Side 2 to the CD, and Why?

You wanted it folks, and here it is!  Side two to the CD of those tunes for that special arsewipe in your life.  Here goes:

1.  F.O.C.U.S by Jenny Talia from Australia.  For those of you who don't know, she is the daughter of Kevin Bloody Wilson.  This is her stage name.  Say it out loud and you'll understand.  If you still don't get it, then focus.  In today's text-speak and shortened words and phrases, this is a nifty little acronym meaning Fuck Off Cos Ur Stupid.  I'm sure most of us get it, although being old school I see 'cos' and wonder why someone has something against a variety of lettuce that goes well in a Caesar salad, and what exactly is the significance of an ancient city that stood in Mesopotamia.  Now that I'm more jiggy with youth-speak, I realise 'cos' is a bastardisation of 'because', and 'ur' is a U and an R, and being a gun on cryptic crosswords I can now associate the homophone 'you are', and it's meaning is now 'you're'.  When texting, I will never resort to this.  I am not a teenager, I am a fifty-one year old grammar Nazi. 

2.  'Don't Expect Me To Be Your Friend' by Lobo.  I am not thinking of the broken heart that drives the narrator hereof.  I'm just thinking of the title.  It goes out to someone I know who has caused untold misery, and we can't go back.  Yeah, don't expect me to be your friend.  I know the chorus starts: 'I love you too much to ever start liking you...', but I don't know that I've ever even liked the person I'm thinking of when I nominate this little number.  Nope, pretty sure I haven't. 

3.  'Fuck You' by Lilly Allen.  Queen of Straight To The Pointedness.  That's all I've got to say in this instance.

4.  'Another Bloody Motherfucking Asshole' by Martha Wainwright.  The lass has issues, one might think.

5. 'You're Moving Out Today' by Carole Bayer Sager.  I actually rather like this song.  Very catchy little number.  Not too sure about when she sings 'Your nasty habits ain't confined to bed/The grocer told me what you do with bread...'.  Sounds a bit off and makes me think of the urban myth (I will call it a myth because I'm not sure if it's true or not) surrounding a nasty prank played on Glen Matlock of the Sex Pistols involving a hotdog bun type of bread roll, some heated liver, and the, um, DNA of John Lydon after he'd masturbated into it.  But back to my own world, the world according to Bingells, this not so much the tale of drastically changing domicile status, but a metaphor for a certain person being removed from my life.  Just thinking about Max Von Sydow in 'The Exorcist', and in my mind I'm shouting, 'I cast thee OUT, unclean serpent!'

6.  'There's A Fraction Too Much Friction' by Tim Finn, for the person who's causing the trouble.  You know something?  This song annoys the living snot out of me.  It's so, so twee.  I think the Finn boys do some kick-arse lyrics; think 'I See Red' with the imagery of 'down the drain like molten toothpaste/I feel used, and spat out...' Some of you might think those lyrics are a little overblown and venturing into Sondheim territory, but I actually like 'I See Red'.  But the song I've nominated for this bilious CD just grates on my everlovin' tits.  It's like 'Soul Kind Of Feeling' by the Dynamic Hepnotics in that it is just an annoying mass of cheese set to music, and makes me want to whack it with a flyswatter. 

So there it is.  You might glean from my last few posts I'm feeling unfavourably deposed. I often am just lately.  With good reason.

Also, I am heartbroken.  Yeah, I know I've been shitty about certain incidents in my life but there are some things that just defy description and beggar belief.  Things like greeting your 12yo son when he walks through the door after school.  You ask him how his day went.  He says in a querulous voice, 'Sad.'  His beautiful face is white.  His eyes are huge like those of an anime character, and moist.  His mouth is like an upside down letter 'U'.  He hands you a note from the school and sits beside you on the lounge.  You read the note, and learn a boy in his year took his life on the weekend.  Dazed, you blink and shake your head.  Surely you can't have read that right.  You take a deep breath and read it again, and your throat starts to ache.  You hold your son close and his father enters the room.  You give the note to his father, who reads it then makes an inarticulate anguished noise of despair and grief.  You wonder how is it a just world when a twelve-year-old child feels there is no hope, and this is his only resort.  Cyberbullying.  Fuck you, you cowardly miserable monsters.  I hope you never have a decent day in your lives again.  Live with the knowledge of what you've caused, you filthy pieces of waste. 

