Australian Champion

It’s been another one of those weeks. No food exploded on me, I’m pleased to say. (Although the hamburger I ate for lunch today wetly imploded. I ended up with a wedge of top bun and a rogue tomato, the rest of the burger having slid into the bag to rest in a greasy mound. I don’t know why I continue to eat these hamburgers when I know full well that they disgust me.) So. As I like lists, and listing things, and ranking said lists (why yes I DO work with data, how perspicacious of you) (and yes I AM mocked for my erudite language skills, more’s the pity), what follows is of course a ranked list, ranked by Impressiveness.

1. Got a metric arseload of work done. No seriously, I’m quite pleased with this. It will enable another month or so of idle puttering on the Necrotising Laptop. I wonder if I can get eBay taken off the Banned Internet Sites list? (Outcome = unlikely. I was recently blocked and recorded for trying to access Dick Smith Electronics. They objected to the Dick. Because, you know, I’m all about the mild porn in work hours.)

2. Joined the Australian Netflix, which is not called Netflix. It is called Fetch Me Movies. Because, apparently, Little Aussie Battlers (TM) need the whole deal spelled out to them in words of one syllable. (and I’m fully aware that ‘Movies’ has more than one syllable, but ‘Films’ sounds pretentious. Mustn’t alienate the Battlers!) Fetch Me Movies are fetching me Love Actually and A Mighty Wind as we speak. Not that we are speaking. Our metaphorical conversation, if you will.

3. The Brown Dog is now an Australian Champion. Hurrah! We have fulfilled our dog showing obligations! Unfortunately, this means the Brown Dog is now the most qualified mammal in the house. (Sure, Mr. T and I have craploads of degrees and diplomas. But are we Australian Champions? We are not.) And as the Brown Dog so clearly outranks us, we feel we should call him Australian Champion at all times: “Get on your mat, Australian Champion!” and, “Sit … speak … no, not you, Pet Quality Black Dog. I was talking to the Australian Champion.” I may move to shorten this to ‘Sir’.

4. Found an atypical MP3 site that has not yet spammed my email, stolen my credit card details or dropped out midway through downloads. Although I feel obliged to confess I am using my powers for evil, namely finding dreadful 80s songs I have on tape and dragging them kicking and screaming into the digital age. Ah, Hitbusters 88, how I loved you. Almost as much as Wham! The Final.

5. I can’t stop saying ‘lemur’. It appears I am chanelling Lisa Simpson where she gives Maggie a flashcard lesson on exotic animals. I catch myself at work muttering, “Lemur. Leeee-mur. Zeeee-bu. Hump and dooo-lap. Doooo-lap.” Note my American pronunciation of ‘dewlap’: brainwashed by the mass media! It’s a conspiracy!

Random Ephemera

- In a rare fit of preparedness, I purchased some small snack-type food items to leave at work for lunch and snack goodness. One said item was a bag of treat-sized pitted prunes (mmmm! prunes as treats! I will never buy chocolate again!) Today I ripped open my Big Bag O’ Prunes and retrieved a small bag, to treat myself. With prunes. My co-worker watched in fascination as I attempted to open the bag … to find three prunes. Three. Prunes. I was so disheartened I barely summoned the energy to eat them. Why do They ration my prunes in this manner? Do they think my bowels will spontaneously explode? Do only three prunes even constitute a treat?

- Disappointed with the meagre prune ration, I purchased myself a Coke. In a plastic bottle, from the vending machine. The Coke and I travelled back up two flights of stairs and back to my desk. I left the Coke to its own devices for five minutes or so to deal with my bleak existential despair at the lack of prunes. (so few! why so few?) Eventually my thirst overcame my angst and I opened the Coke. Which exploded spectacularly – over my desk, up my wall, narrowly missing my Crappy Ass Laptop (dammit!) and sending a few warning sprays out towards my co-workers. Why, Coke, why? Why did you explode into sudden violence, lashing out at those around you? We only want to help you, Coke. Oh, and drink you. But that’s for your own good.

