screening of 'Space Balls'. Mel Brooks, I will never forgive you for that. I sat there in the cinema in a delirium of disbelief that movie could suck that badly. My then flatmate was with me, along with a few others. My flatmate wasn't concentrating on the movie; he was trying to hit on one of the women who had come along.
So yeah, there are better ways I could have spent my sixteen bucks today. Here are some:
1. On a book.
2. On a tube of mascara.
3. On a couple of vodka/lime/sodas at the pub.
4. On a bottle of wine (and oh how I needed one after the viewing today).
Here are some of the times I've been more sexually aroused than I was whilst watching that movie today:
1. The time I sat up the front of the bus in the seat facing all the others, and saw a grot on the back seat pick his nose and eat it.
2. Watching Dave Mason give a flesh crawling live performance of 'Quasimodo's Dream' (that song is also just off).
3. The time I attempted a home bikini wax and didn't pull the skin on groin tightly enough to lessen the shock, and ended up with bruises all around my bikini line.
4. Visiting somebody whose dog had tapeworms hanging from its arse, and the subsequent observance of the rudimentary removal of said tapeworms by the dog's owner. My stomach still churns like an agitated washing machine when I remember that, and it was back in 1991 or so.
So, in my humble opinion, 'Fifty Shades Darker' is a cinematic manifestation of the used toilet paper pilled in the hairs around Satan's butthole.
Oh, and Pauline Hanson, can you get any more ludicrous? Your opposition to paid parental leave is that the women 'get themselves pregnant for the money'. Really, you are aware how conception occurs, aren't you? Or is it your assertion these women are hermaphrodites? God, just go away and take your arsehat ideas with you.
Monday 20 February 2017
Scamming the Scammers, and Rocking the Rockwell
Does anybody remember those cheesy ads for pest control that started with a stentorian voiceover: "Is your home plagued by these persistent pests?" There would then be footage of mice, or ants, or cockroaches and unhappy home occupants. The assertive and authoritative voice would then explain the great new product that would rid your home of those persistent pests, and then show happy home occupants. The reason the home occupants looked so happy is they were likely stoned out of their gourds on whatever ingredients were in the pest repellents, those ingredients having been banned by the FDA since, and the home occupants having developed third eyes and, in some cases, binary genitalia.
But these days we have different persistent pests, and they usually take the form of telemarketers, or even worse, telephone scammers. Is YOUR home plagued by these persistent pests? Well, relax, because your blogger has come up with the perfect solution to deal with them. The scammer is usually recognisable by a few seconds delay after you answer your phone, and what is a heavy accent from the south-eastern region of Asia. It's distinct traits are its propensity to identify itself as a technician with Telstra and inform you there are potential security problems with your computer's Internet. Hanging up doesn't work - well, it might but it's not as much fun - so what you should do is what I did yesterday with one. The scene played out as follows, after the scammer identified himself as technician and I had told him I was in front of my computer (I wasn't. I was lounging in a chair stuffing my face):
Scammer: Can you see the Ctrl key, madam?
Me: Yes.
Scammer: Can you see the windows key next to it?
Me: Yes.
Scammer: I need for you to press those keys and the 'R' key at the same time.
Me: Okay. HOLY CRAP!
Scammer: Can you tell me what is on your screen, madam?
Me: Porn!
Scammer: What?
Me: Porn! I did what you told me, and all this filthy footage appeared!
Scammer: What footage, madam?
Me: I told you, it's porn! And that's your mother with a camel!'
Scammer: Can you close that window, madam?
Me: Why? It's interesting. Your mother's really giving it to that camel.
(Sound of phone being handed over, and a different, although similarly accented voice is heard)
New Scammer: This is Steve Johnson, senior technician. What is the problem?
Me (resisting urge to point out he sounds more like a Sanjay than a Steve because that's buying into stereotypes, and I am nothing if not sensitive and broadminded): I did what the other guy told me and all this disgusting porn appeared on my computer.
Scammer: Close that window, madam.
Me: No way!
(Silence, and then sound of disconnected call).
.
See? It's easy to get rid of those pests. At one point throughout this interchange, Mr Bingells hissed at me to hang up. Obviously I did not; I left that to the scammer. I then pointed out to Mr Bingells that whilst I am stringing these grubs along, I am (1) running up THEIR bill, and (2) even better, they are not bothering a person who might be vulnerable if they are wasting their time with me. This is a public service. Besides, doing this is as funny as fuck.
My oldest son has told me that as a writer I should come up with a different scenario when they ring, but telling some grubby would-be con artist his mother is engaging in interspecies erotica is seriously fun. I might tell the next one I can see HIS private videos that he made with his sister.
My younger son wants to be put on to try and outwit the scammer next time. He wants to pretend to be a scammer. He has demonstrated what he will say, and being a good actor he produces a very creditable Indian accent. Watching Raj in countless, on-a-loop repeats of 'Big Bang' has paid off. I look forward to him having some fun.
