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.
No comments:
Post a Comment