Yelling At Clouds Again

 I am having a serious case of Old Woman Yells At Cloud energy today. There are three reasons for this, so let us now explore hereunder.

1. The Algorithm Gods. I have had to hide the constant stories of the Australian HYROX competitor who defecated in competition because - pun DEFINITELY intended - I was about to lose my shit. I'm sick of seeing it. I have heard stories of people in endurance events who have soiled themselves. I don't pretend to understand because I have the athleticism of a koala that's overdosed on gum leaves and have no desire to push myself to the limit in anything more strenuous than light housework. That being said: WTF, everyone involved? This is an enclosed space with shared equipment! I have worked as a homecare AIN and can tell you that when there's poo, you glove up something severe. Also, what a way to be immortalised on the Internet. I was mortified at the trivia the other night when one of my teammates discreetly passed me a napkin and muttered, "Wipe your nose", so I would be beyond aghast if I were placed in a similar situation to the HYROX athlete. By way of explanation, my runny nose was not a biological response to the brainpower generated in the room. It was a response to an onslaught of airborne nasties that triggered a heavy duty bout of hay fever in me that day. 

2. People crowing that the USA now owns Greenland. It doesn't. A rehash of an agreement from 1951 is NOT a transfer of Greenland. I will type this slowly for everyone: Greenland is still an autonomous territory within the Kingdom of Denmark. Follow the bouncing ball and try to keep up.

3. Ted Nugent. I was having a scroll through X and there it was: a pictured posted by Teddles himself wherein he is gloating over a slaughtered buck. He is thrilled to bits and pieces that, as a 78-year-old man, he has killed an animal for sport. Why doesn't get get himself some Viagra instead? Leave the poor animal alone. I am not a committed vegetarian, but what enjoyment is there to be had in killing something for fun? I am a firm believer in separation of art from artist, so whilst I like Nugent's music, he is clearly a colossal thundercunt in real life. 

Well, I guess I'm off to tell at my cloud some more, before the afternoon breeze blows it away.

Let Me Be (Dr) Frank...

 I'm typing this with heavy eyelids and a heart to match. I'm tired because I've had a busy week and I'm bummed because Tim Curry has died. Yes, I'm also bummed about Dolly Parton, but for this one, I'm focusing on Tim Curry. 

My association with Tim is purely Rocky Horror. Rocky Horror all the way. Depending on your age and/or values, there are different characters with which you will associate Tim. Some will see Tim as the original Pennywise. For others, he will be Wadsworth from Clue. For me, it's Dr Frank'n'furter. 

I had listened to the soundtrack of The Rocky Horror Picture Show many times before I actually saw the movie. I first saw the movie when I was fifteen. It was a midnight session. I was on my own. I was a country kid in Sydney. I was puzzled by the people in costume and the people carrying props. But most of all, I was blown away. When Frank threw off his cloak to reveal the corset, suspenders, and fishnets, I felt a frisson like nothing I had ever felt before, which heralded the strong crush on Tim Curry as Dr Frank I have harboured ever since that late evening in the December/January school holidays. I couldn't wait to get back home and regale my school friends with tales of the wild movie I had seen, the one with the song Time Warp. I couldn't wait to explain the patrons who had acted out the movie, including running between the aisles in their underwear. The guy next to me who put a newspaper over his head. The toast that was thrown during Rocky's birthday 'toast'. Whilst I felt blown away, I paradoxically felt like I belonged. I know that as a cishet woman, my sense of belonging is not as poignant as that felt by the young queer audience back in the Seventies, but as an oddball kid in the Eighties, I definitely felt a sense of belonging that night in the movie theatre.

Since that night, I have seen the movie countless times and enjoyed various stage productions. I once discontinued a fledgling romance with a guy who didn't like the show. We had gone to see a stage production, and when the actor playing Frank removed his cloak, my date looked at me and said, "I'm not going to comment." He made it clear he did not like the show and found it offensive. After some reflection, I added it to a list of the 'cons' to dating this person. I am aware it's important to respect other people's rights to their own opinions, but it was obvious this person's values were far misaligned from my own, so it was not going to work. 