- Someone in Marketing has written some romance copy for one of our new products. In complete seriousness, she described it as “deliciously stable”. Words fail me. … and her, obviously.

loveboat captain take the rains

Another long weekend. It seems to me that we have long weekends all the time, yet simultaneously the weekend is never here. But that was the last for a while. Winter is here.

Executive Summary:

- Rent deluxe houseboat (4 double cabins, each with ensuite. Dishwasher. Gas fire. Spa on roof. Mayday, mayday! There is a SPA on the ROOF!)

- Meet up with a dozen people (some from New Zealand over here especially for this weekend). Much rejoicing.

- Quail inwardly at the amount of alcohol being loaded onto the boat.

- Giant houseboat develops a noticeable lean on the alcohol-loaded side.

- Board the houseboat and begin my pirate spiel: “ARRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

- Find that other girls on board seem to lack an appreciation for Captain Jack Sparrow.

- Demand to return to shore to rent PoTC (for edumacational purposes, of course).

- DVD renting mission denied. Mr. T hides the keys. Hate Mr. T briefly and intensely.

- Find our cabin.

- Throw other peoples’ stuff out of our cabin.

- Throw our stuff in.

- Join the party in the SPA on the ROOF.

- Repeat for three nights.

As Much Fun as it sounds. Even though we are all approaching our 30s (and some of us are IN our 30s! Them, I mean! And they’re still alive and EVERYTHING!) and this advanced age ensures the mornings are slightly more subdued than they used to be. Berocca! Who can live without it? (Although that was a rhetorical question, I’m presuming: everyone in countries where Berocca is not sold. How do you survive? (Also rhetorical.))

And, as alluded to in the post title, it did rain. (Although I’m only explaining this as I don’t want it thought that I suck at homophones.) But who cares about rain? When you’re in a spa? Nobody, that’s who! (This always reminds me of a Calvin and Hobbes comic. Similar to the Larsen Far Side I mentioned in an earlier post (Oh, do pay attention, Wadsworth!) I should really scan these buggers in to give to the internet for posterity.) The raining meant nothing, NOTHING, to those of us wallowing in a spa. Note to future houseboat renters: turning on the bubbles in the spa causes the lights downstairs to flicker and die momentarily. Not that you’ll care. Because you’re IN the SPA!

Paging Doctor Harry

I’m becoming concerned that, when it comes to behaviour towards pets, Others are not like Us. And by Others, I mean normal people. You know, those people you see around who have kids or iPods or colour co-ordinated clothes or fake Louis Vuitton bags. Normal people. As I cannot count myself amongst the normal (and I WANT the iPod, I do; but it’s just too expensive to justify for someone who screams BAM-A-LAM, BAM-A-LAM throughout the entirety of Spiderbait’s ‘Black Betty’ remake) then I must reconsider our approach to the animals that live in our house.

Things that We Do that I don’t think Other People Do:

- Talk back to the cat. In cat language. It has got to the stage where Mr. T cannot tell if any given “Meh!” comes from me or from the Cat. (But only one of us wants kibble.)

- Ruin the dogs’ self esteem. Either Dog walks up, all waggy tail and pleased to see us. Mr. T bends down and says, clearly and distinctly into the dog’s face, “I don’t like dogs. I don’t like dogs and I don’t like you. Nobody likes you.” Bonus points for maligning the Dogs in public, where horrified people can think bad thoughts.

- Re-enact the hospital bed scene from The Simpsons when the Cat is sitting contentedly on your lap. “Bed goes up – bed goes down. Bed goes up – bed goes down. Bed goes up – hey, where ya GOING?”

- Talk openly about skinning your animals for their fur.

- Pick a favourite animal when all are present in the room.

“I like the black one today.”

“Really? The black one? Even after his little ‘incident’ with the soft toy he wasn’t supposed to touch?”