Does anyone remember a song from mid-Eighties by an outfit known as Rockwell called 'Somebody's Watching Me'? I've got it stuck in my head at the moment. I posted it in my Facebook group because we're having a theme today about 'neighbours'. Years ago I was living in a block of units in Bronte, and there was a block right next to ours, and the occupant of the corresponding flat would look through his bathroom window into what was the window of the living room in the dwelling shared by my sister and me. So we had to keep the blind down. Just thought I'd share that snippet
But these days we have different persistent pests, and they usually take the form of telemarketers, or even worse, telephone scammers. Is YOUR home plagued by these persistent pests? Well, relax, because your blogger has come up with the perfect solution to deal with them. The scammer is usually recognisable by a few seconds delay after you answer your phone, and what is a heavy accent from the south-eastern region of Asia. It's distinct traits are its propensity to identify itself as a technician with Telstra and inform you there are potential security problems with your computer's Internet. Hanging up doesn't work - well, it might but it's not as much fun - so what you should do is what I did yesterday with one. The scene played out as follows, after the scammer identified himself as technician and I had told him I was in front of my computer (I wasn't. I was lounging in a chair stuffing my face):
Scammer: Can you see the Ctrl key, madam?
Me: Yes.
Scammer: Can you see the windows key next to it?
Me: Yes.
Scammer: I need for you to press those keys and the 'R' key at the same time.
Me: Okay. HOLY CRAP!
Scammer: Can you tell me what is on your screen, madam?
Me: Porn!
Scammer: What?
Me: Porn! I did what you told me, and all this filthy footage appeared!
Scammer: What footage, madam?
Me: I told you, it's porn! And that's your mother with a camel!'
Scammer: Can you close that window, madam?
Me: Why? It's interesting. Your mother's really giving it to that camel.
(Sound of phone being handed over, and a different, although similarly accented voice is heard)
New Scammer: This is Steve Johnson, senior technician. What is the problem?
Me (resisting urge to point out he sounds more like a Sanjay than a Steve because that's buying into stereotypes, and I am nothing if not sensitive and broadminded): I did what the other guy told me and all this disgusting porn appeared on my computer.
Scammer: Close that window, madam.
Me: No way!
(Silence, and then sound of disconnected call).
.
See? It's easy to get rid of those pests. At one point throughout this interchange, Mr Bingells hissed at me to hang up. Obviously I did not; I left that to the scammer. I then pointed out to Mr Bingells that whilst I am stringing these grubs along, I am (1) running up THEIR bill, and (2) even better, they are not bothering a person who might be vulnerable if they are wasting their time with me. This is a public service. Besides, doing this is as funny as fuck.
My oldest son has told me that as a writer I should come up with a different scenario when they ring, but telling some grubby would-be con artist his mother is engaging in interspecies erotica is seriously fun. I might tell the next one I can see HIS private videos that he made with his sister.
My younger son wants to be put on to try and outwit the scammer next time. He wants to pretend to be a scammer. He has demonstrated what he will say, and being a good actor he produces a very creditable Indian accent. Watching Raj in countless, on-a-loop repeats of 'Big Bang' has paid off. I look forward to him having some fun.
Does anyone remember a song from mid-Eighties by an outfit known as Rockwell called 'Somebody's Watching Me'? I've got it stuck in my head at the moment. I posted it in my Facebook group because we're having a theme today about 'neighbours'. Years ago I was living in a block of units in Bronte, and there was a block right next to ours, and the occupant of the corresponding flat would look through his bathroom window into what was the window of the living room in the dwelling shared by my sister and me. So we had to keep the blind down. Just thought I'd share that snippet
Saturday 18 February 2017
Rant For Week Finishing 18.02.2017
When I was about thirteen, I asked my commerce teacher the purpose of taxes. The explanation was something along the lines of our taxes paying for infrastructure and the wages of government employees, as well as pensions. I'm cool with that. I'm cool with paying our politicians to do their job, which I understand is to serve the public, govern the country, enact laws, and look after their portfolio. I'm not sure what it's like to have a portfolio to run, but I'm sure it's a big responsibility. I recall my commerce teacher had a Seventies bowl haircut and wore a garish tie about six inches at its widest point. He also had a sense of decorum that made the Queen look like one of those bogans on 'Housos', and Heaven help any kid who had the gall to let one rip in class - that kid would be decried as being a Filthy Wretch with the manners of an animal, and then sent outside for the rest of the lesson. Nobody would learn anything because the perpetrator would be outside, and the rest of the class wouldn't be concentrating because they'd be laughing too much. I recall well the teacher's explanation of civics and denouncement of flatulent kids. What I don't recall is him telling us it is the politician's role to bitch and cry and whine.