My young one has asked to attend the funeral, and we have said yes.  It will help with his own healing.  His father will take him, and he and his classmates can support each other in their own way.  This will be so hard for him.  He's had to deal with his pop's death, but that can be justified: my father died peacefully and quickly of natural causes in his own home, at the age of 86.  How do you justify the torment that drove a boy of 12 to do this?  Be at peace, beautiful boy.  Please find peace, his grieving family. 

My Ideas For Promotional CDs

With April knocking at our door, we know May is waiting in the cue which means there will be ads for Mother's Day gifts, and the gifts are usually Michael Buble CDs, or compilations featuring Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston.  For some reason marketing types think us mummies all go for this.  When it's Dad's turn, the CDs are usually promoted as drinking songs, and groaning under the weight of the Acca Dacca, and Steppenwolf, and Angels, and Golden Earring, and multitudinous other testerone-fueled acts, all of which I'd much rather listen to any day than Mariah or Ol' Whitters.
The same sort of promotion happens around Valentine's Day, and Christmas Day.  They're all geared towards the special one in your life.  But what about a compilation for that particular arsehole (or arseholes) in your life?  Sometimes a song sums it up beautifully.  Think Jim Croce when he sings, 'Every time I tried to tell you the words just came out wrong/So I have to say I love you, in a song.'   I will have to put this on my iPod.  Last time I posted I mentioned I was going to download some choons thereon, and am still yet to do so.  But my original point is every now and then you are going to deal with some people who have apparently made it their life's mission to destroy yours.  They have been given the gift of life for the sole purpose of shitting you to tears.  Even worse, they have morphed into a nest of vipers and you had best find that old steel serving tray and shove it down the back of your shirt, because they are going to sneak up behind you with knives at the ready to plunge between your shoulder blades and sever your spinal column.  I know a few people like that, and just might send a call out to any of those producer types who like to compile these special occasion CDs.  If my idea is not appealing to you, then I might have to take out a loan and invest in producing this CD myself, because I know it's going to be a winner.  Kind of like that service I heard about years ago that would actually deliver dead flowers to people you hate.  I wonder are they still in business or did their prospective clientele realise sometimes arseholes just aren't worth the money and effort?  Anyway, here is Side 1 of the CD I'm thinking of, and trust me, I have had some inspiration:

1.  'Toxic' by Britney Spears (it might be Britney, but I don't mind it)

2.  'Bitch' by the Rolling Stones (off my favourite album, 'Sticky Fingers')

3.  'Brilliant Disguise' by Bruce Springsteen because there are some very two-faced types out there who finally reveal their true colours, so therefore....

4. 'True Colours' by Kasey Chambers.  Not even the original by Cindi Lauper but this remake because it's enough to strip the enamel from their fangs, er, teeth

5. 'Why Don't You All Get Fucked' by Skyhooks.  This needs  no explanation and by Christ I'd love to say it aloud at times lately.

6.  'Respectable' by the Rolling Stones, who appear to be good at writing songs you can direct to the arsehole in your life.  This particular one, whilst ostensibly a swipe at Bianca Jagger, has an underlying message of get the fuck over yourself.

7.  'No More Mr Nice Guy' by Alice Cooper, which can be construed as a warning to the recipient of this fabulous compilation

That's a little taste of what's to come on this new album, which I'm sure will be screaming up the charts to be Number One with a bullet.  Coming soon from K-Tel, and it will be a great addition to your K-Tel Record Selector which you can purchase for just $2.99!

Stand by for Side 2 soon.

Engineering De Sades

Just touching base in the blogosphere to reassure everyone that I'm still around.  My computer isn't hooked up at the moment because we (by 'we' I mean Mr Bingells and one of his friends) are assembling the new computer desks and cupboards that have arrived to replace the flood-fucked lot.  There is a special corner in hell for the engineering de Sade who designed flat pack furniture. 

I'm currently at my local library and just thought I'd type a brief post to touch base.  So many things on my mind.  I've been dealing with upsetting situations that have left me bewildered and furious, and very hurt. 