“Dammit, I forgot he chewed the eyes off Eeyore. OK then, I’ve changed my mind. I’m having the tabby one.”

“But the tabby one’s MY favourite.”

“No, he’s mine. You can have the dogs.”

“I don’t want the dogs.”

“NOBODY wants the dogs. Now go pick up their poo.”

“Now I don’t want YOU either.”

“Like I care. Now go! The spade awaits!”

A Weekend: Readers Digest condensed edition

Friday day:

The work, it is never-ending. Bah.

Friday night:

Hooray! Happy hour finishes at 8pm, and I make it to the bar (again) at 7.52pm. The bartender finally deigns to approach me, and before taking my order, checks his watch. No checking required, barboy! The Hour, it is still Happy! Ignoring his rude rude bartending manners, I order half a dozen drinks. Then I think of the rest of my table. Shouldn’t they be Happy too? I order half a dozen more.

Saturday day:

Urgh. Why must we get up? Meeting people at 9.30am. Make it out of house by 9.15am (they are 40 minutes drive away). Good! Practically early! Pull out mobile phone to send text message to (hopefully) similarly-afflicted drinking buddy. Notice phone is caked in mysterious blood red stains. Shudder as a vague memory surfaces, involving drinking my way through bottled cocktail-themed alcopops whilst text messaging various cohorts.

Saturday night:

Mmmm, movies dark. But noisy! Why so noisy?

Sunday day:

Off to state forest for a spot of 4-wheel driving. Lots of sliding around in mud towards the edges of steep mountain tracks, simultaneously delighting and terrifying Mr. T (who is driving his pride and joy). Get a fit of the giggles. Reprimanded for not taking this seriously enough. Bottom of ute slams heavily into a large rock which has risen out of the track from nowhere. Complain bitterly about shock to spine. Reprimanded for taking this all too seriously.

Sunday night:

Where does all this washing come from? Where are the trousers I want to wear to work tomorrow? Why is that cat walking on that insurance document, doing the tarantella with his muddy feet? Why is the weekend almost over already?

9 to 5 (more like 8 to 6, bah)

Cubemate: [reading email] Delete … delete … ha! in your dreams; delete … del – hang on … hmmmm … wha? … NO WAY … Fuck OFF, I do NOT believe this.

Jac: Are you actually talking to me or just adding to the hole in the ozone layer?

Cubemate: Why? How can we be so STUPID? Why the fuck would you DO that? Fuck fuck fuckity fuckity FUCK!

Jac: [interested] Ooooh, what have we done now?

Cubemate: S’not us, it’s god-damned Marketing. Damn them all to hell, bunch of useless fucknuttles.

Jac: Fucknuttles?

Cubemate: I don’t fucking know, fucking hell. Jesus.

Jac: Fucknuttles. Yes. I like it.

Cubemate: Fucking Marketing, god! what idiots. Bunch of bloody zombies.

Jac: Ah, here I beg to differ. Zombies actually WANT brains.

No birds were flying overhead-

  • Reading:
    “The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat”, Oliver Sacks.
  • Listening:
    “The Nosebleed Section”, Hilltop Hoods. It’s all about the Melanie Safka sample.
  • Watching:
    The mail for eBay parcels. Mmmm, eBay.
  • Eating:
    Orange Tic Tacs. I can devour a 4-pack in an ad break. I’m pretty sure I will die choking on one.
  • Liking:
    “After all, what is your hosts’ purpose in having a party? Surely not for you to enjoy yourself; if that were their sole purpose, they’d have simply sent champagne and women over to your place by taxi.”
    – P. J. O’Rourke
  • Pondering:
    Rebel Sport’s new catchphrase: “Winning is the mark of the rebel”. This INCENSES me. In NO WAY is winning the mark of the rebel. The mark of the rebel would involve losing, or starting a brawl, or possibly not turning up to play at all.