However, bitching and crying and whining appears to be what some do. I'm thinking of NSW Police Minister Troy Grant at the moment. I do not game (although it astonishes me that 'game' is now a verb as well as a noun), but my husband kids do. Because they like the Xbox, I am aware of the phenomenon of Grand Theft Auto. I don't know how games are made, but there is sure some skill and artistry there. I do know games get modified, so the scenarios change. The upshot is that GTA has been modified so the characters shooting and being shot are members of the NSW Police Force. Anyway, this has roused the ire of the Minister, whom I saw on the news the other night saying this is 'offensive' to the 'boys and girls in blue'. The voiceover to the news article said the police would be considering action against those responsible. Um, what the actual fuck? What this boils down to is trying to take action against a work of art. Okay, it might not be as bad as trying to throw a towel around the waist of David, but it is dumb-arsed censorship all the same. I will admit to not having played the game, but it just looks like a more intense version of Cops and Robbers. This game does portray some violence, but there is art in making those effects and graphics. Just because the image is unsavoury, doesn't mean the artisan responsible is not skilled. I will take this opportunity to remind you, Troy, the film 'Reservoir Dogs' has a very nasty scene in which a police officer is spectacularly assaulted by a moon-dancing Michael Madsen in his role as Mr Blonde. Do you think you should go on some kind of crusade against the movie, notwithstanding it is about twenty-five years old now? (Yikes! Where did the years go?). I have seen this movie a few times, and listen to a lot of Seventies music. I do occasionally emulate Michael Madsen's dance moves when I hear 'Stuck In The Middle With You', but never have I tortured a cop by amputating his ear and throwing petrol on him, thus making the poor pet fear imminent death by conflagration.
Also, I've written a few books. In the ones geared toward an adult audience, my police officers are actually unsympathetic characters. Want to have a whinge about that? Go right ahead. I don't care. I'm with Stephen Fry when it comes to people moaning and saying they're offended about inconsequential things: 'So fucking what?'
What people with to view or play in their own homes is THEIR OWN BUSINESS. The Government should just butt the hell out, and if you're offended by a modified Xbox game, find something else to play.
Yeah, I know what it's like to be offended. Believe it or not, I find Pepe Le Pew a bit offensive (and not just because he is a malodorous mammal). It's became he's carrying out sexual assault on the cat with the white stripe painted down its back. Everyone of a certain age has seen this cartoon. Funnily enough, when I was talking to my 15yo the other night about the folly of the politicians losing their shit over a game they personally find offensive, I mentioned Pepe Le Pew and his rapey antics. My son asked who was Pepe Le Pew. I guess this is a side effect of the generation who spend their time on You Tube: they don't get to see randy rodent choosing to ignore the distressed cat's clear signals. I think I am probably the only person who has noticed this, and it might be time to speak to the my GP about some meds. But I'm not going to try to have him banned or start litigation or do anything else in a huff of self-righteousness, because I am aware he's a cartoon character. To my knowledge, skunks don't around trying to crack onto cats with paint on them, and I'm sure they don't speak in hammy French accents, either.
Something else that's got me a bit offended lately is that woman who Instagrammed a shot of herself in white yoga pants whilst 'free-bleeding' during menstruation. I'm not offended that she menstruates. Who cares? I'm offended by her trying to piss on peoples' legs and pass it off as rain. Come on, we're not stupid, dear. You're not trying to raise awareness and challenge the 'shame' associated with periods; this is just a manifestation of the narcissistic 'Look at me. Look at me. Look at me!' that afflicts today's Gen Y-ers. Yes, we know menstruation is natural and nothing to be ashamed by. Then again, neither are other bodily functions. In light of this, why not eschew toilet paper next time you take a crap, and post a photo of yourself with a few brown skiddies up the back of the white yoga pants? Oh, this doesn't appeal? Then, why do you think we care that you menstruate? This just in: We Don't. What a load of slovenly, sluttish attention seeking. It reminds me of Sidney Poitier in his role as Mark Thackeray in 'To Sir With Love', when he has a shit fit at the girls - one of whom was burning a sanitary pad in the class heater - 'There are certain things a decent woman keeps private!' Like I said, it's not that you should be ostracised and sent away from the village because your uterus is shedding its lining; it's don't be so vulgar to think we all care. Get a tampon, or a pad, or a cup, you slattern. (Hey, did anyone notice that some of the more derogatory terms I've used start with 's' and 'l'? I just did).
However, bitching and crying and whining appears to be what some do. I'm thinking of NSW Police Minister Troy Grant at the moment. I do not game (although it astonishes me that 'game' is now a verb as well as a noun), but my husband kids do. Because they like the Xbox, I am aware of the phenomenon of Grand Theft Auto. I don't know how games are made, but there is sure some skill and artistry there. I do know games get modified, so the scenarios change. The upshot is that GTA has been modified so the characters shooting and being shot are members of the NSW Police Force. Anyway, this has roused the ire of the Minister, whom I saw on the news the other night saying this is 'offensive' to the 'boys and girls in blue'. The voiceover to the news article said the police would be considering action against those responsible. Um, what the actual fuck? What this boils down to is trying to take action against a work of art. Okay, it might not be as bad as trying to throw a towel around the waist of David, but it is dumb-arsed censorship all the same. I will admit to not having played the game, but it just looks like a more intense version of Cops and Robbers. This game does portray some violence, but there is art in making those effects and graphics. Just because the image is unsavoury, doesn't mean the artisan responsible is not skilled. I will take this opportunity to remind you, Troy, the film 'Reservoir Dogs' has a very nasty scene in which a police officer is spectacularly assaulted by a moon-dancing Michael Madsen in his role as Mr Blonde. Do you think you should go on some kind of crusade against the movie, notwithstanding it is about twenty-five years old now? (Yikes! Where did the years go?). I have seen this movie a few times, and listen to a lot of Seventies music. I do occasionally emulate Michael Madsen's dance moves when I hear 'Stuck In The Middle With You', but never have I tortured a cop by amputating his ear and throwing petrol on him, thus making the poor pet fear imminent death by conflagration.