I have observed stuff that has reinforced my long-held belief that there are some people out there who really should be tied to a tree, and shot at with a ball of their own shit.

But on a less aggravating note, I am still to redeem the iTunes card I was given for my birthday.  Think I'll go home and download me some choons.  Watch this space and I will keep you appraised or what I pick.

Ciao for now!

Rodents and 'Cyberhate'

I cannot hear the alarming rustle and scrabbling of claws as the loathsome creature scurries between my walls, but I can smell it.  My shopping list for today is still being compiled, but I might have to add bait thereto, because I smell the slippery, slimy rodent that we call a rat.  You care to hear how my olfactory was assailed thus?  It's something I read the other day.  I cannot vouch for its veracity, but I will tell you what was in this article.  The article stated Indue Pty Limited is the corporation with the contract to manage the systems of the Federal Government's welfare card program.  You're probably thinking, 'Big deal, Simone.  Someone has to manage the system.' Yes, well, no - NOBODY has to manage the system because it's a violation of civil liberties and takes away people's agency and autonomy - but back to the point; in theory the system has to be managed.  Indue Pty Limited is apparently owned by members of the Liberal and National Party, and donates to branches of those parties.  Now do YOU smell the frickin' rat, too?  Ages ago I wrote about this arsehat of an idea, being the welfare card system, I hinted the card might be geared toward Woolworths and Coles only because the Government might be in the pockets of those supermarket giants.  Hmmmm, maybe I was on the right track, but meandering onto the wrong side path?  Anyway, I state again that the concept of a welfare card is utterly demeaning and offensive.  'Oh wait,' bleats the Government, 'where it's trialled incidents of alcohol consumption and gambling have decreased.' Oh wait, I snarl back, gambling and alcohol are still perfectly legal products to an adult free citizen, and while those citizens purchase some booze or partake in a gambling related activity such as the pokies, you lot get revenue, or have you forgotten?

Did anybody else catch the program 'Cyberhate' on ABC2 last night?  It was helmed by Tara Moss, and dealt with Internet bullying, and trolls.  It was very interesting, and opened my eyes somewhat.  I've been relatively lucky in not having had too much vile online abuse directed at me.  I've had people contact me via PM, say something insulting about my weight (which is quite normal for my height), and then block me.  The other weekend I called someone online a 'troll'.  I think my comment was 'okay', given the context in which I made it: this person had made a racist and anti-Semitic toned remark.  This same person took the time to peruse my online profile and contact my husband, and tell him to keep his 'fat ugly bitch of a wife on a leash'.  My husband was impressed not in the slightest.  Gee, I wonder why?  I copped a very nasty one from somebody on Twitter, who did not like me pointing out to the followers of Derryn Hinch's Justice Party why a bail magistrate made an order she did.  Without going into too much detail, this person suggested I was on the receiving end of non-consensual paternal incestuous violations.  He didn't write it in those words because he's not as articulate as me.  I will admit to being angered by the comment, and the person's stupidity.  I considered reporting the comment and the person.  Then it occurred to me this person would find himself being taken into the A&E Department with a self-inflicted bullet wound to his foot, once a potential girlfriend or employer checked his online activity.  If that cretinous creep is reading this, are you single and on the dole yet?  I did reply to the odious prick, and told him the fact that he'd make that comment speaks volumes more about him than it does me.  But if anyone is receiving vile abuse online, use the 'block' button.  It's a cliché, but horrified responses are what these imbecilic wank-stains are after.  Or do what James Blunt does - he reminds his abusers/trolls that he might have an annoying voice, but he had no mortgage, either. 

Anyway, yes, I must be away and do some shopping, after I add Ratsak to the list.  Oh, and apple cider vinegar - we're almost out and there's pretty much NOTHING that stuff can't do.  We are still in the process of getting our house back in order following the Christmas Eve flood, and are grateful we kept our insurance premiums up to date.  The gratitude becomes a little strained on the part of Mr Bingells, who has spent the past two days assembling computer desks from a flat pack kit.  There is a special corner in Hell for the person who designed flat pack furniture. 

