I've been a bit lax in the old blogging department this past week. Undoubtedly the fact that I have been as busy as a one-armed fan dancer is to blame. Have had extra work duties, and they are to be carried out in an oppressive fog of yucky, miasmic, sweat-inducing humidity. At the time of typing this post - 8.08pm ADST - just walking around feels like I'm walking through sticky, warm, molasses. The heat clings and hangs around like that really annoying drunk at the pub who just doesn't understand you're watching the band, and you don't want to talk. Nor do you wish to listen to his blathering babble about how you're just sitting along and shouldn't be alone. At least, that's what you can make of it during the few seconds of quiet between the band's numbers. When you frown at him, and cup your ears with your hands hoping he will take the hint and realise that you cannot hear what he's saying, it's to no avail. So you stare with grim determination at the band as they belt out a Ted Nugent number, refusing eye contact, and hoping the drunk will leave you alone. Anyway, that's what this heat's like.
Trying to keep the balls in the air is a pointless exercise. I was always last kid picked for the team because I cannot even catch ONE ball, let alone juggle several, so they're all going to fall around me, and bounce a few little bounces, before rolling away.
Got one kid going on excursions for Japanese, and another doing life saving at the local pool. Will he valiantly execute a safety jump and swim to the middle of the pool to 'rescue' the kid pretending to drown, before towing him back to the side of the pool? When I had to do this all those years ago, we got lumbered with rescuing the fattest kid in the class. Everyone nearly drowned trying to tow the behemoth to safety. One year, nobody passed Intermediate because nobody would do mouth-to-mouth on the mannequin, owing to one kid sticking his dick in the mannequin's mouth when the instructor was momentarily called away. I do hope the kids in my son's year aren't engaging in such buffoonish jackanapes.
I'm kind of happy about the engagement of Prince Henry of Wales to Meghan Markle. What I will do is get over it very quickly if I don't stop getting bombarded with articles about it every time I switch on my television or check my online newsfeed. The last time an American divorcee married into the British Royal Family there was an abdication, but I daresay being fifth in line to the Throne, Harry's not likely to relinquish any titles.
Person I'm Pissed Off At The Moment: Don Burke. He's just an odious grub. I'm not saying this because of the allegations, although if proven true, then he will be an even more odious grub. No, it's his way of qualifying being a prick. He blames it on self-diagnosed autism. Yeah, you read right. 'Self-diagnosed'. Um, first of all, does Burke have the medical qualifications to form this diagnosis? Second of all, why does he think autism would justify that behaviour? ('Wow, everyone's saying what a fuckwad I am. This could lead to my downfall and a substantial loss of income. Shit, what will I do? Oh, I know! I'll say: 'Sorry I come across as a sexist, entitled cockwomble, but I'm autistic. I made that diagnosis up myself." That'll work!' - um, sorry Don, but it doesn't).
Anyway, got things to do, and no time in which to do them. Ciao for now.
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