Also, I've written a few books. In the ones geared toward an adult audience, my police officers are actually unsympathetic characters. Want to have a whinge about that? Go right ahead. I don't care. I'm with Stephen Fry when it comes to people moaning and saying they're offended about inconsequential things: 'So fucking what?'
What people with to view or play in their own homes is THEIR OWN BUSINESS. The Government should just butt the hell out, and if you're offended by a modified Xbox game, find something else to play.
Yeah, I know what it's like to be offended. Believe it or not, I find Pepe Le Pew a bit offensive (and not just because he is a malodorous mammal). It's became he's carrying out sexual assault on the cat with the white stripe painted down its back. Everyone of a certain age has seen this cartoon. Funnily enough, when I was talking to my 15yo the other night about the folly of the politicians losing their shit over a game they personally find offensive, I mentioned Pepe Le Pew and his rapey antics. My son asked who was Pepe Le Pew. I guess this is a side effect of the generation who spend their time on You Tube: they don't get to see randy rodent choosing to ignore the distressed cat's clear signals. I think I am probably the only person who has noticed this, and it might be time to speak to the my GP about some meds. But I'm not going to try to have him banned or start litigation or do anything else in a huff of self-righteousness, because I am aware he's a cartoon character. To my knowledge, skunks don't around trying to crack onto cats with paint on them, and I'm sure they don't speak in hammy French accents, either.
Something else that's got me a bit offended lately is that woman who Instagrammed a shot of herself in white yoga pants whilst 'free-bleeding' during menstruation. I'm not offended that she menstruates. Who cares? I'm offended by her trying to piss on peoples' legs and pass it off as rain. Come on, we're not stupid, dear. You're not trying to raise awareness and challenge the 'shame' associated with periods; this is just a manifestation of the narcissistic 'Look at me. Look at me. Look at me!' that afflicts today's Gen Y-ers. Yes, we know menstruation is natural and nothing to be ashamed by. Then again, neither are other bodily functions. In light of this, why not eschew toilet paper next time you take a crap, and post a photo of yourself with a few brown skiddies up the back of the white yoga pants? Oh, this doesn't appeal? Then, why do you think we care that you menstruate? This just in: We Don't. What a load of slovenly, sluttish attention seeking. It reminds me of Sidney Poitier in his role as Mark Thackeray in 'To Sir With Love', when he has a shit fit at the girls - one of whom was burning a sanitary pad in the class heater - 'There are certain things a decent woman keeps private!' Like I said, it's not that you should be ostracised and sent away from the village because your uterus is shedding its lining; it's don't be so vulgar to think we all care. Get a tampon, or a pad, or a cup, you slattern. (Hey, did anyone notice that some of the more derogatory terms I've used start with 's' and 'l'? I just did).
Wednesday 15 February 2017
Keyboards, Yassmin vs Jacqui, Cakes in Rain
I'm starting to feel a little better. Finally. Just a little, mark you; not a lot. I'm actually typing this at home because I have a new computer. I'm sitting at my dining table because I don't yet have a replacement computer desk, but the finalised list has been emailed to our insurer, and I daresay we can go shopping for one soon. Yes, a new computer desk, and a new kitchen pantry, new linen cupboard, new homework desks - so much stuff wrecked in that fucking flood. I'm at home today but I can't find the book I want to read because it's packed away somewhere pending the purchase of new bookshelves to replace the ones that also got wrecked. I have a shitload of towels to be washed, but no washing machine and I'm not lugging them to the laundromat in this heat because Mr Bingells has the car. Also, got a builder here repairing damaged skirting board in my son's bedroom.
But I have a computer. That's good. What is not so good is for some stone cold, motherless, stupid reason my 15yo decided it would be a good idea to put the corded keyboard with it, and not the wireless one. I'm a Luddite, and haven't figured out how to put the wireless one back (but I'm sure I could if I tried). In any event, if the personification of smart-arsedness to which I gave birth wants to fartarse around with the keyboard, he can damn well change it back. I don't like this keyboard because I don't find the keys as ergonomic to type with as they are on the other one. Master 15 doesn't type, really; he uses arrow keys on some game. There is no logic, rhyme or reason to the machinations and actions of teenage boys. I cannot wait until he has his own place; I am going to visit him and remove the back off every remote control he owns, change the settings on his computer prior to monopolising it, eat everything in the refrigerator, and give answers in what can be best described as sarcastically nuanced grunts.