And of course, even with Tim's body still warm, there is the usual bleating about how problematic this show is. You know what? View everything from the Seventies through a contemporary lens and pretty much everything is going to be fucking problematic. Is Dr Frank a flawed representation of a trans person? Does he represent the offensive trope wherein non-hetero conforming personas are deviates and villains? People, he's a fucking ALIEN! He's a fucking ALIEN from another plan who happens to like wearing clothing traditionally associated with women, and one who happens to like sex with either men OR women. There's a lot to unpack here, so can we please stop making EVERYTHING a problem?

RIP, Tim. Thanks for the awakening.

Belgium Driving the Karma Bus

In case you didn't know, some good things have come from Belgium. Let's have a look at some of those good things, shall we?

1. Jeanne-Paul Marie Deckers aka Luc Gabriel aka Soeur Sourire aka The Singing Nun. You know, the wimpled songbird who gave us Dominique. Yes, the song is a daggy guilty pleasure to be sure, but it's fun to sing (or in my case: croak) along with it. As it happens, this woman had a shit life after this, but she had the guts to also release a song that supported the notion of contraception, a brave move, given she was a Catholic nun during the Sixties.

2. Jozef De Veuster aka Father Damien of Molokai. The missionary who cared for Hawaiian lepers was born in Belgium. 

3. Roger François Jouret aka Plastic Bertrand, who gave us Ca Plane Pour Moi. Yes, another daggy guilty pleasure and my pogoing days are behind me, not that I was ever much for pogoing, but the nonsensical number with the hyperactive beat sure could fill a dance floor. Don't read the English translation, because except for the chorus, "that glides for me", which was a kind of slang for "I'm cool with that", the rest is random lunacy.

4. Technotronic. More guilt, I know. But hey, who among us will willingly admit they danced to Pump Up The Jam during the Nineties? I did. Guilty as charged, m'lud.

5. Stella Artois. This is my favourite beer. I don't drink much beer; maybe the occasional light or no-alcohol beer on a hot day. However, for those times when I really would like a "proper" beer, it is for a good old Stella I shall reach. 

But you can probably guess what my favourite thing out of Belgium is right now. Yep. It's the De Rode Duivels aka Les Diables Rouges aka The Red Devils aka the Belgian soccer team. From an Aussie writer and blogger who rarely follows sport: YOU GUYS FUCKEN ROCK! 

I think most people were barracking for the Belgian side in the wake of that utterly nauseating display of corruption and cronyism by two presidents, one being an amorphous blob of rotting mango that occupies the Oval Office and the other being a clod who runs FIFA. Seriously, does nobody employed by the White House have the cojones to tell Trump that the optics of his request that FIFA review the red card given to Folarin Balogun are seriously and severely hazardous? We all know Trump reads a room like Mr Magoo reads the cooking instructions on a packet of frozen chicken nuggets, but does NOBODY have the sense to point out that hey, you know, this just might look pretty bad, given the near sanctity of a referee's decision in a sporting game, one without perceived external interference? I'm guessing not. And for Trump to actually admit he doesn't know about soccer, but to request a review anyway, is beyond pathetic. Does nobody tell this bloated blowhard "No", at all? Actually, some women probably have told him this, but we know his views on his own entitlement.. 

But not only did the Belgian team shit all over the USA team, they mocked Trump by performing his signature dance (the one that looks like performing duelling hand jobs). The team then added some salt with this tweet:

So, yeah. You go Belgium. You drove the Karma Bus magnificently, and for that, we thank you. That, along with the beer and borderline Eurotrash tunes. 

Boofheads at the Bowser

 This goes out to the arsehat in the car in front of mine at the servo today. In a nutshell: What - and I mean this with the greatest kindness - the actual fuck is wrong with you?

Today, I had cause to cut into my bank account and create profuse bleeding, which in a recent times had been known as putting in half a tank of fuel. However, since the actions of a certain jabbering pumpkin have led to the closure of the Strait of Hormuz, any attempt to put fuel in a car can be considered a grievous assault on one's bank account. 

Well, be that as it may, I needed fuel. I pulled into the servo. The first line of bowsers were occupied by a work vehicle to which a lengthy trailer had been affixed, so there was no available space for me. The third row of bowsers contain diesel, which is not an option for me. So the middle row it was to be, which I thought should be fine because there was only one vehicle and I could pull in behind it and use the second bowser (by way of explanation, there are two sets of bowsers in each row and each set contains different fuel hoses).  Anyway, I pulled into the area with the second row of bowsers, whereupon I found myself unable to park in a decent proximity to the hose because the clod in front had parked her car so that it was situate* between the two spots, thereby denying me room. This is the petrol station equivalent of those ignorant muttonheads who take up two spaces in shopping centre parking lots. And it's safe to say I was someone irritated.