I have read the edited manuscript for my next novel, and found only ONE error.  Huzzah!  Now I will have to read it all again when the publishers email me the re-edit.  It's tedious but necessary, and I hope you will buy the book when it becomes available - hopefully in a few more months. The title is 'Howling On A Concrete Moon', and my son came up with it.

Bride & Prejudice Bulls**t

So last night I settled on the lounge and asked when Mr Bingells would be finished playing the Xbox; I wanted to watch 'Media Watch'.  Mr Bingells duly signed out and I reached for the remote. ABC was not the running channel upon the DTV setting being chosen, and alas I was not fast enough to avoid being assailed by some reality show, which I think might have been 'Bride & Prejudice'.  Look, I know there are phobias, and racism, and issues in relationships people would probably like to see addressed, but I tend to see these shows as a great excuse to air one's dirty laundry.  People, stop it.  Just take your dirty laundry to the appropriate room in the house, soak it in Napisan if need be, and run it through a washing machine cycle.  This is what you do with dirty laundry.  You do NOT partake in a television show that lets everybody know what a horse's arse your family member is because they do not accept your relationship with someone who is much older, much younger, a different religion, a different ethnicity, or the same gender.  But what happened to me is I caught a snippet of a young man telling his parents about the person whom he intended to marry, a person whom he loves deeply and who loves him back, a person who happens to be another man. 

The young man who was the subject of this flesh crawling type of show is an Aussie, as far as I can tell, and was to marry his American friend over in the US because our screwed up Government has not yet altered the Commonwealth legislation that will bring our country into the 21st century and allow people to marry the PERSON they love, regardless of gender.  What struck me, and offended me, was the attitude of his mother.  She doesn't accept his wish to marry another man.  She would not attend the wedding.  She said to him she could not because homosexuality is frowned upon in the Bible. 

Whoa, back up a little.  Did you say the views of the Bible are what have shaped you into this decision to break your son's heart, when all he wants to do is marry the person he loves, who happens to be another consenting adult of sound mind?  You have a problem with the Bible's stance on homosexuality, but you're cool with a book that preaches of talking snakes?  You don't pick the flaws in the theory of Creationism, in that who on earth did Adam and Eve's surviving sons, Cain and Seth, marry to start the world populating?  They would have to have 'lain' with their own mother in order to reproduce.  Cue the banjos.

You have no issue with a God who would order a man to slay his own son in order to prove his loyalty and reverence?  Thankfully, just as Abraham was about to strike the fatal blow God sent an angel to inform Abraham things were fine, it was all good, the faith and loyalty was tangible, let the kid go.  Abraham gave thanks and let his son go.  I'm not sure if the fate of the son is written of, but I'm willing to bet the kid had major personality flaws stemming from serious PTSD.

Do you not question the plausibility of some old man building a boat out of timber in readiness for a crazy-arse flood?  Noah probably had help from his sons, but how long would it take to build an ark from gopher-wood?  Gopher-wood is quite possibly a form of cypress, which I have as some of my floors, incidentally.  The boat was 300 cubits long and 50 cubits wide.  We don't generally use cubits in measurement these days, and I'm not sure of the conversions, but I think it's about 510 feet long.  That's one long boat, but getting two of every animal on is problematic, because there are thousands upon thousands of species of animals.  Nobody knows how many species of animals there are.  I have this silly image in my head of Noah and his family trying to catch the different types of flies, and butterflies, and bees, and gnats.  I'm imagining him despairing as the rabbits start humping each other and producing a litter of kittens before they've even had time to set sail.   My physics is a tad sketchy, but I'm wondering would a menagerie of elephants, and rhinoceroses, and hippos not cause the damn thing to sink?  This could of course be a matter of weight distribution, so I won't rule it out entirely. But the droppings produced by all those creatures might make it sink.  It would sure as hell make the boat STINK!   However, there is a flaw in this: what about the marsupials?  Does this woman seriously think upon coming to land at Ararat, all the marsupials swam to what is now Australia?

What on Earth did the population do that got God so pissed off he sent this crazy flood, anyway?  Having survived two floods through my own house, one as recently as last Christmas Eve, I'm wondering what in the blue blazes I actually did to incur this.  I'm not the greatest person in the world, but I'm not all that bad, so I don't think I did deserve this.  Upon hearing the news, my niece said, 'Auntie Simone didn't deserve that.'  And she's right.  Auntie did not deserve it.  But it happened.  And soon all my furniture will be replaced, and I will have a house that actually doesn't look like three different kinds of total disarray.  Thank goodness I paid my insurance premiums.