Did anybody else catch 'Q&A' on Monday night? How much fun was the stoush between Senator Jackie Lambie and Yassmin Abdel-Mageid? Seriously, I was waiting for the scrag fight behind the dunnies to commence, and winner would go home with the loser's lunch money and boyfriend. Now ladies, and I use that term extreeeeeeemely loosely, listen to Auntie Bingells: take it in turns and you will both get the chance to speak. However, Auntie Bingells knows that this would make for utterly shit-boring television which is possibly why Tony Jones didn't break it up straight away. Either that or he feared for his life if he intervened, and didn't fancy becoming a whirlwind mass of flying hair, skin, spectacles, and cufflinks. Senator Lambie, we are not going to have Sharia law here; this great land of ours is governed by rule of law, and it is a secular one wherein Constitution does not allow for religious rule. Yassmin, I get the impression you were trying to explain your interpretation of what Sharia law entails, and it would have been interesting to hear this from a woman who is Muslim. I've heard it said from Muslims, Yassmin included, their faith states they live by the laws of the land in which they reside. This means someone of the Islamic faith living here still has to abide by our secular laws. Stop worrying, everyone. Oh, and in my newsfeed yesterday I saw a Change dot org petition seeking the ABC sack Yassmin. It has probably been signed by the same window licking dunderheads who signed the petition seeking the dismissal of Andrew O'Keefe by Channel 7. Again I say, if you hate somebody THAT much, change the fucking channel! It's not difficult; the principles of Euclid geometry do not exactly have to be applied here. And to members of the Muslim community demanding the ABC apologise for Senator Lambie's views: why? No, seriously, why? Those views are the views of Senator Lambie, and it's silly to expect a television station to apologise for some separate person's personal views. Next week Piers Akerman is a guest, and I loathe this person; he makes me think of a toxic Toad of Toad Hall. I might not watch. However, knowing myself as well as I do having had 51 years to get used to myself, I daresay I will.
Anyway, I'd better go and organise some lunch. Maybe I can find the book I want to read. My house still looks like I'm in the process of moving, what with all the boxes of crap everywhere, and hardly any furniture to speak of. I might go back to goofing around on Facebook when I've had lunch and play the clip someone posted of 'MacArthur Park' by Richard Harris. It's one of those songs that makes me think WTF. It's not like it's badly performed, it's just a discombobulated heap of mismatched segments and Sondheim-ish lyrics, and it often draws me in with its tractor beam of bizarreness.
Oh, and I've asked my publisher to re-email my edited manuscript, so look forward to getting back to some semblance of normality here.
But I have a computer. That's good. What is not so good is for some stone cold, motherless, stupid reason my 15yo decided it would be a good idea to put the corded keyboard with it, and not the wireless one. I'm a Luddite, and haven't figured out how to put the wireless one back (but I'm sure I could if I tried). In any event, if the personification of smart-arsedness to which I gave birth wants to fartarse around with the keyboard, he can damn well change it back. I don't like this keyboard because I don't find the keys as ergonomic to type with as they are on the other one. Master 15 doesn't type, really; he uses arrow keys on some game. There is no logic, rhyme or reason to the machinations and actions of teenage boys. I cannot wait until he has his own place; I am going to visit him and remove the back off every remote control he owns, change the settings on his computer prior to monopolising it, eat everything in the refrigerator, and give answers in what can be best described as sarcastically nuanced grunts.
Did anybody else catch 'Q&A' on Monday night? How much fun was the stoush between Senator Jackie Lambie and Yassmin Abdel-Mageid? Seriously, I was waiting for the scrag fight behind the dunnies to commence, and winner would go home with the loser's lunch money and boyfriend. Now ladies, and I use that term extreeeeeeemely loosely, listen to Auntie Bingells: take it in turns and you will both get the chance to speak. However, Auntie Bingells knows that this would make for utterly shit-boring television which is possibly why Tony Jones didn't break it up straight away. Either that or he feared for his life if he intervened, and didn't fancy becoming a whirlwind mass of flying hair, skin, spectacles, and cufflinks. Senator Lambie, we are not going to have Sharia law here; this great land of ours is governed by rule of law, and it is a secular one wherein Constitution does not allow for religious rule. Yassmin, I get the impression you were trying to explain your interpretation of what Sharia law entails, and it would have been interesting to hear this from a woman who is Muslim. I've heard it said from Muslims, Yassmin included, their faith states they live by the laws of the land in which they reside. This means someone of the Islamic faith living here still has to abide by our secular laws. Stop worrying, everyone. Oh, and in my newsfeed yesterday I saw a Change dot org petition seeking the ABC sack Yassmin. It has probably been signed by the same window licking dunderheads who signed the petition seeking the dismissal of Andrew O'Keefe by Channel 7. Again I say, if you hate somebody THAT much, change the fucking channel! It's not difficult; the principles of Euclid geometry do not exactly have to be applied here. And to members of the Muslim community demanding the ABC apologise for Senator Lambie's views: why? No, seriously, why? Those views are the views of Senator Lambie, and it's silly to expect a television station to apologise for some separate person's personal views. Next week Piers Akerman is a guest, and I loathe this person; he makes me think of a toxic Toad of Toad Hall. I might not watch. However, knowing myself as well as I do having had 51 years to get used to myself, I daresay I will.