The driver eventually moseyed her desultory way inside and paid. I felt a twinge of rancorous gratitude and decided that when she moved out, I would park at the front spot, thus allowing any other driver who arrived to pull in behind me (I'm thoughtful like that). 

She returned to her vehicle, saw me watching, and gesticulated a message that was lost on me. Her subsequent actions indicate that it was not: "Sorry I'm such an ignorant dunderhead; I'll drive out of your way now." I make this deduction because she got into her car and moved forward slightly. I sat there wondering when was she going to get the fuck out of the way entirely. 

Well, I couldn't keep waiting. I needed to fill my car and empty my bladder. I manoeuvred my car to the appropriate spot at that second block of bowsers. She remained in her vehicle, which from the glowing taillights, was clearly 'on'. As I fueled up, I started to worry. Was I being unfair? Maybe she had had a medical episode preventing her from leaving. I resolved to check on her as I went to pay the king's ransom that is now the equivalent of an average syphoning session.

So I did this. I had a discreet glance at her window as I went by, to reassure myself she was not unconscious or something. And guess what? Are you ready for this? SHE HAD BEEN ON HER FUCKING PHONE!  Surely to goodness common etiquette states that if you must use your phone at a servo, park your car in one of the customer bays and don't block the bloody bowsers! 

So if you are reading this, Madam Dumbarse, have a word with yourself. 

* situate can be an adjective. It's archaic, but it can be an adjective.

AI-Yi-Yi!

Where have all the competent writers gone? Certainly nowhere near my newsfeed, but there may be one typing on my keyboard right now, heh-heh! I often see a headline teasing about an article that might interest me, so I click, whereupon I am bombarded with a discombobulated word salad that makes me feel as though I am the throes of a massive stroke when I am trying to decipher it. It is AI-generated hogwash. It is not writing. It is a jumble of disjointed ideas stuffed into a lousily parsed series of sentences that repeat or rephrase with the embarrassed air of someone trying to downplay an accusation of impropriety. Or a drunk who's cornered you at a party and insists upon boring the shit out of you with repeated anecdotes and questions. 

And AI-generated articles are the most insulting and offensive of impropriety. Don't get me wrong; AI can be a useful tool that has its place. It's a great time-saving device for certain procedures. But its problem is that it lacks soul. A curation of information synthesised by some LLM into the most minimal semblance of an actual article or story is no substitute for a properly researched and crafted article by an actual WRITER who can provide discernable tone, atmospheric mood, correct grammar, and - now take heed, because this is important - THE CORRECT INFORMATION!

The other day, I was scrolling and chanced upon an article about the late AC/DC singer, Bon Scott. I vacillated between opening and just scrolling because, let's face it, the article was likely to be AI-produced. The Common Sense Angel on my right shoulder pleaded with me: "Get real. Your gut is telling you this is not 'properly' written and it's going to annoy you." The Devil-May-Care Angel on my left shoulder said: "But it's Bon Scott. You LOVE Bon Scott. Have a read."

Against my better judgement, I listened to more foolhardy seraph on my left shoulder, who was not chanting: "Holy! Holy! Holy!", but rather: "Bon! Bon! Bon!"

So I clicked.

The first clumsy paragraph informed me that - are you ready for this? - Bon Scott "woke up dead". No, I did not type that wrong. But AI sure fucked it up big time. Bon Scott woke up dead, did he? How very rock and roll! What did he do next? Pick the bits of carrot out of his throat?

I am going to have to 'hide' every creator that appears in my feed with AI articles, because they are too much for this jaded writer to tolerate.

Pillocks, Penuriousness, and Heads Shaped like Amphoras

 From the Dumb Shit I've Read Today files: a petition to the Australian Senate seeking, inter alia, that the military service of Ben Roberts-Smith be recognised and he be given due process.

Um, I had better type this slowly and loudly: HE IS BEING GIVEN DUE PROCESS! And I will continue to type slowly, whilst wondering can AI help me put in a bouncing ball graphic to help people at home reading along: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK THE AUSTRALIAN SENATE CAN DO?