Okay, lady, maybe I'm being very facetious and extreme with my examples, but let me put it another way.  Do you think Jesus would have turned your son away?

PROUD PARENTING MOMENT: My 12yo asked could we put some more ACDC on my iPod.  I am so moved by this.  I have a warm, fuzzy and gooey feeling inside knowing I have showed him the right way.

Murder Uncovered At The Bottom Of The Barrel

Some things really gross me out.  Things like people who pick their noses in public.  Or who squeeze their zits in public (actually the whole zit-squeezing thing anywhere is seriously gross).  Trifle, aka the most disgusting dessert ever devised in an ill-informed kitchen.  But if you really want me to start puking like a demonically possessed adolescent girl, subject me to the repugnant horror that was screened on Channel 7 last night.  It's a show called 'Murder Uncovered' wherein the journalists purport to know, er, stuff. 

Last night's putrescent offering involved a man who has been, to my understanding, set free after being wrongfully convicted of murdering 12yo Leanne Holland in 1991.  Look, I don't know if he did it or if he didn't do it.  What's really got me grinding my molars is the blatantly offensive and adversarial, smug and complacent, snotty interview style of Michael Usher.  I really do wonder if these so called investigative, but merely grubby tabloid, journalists watch training films of the now deceased Richard Carleton, who would remove his glasses and look around the room, thinking he was a Crown Prosecutor, and coming across as an arrogant, nasty tool.

Seriously, asking a subject, 'Hand on heart, you didn't kill her?'?  What kind of an answer should this evoke?  I'm thinking, 'Cross my heart and hope to die/May the rats eat me if I tell a lie.'

But what really made me want to go out and stab baby kittens with their eyes not even opened yet was trying to have the subject undergo a polygraph test.  The subject, sensibly, telephoned his lawyer who advised him not to take it at this stage.  Of course this is all edited to make the subject seem shady as fuck, because we all know NOBODY will ring  a lawyer unless they have something to hide, right? *cough - sarcasm! - cough* 

Channel 7 are trying to convince the gullible viewers that this guy they've set in their crosshairs is a guilty fucker, and oh, aren't they just the new Woodward and Bernstein?  He looks uncomfortable, he refuses a polygraph... Wow, I bet he doesn't believe in Santa Claus, and doesn't like sharing his popcorn at the movies, either. 

Trying to ambush a person into taking a polygraph test about which they have no prior knowledge is an utter disgrace.  You lot should be ashamed of yourselves.  Look up 'ashamed' in the dictionary; you might learn something. Polygraphs are NOT permissible evidence because they are NOT reliable.  For all you people saying he should have undergone the polygraph because if he's got nothing to hide, blahblahblah: these tests do NOT determine truth.  What they do is record physical reactions, such as heartrate.  A complete sociopath could 'pass' one with flying colours. If you want the answers to questions, a similarly efficient method would entail removing the subject's wedding ring (or another piece of jewellery), tying it to a lock of their hair (unfortunately last night's subject was as bald as a billiard ball), and dangling it to see what trajectory it takes.  A circle is a positive answer, and a back-and-forth trajectory is a negative answer.  See how much sense that would make?

That show last night was repulsive, and it drew me in with its tractor beam of sheer badness as the anger inside me swelled at the revolting, sleazy gutter, bog-level journalism.  I hope the medical kit at Channel 7 is stocked with tweezers, they're going to be needed as the splinters are removed from under the fingernails of those responsible for this shit; they really scaped the bottom of the barrel.