Anyway, I'd better go and organise some lunch. Maybe I can find the book I want to read. My house still looks like I'm in the process of moving, what with all the boxes of crap everywhere, and hardly any furniture to speak of. I might go back to goofing around on Facebook when I've had lunch and play the clip someone posted of 'MacArthur Park' by Richard Harris. It's one of those songs that makes me think WTF. It's not like it's badly performed, it's just a discombobulated heap of mismatched segments and Sondheim-ish lyrics, and it often draws me in with its tractor beam of bizarreness.
Oh, and I've asked my publisher to re-email my edited manuscript, so look forward to getting back to some semblance of normality here.
Saturday 11 February 2017
Will You 'Like' This Post?
Okay, got an earworm for you, and if it drives you nuts, I apologise now. As We Five sang in the Sixties: 'I've got trouble, whoa-oh, I've got worries, whoa-oh, I've got wounds to bind....'
Anyone who knows me, or has been reading my ramblings, knows I've been wading through a torrential river of shit awash with various hassles of late. But the tide level of the shit-river is decreasing. Mr Bingells is setting up and installing whatever must be installed on the new computer that arrived the other day. My replacement washing machine and dryer are due this week, and I think my dishwasher is, as well. Replacement cupboards are not here yet, and our stuff is still crammed in boxes, and I'm trying to not let it do in my head.
Yes, I've been bleating a bit about this personal bother of mine. But if I have a beef with a person or entity, I'm not doing it here (except for the idiot that pulled out from Coles parking lot without looking and nearly rammed into my car). You see, a fight on social media isn't always a good idea. Like many, I spend too much time on social media, although I do enjoy it. Therefore I have seen the story about the eighteen-year-old who was rejected for a position as a waitress in a steak house. But it seems the sarcastic text from an agent/servant of the potential employer wasn't meant for the unsuccessful applicant. Nonetheless, what I noticed was the servant/employee of the steak house said 'we're' where she meant 'were'. Being an obnoxious grammar Nazi, this really shat me to tears.
Also, to the unsuccessful applicant: don't post this stuff online. If you were rejected, and told why, have a word with yourself and see about addressing the traits that worked against you in this application. It will not surprise anybody to read that if an applicant continually said 'like' in an interview, I would start ruling a line through their name, as well. I would also not employ a person who complained about potential (and obviously current) employers online. Rest assured, all you job seekers out there, I am not in HR anywhere, so will not be hauling you over the coals as you sweat it out wondering am I responsible for you acquiring a pay cheque any time soon. However, if I am interviewing you, and you sit there filling your answers with needless and erroneous 'likes', your name will be crossed off the list. If you say 'would of' instead of 'would have', I will call security and have them remove you by the back of your collar and the seat of your pants - you will be carried to the front door and tossed in a cloud of ignominiousness to the street. If I ask the annoying question, 'Why do you want this job?', and you reply, 'I don't. What I want is to be sailing around the Bahamas on a yacht, sipping cocktails and having my brains banged out', I will high-five you for your honesty and the recognition of a kindred spirit, and welcome you to the team.
But I must away. Away, like Fleance in Macbeth. It's probably too hot to sit around making references to the Scottish play, and I've been invited to a friend's place to sit in her swimming pool and drink Sangria. Look, I'm a reasonably cultured type, believe it or not (stop the guffaws - I AM!), and I do enjoy the language and themes of the Bard. But here's the thing: the weather here is about 44 degrees Celsius today, and I know what would be preferable just at this point in time.
Here's the other thing. I turned fifty-one years of age today. I'm celebrating with this bud of mine. So there. Happy birthday to me.
Anyone who knows me, or has been reading my ramblings, knows I've been wading through a torrential river of shit awash with various hassles of late. But the tide level of the shit-river is decreasing. Mr Bingells is setting up and installing whatever must be installed on the new computer that arrived the other day. My replacement washing machine and dryer are due this week, and I think my dishwasher is, as well. Replacement cupboards are not here yet, and our stuff is still crammed in boxes, and I'm trying to not let it do in my head.
Yes, I've been bleating a bit about this personal bother of mine. But if I have a beef with a person or entity, I'm not doing it here (except for the idiot that pulled out from Coles parking lot without looking and nearly rammed into my car). You see, a fight on social media isn't always a good idea. Like many, I spend too much time on social media, although I do enjoy it. Therefore I have seen the story about the eighteen-year-old who was rejected for a position as a waitress in a steak house. But it seems the sarcastic text from an agent/servant of the potential employer wasn't meant for the unsuccessful applicant. Nonetheless, what I noticed was the servant/employee of the steak house said 'we're' where she meant 'were'. Being an obnoxious grammar Nazi, this really shat me to tears.