My tetchiness arises from the emotive posts appearing in my news feed. He is a war hero, they cry. This is costing millions in legal costs and associated costs and coffee runs and those pre-packaged sandwiches in the vending machines, they moan. Oh, and 'they' includes clowns like Pauline Hanson, Malcolm Roberts, and Gina Rinehart. 

I am not going to speculate or comment on the possible outcome of a matter that is sub judice. What I will say is:

1. Due process is being followed insofar at court procedure is concerned. He's been charged with offences under the criminal code that are to be dealt with in the civilian criminal court.

2. His military service is being recognised everywhere you freaking well look! You can't turn around without bumping into or barking your shin on a post about "our heroes." However, his service does not preclude him from being subject to the rule of law. The law applies to everybody or nobody. BRS is not above the law. That also means he is entitled to the protections of the law, which means he is at this stage presumed innocent until proven otherwise.

3. The Senate can do fuck-all about the court process. Our parliamentary and judicial powers are kept separate for very good reason.

4. Yeah, it's probably a bummer for him that he was arrested in front of his children. However, he's not the first person to have been arrested in front of his kids. 

5. What does it matter if there is cost involved in pursuing justice? We are talking JUSTICE. There is a saying: Not only must justice be done; it must be SEEN to be done. If that means some dosh gets expended in its pursuit, then so be it. And why are you bleating about the apparent 300 million dollars this has cost, Gina Rinehart? You've probably got 300 million dollars in spare change squashed down the back of your couch. Rancorous old bag of penuriousness. Haven't you got a function at Mar-a-Lago to attend?

6. Malcolm Roberts and Pauline Hanson: you're both a pair of pillocks. Support and believe in whomever you want, but at least familiarise yourself on the principle and reason for rule of law.

I found something else in the Dumb Shit I've Read Today files - although technically I first read it the other day; however, it's popped up and bobbing around like a turd that won't flush. Ironic, given it's subject matter is former PM Tony Abbott. He's saying that we should support the US in its conflict with Iran. Why does this amphora-headed ninny think his view holds weight? We are talking about a person who wanted to bestow a knighthood upon Prince Phillip! 

Hopefully, the world will calm down soon. I doubt it. 

Mephistopheles and Mirrors

 I've spent a few hours today watching some episodes of Dynasty: The Murdochs on Netflix and wondering when is that scabrous old fuck Rupert going to cark it. He's probably entered some Faustian bargain, which seems difficult since he's also the embodiment of Mephistopheles. It's kind of like the miller's daughter and Rumpelstiltskin turning out to be one and the same, only with a biased media corporation whose minions think it's okay to hack the voicemail of murdered kids, rather than some old turd of a king who expects straw to be spun into gold. I'm no alchemist, but I'm pretty sure you can't turn straw into gold. 

I've also been wondering whether there are any mirrors in the White House. What's aroused my curiosity is the mind-bogglingly ludicrous rant posted by Trump on his favourite social media platform wherein he described Bruce Springsteen as resembling "a dried up prune." No, I'm not making that up. Nobody who resembles a desiccated cumquat topped by a thatch of dried corn silk would have the temerity to compare another human being to a piece of dried fruit if said cumquat had access to a working mirror. From this, I can only assume there are no clean or functional mirrors in the White House. 

I am also wondering if there should be some kind of training course for incumbent presidents of the US, one that features a unit on how to cope if an artist expresses disapproval of you. I can suggest this rudimentary lesson:

1. Remember you are supposed to be a world leader and have more pressing issues about which to be concerned.

2. If you're going to sook about it in an unprofessional and hypocritical manner, resign your position because you are clearly unsuited if you cannot handle another person's opinion of you. 

3. Change your tampon. 

4. Avoid posting petty whines on social media. This does not matter if you are sitting up in a four-poster bed, sitting behind your desk, or sitting on a gold-plated toilet: just do not do this. *

5. Resign anyway. You are a bloated moribund sunfish, with the IQ and emotional intelligence of said creature. 

* Gold for a toilet? Maybe that imp from the Brothers Grimm could come in handy after all; just bring along a bale of hay.

Anyway, I might crank up some Springsteen now.