A Fellatory Conversation

I've been a touch lax of late when it comes to my job, which is to be a writer.  I've had a fair bit of weekend work on courtesy of my other job, which is to look after the elderly and disabled in their homes.  I've had a fair bit of life getting in the way, which means I have to chauffeur my children around to various functions.  Yesterday I did no writing at all, but did do lots of sitting on the toilet because I was as sick as.  Finally felt confident enough to drag myself to the doctor's surgery to obtain the certificate necessary for me to be paid for lost work, and sat there for ages.  And ages.  And ages. This is to be expected with the emergency on-call doctor.  Unfortunately, there was a kid there squealing like Ned Beatty in 'Deliverance'.  Kids will be kids, but this one was rupturing the fabric of time and space with the horrible noise, and being goaded and encouraged by a snotty older sibling.  The sound was similar to, and produced the same chills as a fork being dragged back and forth across a steel sink.  The imperious elderly lady opposite me was shooting the kid looks that could have stopped a charging rhino in its tracks, but the kid was impervious, and carried on with the godawful racket.

I have to resume the editorial process of my upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'.  Now that my computer has been replaced, the publishers have again emailed me the edited manuscript and I'm making my way through it.  As mentioned in the above paragraph, I have been slack with the writing process, and am feeling very guilty.  Not guilty enough to tell a priest, but guilty nonetheless.  Anyway, what would I say if I took a seat in the confessional?  'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  It has been - hang on - um, wait up, I'm still counting... Got it!  Forty years since my last confession.  Here are my sins: I have been neglecting my writing.  Oh, you want the others?  How long have we got?  Have you packed a lunch, Father?'

Now that I'm getting a bit stronger following the intestinal distress that befell me the other day, I cannot help but notice that dumbarsery is on the march again.  Here are some examples of its insidious manifestation:

1.  A cinema in Alabama is refusing to screen 'Beauty & The Beast' on account of there being a gay character.  This reminds me of some twerpy politician in Queensland who was complaining about 'Brokeback Mountain' that time on the grounds he'd never seen a gay cowboy (Mate, they're called The Village People.  You Tube them).  Never mind that 'Chronicles of Narnia' was released around the same time and I'm confident this politician has never seen a talking lion, either.  Anyway, the management or someone with their head up their own arse has taken umbrage to a gay character, perhaps because it's a Disney movie.  Let me address the elephant in the room here.  Maybe 'Beauty & The Beast' does have a gay character, and if so, who bloody cares?  What gives me a touch of the icks is the suggestion of interspecies erotica.  I mean, seriously, LOOK at that bloody thing Belle's having a relationship with.  It's called The Beast for a reason.

2.  The Committee for Women has influenced Yarra Council for the redesign of traffic lights so some of the 'Don't Walk' and 'Walk' symbols are female, instead of the traditional male silhouette.  This is to address the subliminal bias against women the traditional masculine looking symbol perpetuates.  I cannot begin to describe exactly how much I wish I was making that up.  But I'm not.  Someone's actually gone along with this, and money has been expended.  I do not think this will really help gender issues, and sexism faced by women.  All it does is make me think the homeless are probably relieved funding that could have fed and sheltered them has been syphoned into this total arse-hat of an idea.  Any time I have seen the Green Man appear on the traffic lights, I have never once seethed at the injustice of the female not being given a role in this important duty of signalling the right for the pedestrian to cross the road.  What's gone though my mind is relief I can cross the road in the knowledge that I am likely safe from some gherkin screaming along in a hot rod and smashing into me, sending me somersaulting over the bonnet and landing in an undignified and bleeding heap on the road, my underwear soiled.  As an aside, I might point out the platitude that one must always wear clean underwear to be prepared should one be hit by a bus is pointless.  If you get hit by a bus, your underwear is not going to be clean.

Yes, proof that dumbarsery takes no holiday whilst one is bed bound, and toilet bound with the tummy bug.

Regular readers will know I have lots of fun with Indian scammers.  The other day Mr Bingells discovered the joy that can be had when stirring a scammer.  He took a call from one such creature who informed him about a transfer from our account with NAB.  We don't bank with the NAB.  The figure transferred changed throughout the conversation, so Mr Bingells said, 'Hang on, first of all you said it was $600.00, then it's $400.00, and now it's $500.00.  I think YOU'RE the fraud here.' Furious at being foiled, the scammer said to my husband, in a charming lilting accent particular to South East Asia, 'Suck my cock, sir!' My husband responded along the lines of, 'You've been calling me 'sir', which would mean I'm higher up than you, so YOU can suck MY cock.' The infuriated scammer hung up, and nobody was defrauded.  Nobody's cock was sucked, either, but at least nobody was defrauded.