Also, to the unsuccessful applicant: don't post this stuff online. If you were rejected, and told why, have a word with yourself and see about addressing the traits that worked against you in this application. It will not surprise anybody to read that if an applicant continually said 'like' in an interview, I would start ruling a line through their name, as well. I would also not employ a person who complained about potential (and obviously current) employers online. Rest assured, all you job seekers out there, I am not in HR anywhere, so will not be hauling you over the coals as you sweat it out wondering am I responsible for you acquiring a pay cheque any time soon. However, if I am interviewing you, and you sit there filling your answers with needless and erroneous 'likes', your name will be crossed off the list. If you say 'would of' instead of 'would have', I will call security and have them remove you by the back of your collar and the seat of your pants - you will be carried to the front door and tossed in a cloud of ignominiousness to the street. If I ask the annoying question, 'Why do you want this job?', and you reply, 'I don't. What I want is to be sailing around the Bahamas on a yacht, sipping cocktails and having my brains banged out', I will high-five you for your honesty and the recognition of a kindred spirit, and welcome you to the team.
But I must away. Away, like Fleance in Macbeth. It's probably too hot to sit around making references to the Scottish play, and I've been invited to a friend's place to sit in her swimming pool and drink Sangria. Look, I'm a reasonably cultured type, believe it or not (stop the guffaws - I AM!), and I do enjoy the language and themes of the Bard. But here's the thing: the weather here is about 44 degrees Celsius today, and I know what would be preferable just at this point in time.
Here's the other thing. I turned fifty-one years of age today. I'm celebrating with this bud of mine. So there. Happy birthday to me.
Friday 3 February 2017
Beyonce's Baby Bump
I do love, well not love, but genuinely admire and respect, a pregnant belly. I will not wax lyrically about the mystery of pregnancy and blooming motherhood; it's not a mystery - it's biology. What usually happens is gametes join in fertilization process after a male and female decide to boink each other. Or sometimes this happens in a petri dish. It doesn't matter. What matters is a kid being brought into a world to be loved. Am I right, or am I right?
I am not one of these narks who complains when a pregnant celebrity wears an outfit that accentuates the baby bump. I recall Demi Moore's nude cover on Vanity Fair magazine when she was about eight months pregnant, and the ensuing controversy. I thought to all those griping: Get over it. I like stylish outfits, and some clinging outfits, that make the woman look pregnant and not like she is employed by Darrell Lea, like past some maternity frocks had the propensity to do. Who recalls the fuss and kapoo-ha when Nicki Buckley wore tight gowns in her role as hostess on 'Sale of the Century', when she feel pregnant? Some people seriously lost their shit over this. No, I'm not kidding. There was an actual controversy over it. People complaining about having to see the bump. Well, here's the thing. Sometimes women fall pregnant, and as the foetus grows in the uterus, the stomach expands, and takes up physical room, and therefore you will see it. Why is it a problem? Does the idea that someone made love with her husband and conceived a child so worm-ridden awful? Do the clowns that decried Ms Buckley's fecundity being displayed on 'Sale of the Century' also have a problem with big beer-bellies protruding from sweaty and BO-soiled blue singlets and spilling over torn King Gee shorts? I actually don't find this appealing at all. By the way, Ms Buckley is not the only woman to make an appearance on 'Sale of the Century' whilst pregnant. I did as well in 2001, when six months pregnant with my oldest child. I won my first game, and when the show went to air I was shown walking around the gift shop at the end of the episode, on host Glenn Ridge's arm, and yes, my pregnant belly was obvious. My friend's father exclaimed, 'Gawd, Simone's getting fat!', and my friend had to explain I was in the family way.
If you're wondering what's got me pondering pregnancy, and bellies, well, wonder no more. It's the Instagram post by Beyoncé to announce her pending birth of twins. Um, I'm in what appears to be the minority, which is people that just do not give a shit Beyoncé is pregnant. I feel like jumping up a la Peter Griffin of 'The Family Guy' and shouting, 'Oh my God! Who the hell CARES?' I wish her a safe and pleasant pregnancy, to be followed by a healthy successful delivery, but I really do think her announcement is over the top. Oh, I know it's her right to announce her Happy Event in any manner she so chooses provided she is keeping within the parameters of the law, but it's the narcissistic selfie (although these pics aren't strictly selfies) culture that gets up my nose. The pictures are just too contrived, with the background floral cascade, and what appears to be a bolt of mosquito netting on her head. There's no soul in the photograph. It reminds me of a really crap photograph taken of the Wales' branch of the Royal family many years ago: Princes William and Harry were probably aged eleven and eight, and they were all in traditional horse riding habits, and Prince Charles was holding the reins of some pony, and the Princess of Wales was sitting on a bench, and someone had his hand fixed on someone else's shoulder, and there was a picnic basket with a bunch of grapes spilling artfully over the side. The entire effect and tone of the photograph screamed fakery and artifice. A solicitor with whom I was then working happened to be leafing through a magazine featuring an article on the Christmas photograph (which was the occasion that brought about this woeful picture) rolled his eyes and groaned to me, 'What an awful photograph!' I agreed with him. It was so, so POSED, and the fact that it was well known the late Princess of Wales detested horse riding only added to its asinine qualities.
So yeah, I'm not liking Beyoncé's overly set-up photograph, and the associated 'look at me, look at me, look at me' that goes with these shots.
Still, it's better than that one of Kim Kardashian's big, fat, greasy arse that clogged up my newsfeed for days on end a few years ago <doing eyeroll whilst typing>.
Well, my youngest has survived his first week in high school, and earned some serious respect, it would seem. The school had their swimming carnival yesterday, and he attended. He was not a competitor, but there was some music played. He danced. The kids gave him money. He doubled what he had been given by his parents to purchase treats at the swimming pool. He was a proper Mr Bojangles, right down to the worn out shoes (his joggers are starting to get shabby). He bought his brother some lollies in a fit of generosity. They didn't even squabble over front seat rights when I collected them from the swimming pool. This is worrying, and means we have been infiltrated by spies or alien pod people who have taken the form of my children. However, so enjoyable was the peace and quiet that I will not be alerting the authorities.
I am not one of these narks who complains when a pregnant celebrity wears an outfit that accentuates the baby bump. I recall Demi Moore's nude cover on Vanity Fair magazine when she was about eight months pregnant, and the ensuing controversy. I thought to all those griping: Get over it. I like stylish outfits, and some clinging outfits, that make the woman look pregnant and not like she is employed by Darrell Lea, like past some maternity frocks had the propensity to do. Who recalls the fuss and kapoo-ha when Nicki Buckley wore tight gowns in her role as hostess on 'Sale of the Century', when she feel pregnant? Some people seriously lost their shit over this. No, I'm not kidding. There was an actual controversy over it. People complaining about having to see the bump. Well, here's the thing. Sometimes women fall pregnant, and as the foetus grows in the uterus, the stomach expands, and takes up physical room, and therefore you will see it. Why is it a problem? Does the idea that someone made love with her husband and conceived a child so worm-ridden awful? Do the clowns that decried Ms Buckley's fecundity being displayed on 'Sale of the Century' also have a problem with big beer-bellies protruding from sweaty and BO-soiled blue singlets and spilling over torn King Gee shorts? I actually don't find this appealing at all. By the way, Ms Buckley is not the only woman to make an appearance on 'Sale of the Century' whilst pregnant. I did as well in 2001, when six months pregnant with my oldest child. I won my first game, and when the show went to air I was shown walking around the gift shop at the end of the episode, on host Glenn Ridge's arm, and yes, my pregnant belly was obvious. My friend's father exclaimed, 'Gawd, Simone's getting fat!', and my friend had to explain I was in the family way.
If you're wondering what's got me pondering pregnancy, and bellies, well, wonder no more. It's the Instagram post by Beyoncé to announce her pending birth of twins. Um, I'm in what appears to be the minority, which is people that just do not give a shit Beyoncé is pregnant. I feel like jumping up a la Peter Griffin of 'The Family Guy' and shouting, 'Oh my God! Who the hell CARES?' I wish her a safe and pleasant pregnancy, to be followed by a healthy successful delivery, but I really do think her announcement is over the top. Oh, I know it's her right to announce her Happy Event in any manner she so chooses provided she is keeping within the parameters of the law, but it's the narcissistic selfie (although these pics aren't strictly selfies) culture that gets up my nose. The pictures are just too contrived, with the background floral cascade, and what appears to be a bolt of mosquito netting on her head. There's no soul in the photograph. It reminds me of a really crap photograph taken of the Wales' branch of the Royal family many years ago: Princes William and Harry were probably aged eleven and eight, and they were all in traditional horse riding habits, and Prince Charles was holding the reins of some pony, and the Princess of Wales was sitting on a bench, and someone had his hand fixed on someone else's shoulder, and there was a picnic basket with a bunch of grapes spilling artfully over the side. The entire effect and tone of the photograph screamed fakery and artifice. A solicitor with whom I was then working happened to be leafing through a magazine featuring an article on the Christmas photograph (which was the occasion that brought about this woeful picture) rolled his eyes and groaned to me, 'What an awful photograph!' I agreed with him. It was so, so POSED, and the fact that it was well known the late Princess of Wales detested horse riding only added to its asinine qualities.
So yeah, I'm not liking Beyoncé's overly set-up photograph, and the associated 'look at me, look at me, look at me' that goes with these shots.
Still, it's better than that one of Kim Kardashian's big, fat, greasy arse that clogged up my newsfeed for days on end a few years ago <doing eyeroll whilst typing>.
Well, my youngest has survived his first week in high school, and earned some serious respect, it would seem. The school had their swimming carnival yesterday, and he attended. He was not a competitor, but there was some music played. He danced. The kids gave him money. He doubled what he had been given by his parents to purchase treats at the swimming pool. He was a proper Mr Bojangles, right down to the worn out shoes (his joggers are starting to get shabby). He bought his brother some lollies in a fit of generosity. They didn't even squabble over front seat rights when I collected them from the swimming pool. This is worrying, and means we have been infiltrated by spies or alien pod people who have taken the form of my children. However, so enjoyable was the peace and quiet that I will not be alerting the authorities.
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