Jock's Jocks

Pedophiles Released, Given Own Crossing

2009-08-18T19:39:00.000-07:00

Talking about crossings, I've always cheekily laughed at pedestrian crossing signs as:

I always think a pedophile is about to pop across the road in front of my car, confirming my worst fears...they have their own special crossing, where the rest of us have to play frogger across busy carriageways. The only issue I have is where is the large coat? This pedophile seems to be comfortably dressed in pants and a sweater, hardly being pedophile get up (or get off) I would have thought...

Fat Kids Don't Say No...

2006-06-23T17:52:00.001-07:00

One of the current debates filling the education airwaves is that of the consumption of junk food in canteens as well as outside the school grounds.
We saw Jamie Oliver tackle the issue of crap in canteens with his hit tv show whose name I don't remember. Filling the bain maries with delicious healthy food for little horizontally challenged kids to devour was a great idea, but I think that only happened at school. Did it change their dietary habits at home? That means the parent's need to adopt a healthy policy, and lets be honest - it's far easier to whack a hash brown in a frying pan and a meat pie in the microwave/oven than to prepare a wholesome curry.

Someone mentioned in the rag today that maybe kids and parents need to take some responsibility for their own eating actions, and quite frankly I've tried that and it isn't easy. I've gone from eating curries and other vegetarian fare to toast and meat pies; before I know it I've slipped back into fat bastard mode, and it happened right under my nose, just like the lovely aroma of a piece of shit pie containing dogs cock and horse's ass. Imagine getting kids to change their diets? I remember when I was a kid, I just wanted to eat fairy bread and cocktail frankfurts (did my parents think I was gay?). Juxtaposing that with rice and vegetables makes it a pretty choice, thumbs up to the bread for fairy's and small red cocks.

Here is my solution, and one that doesn't involve a lot of thought and it works using the simple theory of basic economics. Imagine if you were the parent of a fat child and walked into the supermarket, worried that he might be getting a little overweight after his chest tightened when he decided to run down the hallway the previous day. You think you should try to include more vegies than you normally do, and maybe not cook them until they've mashed themselves and you've covered them with salt - nature's version of cutting your own dietary wrists.

When you walk throught the entrance you can't help but notice everyone looking white and shocked. As you walk to the vegetable aisle, you see that everything is in fact replaced by candy and chips. You are a bit dumbfounded, and you check the juice section and realise instead of orange juice, there is just an endless see of full-fat cola, and you have no choice but to fill your trolley with fatty crap. It's like this for the next month and by the end of four weeks, everyone is sick, miserable and people are giving greengrocers a furtive hand job for a couple of black-market bananas (wink wink).

You see, the idea of taking away all healthy food works on the premise that if people just ate shit for a month, they'd get so sick of it that the sight of another doughnut or jam fancy makes them feel nauseous. It's a perfect example of supply and demand, as there would be no supply of healthy food, and by the end of the 30 days, demand would be soaring for fresh vegies and tomato juice. Watch the world as they live their very own Super Size Me piece of shit movie.

Acronym Arsecrobats

2006-06-21T00:08:00.000-07:00

So…marketing acronyms are becoming more frequent in people’s vernacular these days, ho-fucking-hum. Admittedly, one of the only slightly memorable pieces of knowledge gained from a business degree was that of categorising people with acronyms such as DINK (dual income, no kids), OINK (one income, no kids), YUPPIE (Young Upwardly Mobile Professional Person) or SKIPPIE (School Kid with Income and Purchasing Power). I guess I’m an OINK, but on the lower end of the socioeconomic spectrum. Maybe I’m a PYGTEN, or a Poor Young Guy That Eats Noodles.

The latest acronymical hit in Australia is the CUB: the Cashed Up Bogan. If you’re not from Australia and don’t know what a bogan is, then this is what Wikipedia said:

“A bogan is an Australian and New Zealand English slang term, at times derogatory, for a person who is, or is perceived to be, unsophisticated or of a lower class background. The stereotype includes having speech and mannerisms that are considered to denote poor education and uncultured upbringing. Mostly applied to white, working-class people.”

Basically if you drive a ute (small pick-up), swear, drink beer and love watching football then you could be classed as a bogan. Some people are part-time bogans, or even closet bogans. That is, they might secretly sit in their closet, drink beer and yell words such as cunt and fuck at their neatly pressed shirts.

So a cashed up bogan is a bogan with money, which is obvious really. The idea of a bogan can be seen as being slightly controversial, as it can be conveniently used as a term to elevate the user above the ‘un-cultured’ notion of Australians.

Incomes have increased a lot over the years, and now plumbers and the like are able to fulfil their spending aspirations that may have remained unfulfilled ten years ago.

So like it or not, I can’t help but feel that when people suddenly have a lot more money, they are then egotistically distanced by those that have had high incomes or large inheritances for a longer time.

Classic cases of CUBS are the fictional masterstrokes of Kath and Kim. A real-life example is that of Lleyton and Bec Hewitt and some other Australian celebrities that I don’t give a shit about; it’s not that they’re CUBS, but I’d rather down a turd milkshake than read about them.

However staying true to my one-man bogan debate, I decided to try my own hand at marketing segmentation and here are my results:

LOSER – Large Overweight Singles stalking people and Entering their Rubbish bins.

WANKER – Wives and Nanas who Kill and Eat Rabbits.

TOSSER – TOp Secret Spies who also Enter Rectums .

DICKHEAD – Dual Income, Crying Kids with Heroin ADdiction.

KNOB – Kan’t Spell, Offloaders of Bribes.

ARSELICK – Anally Retentive SometimEs Laborious Income through Cock.

Ancient 'Greece' Lightning

2006-06-16T00:22:00.000-07:00

I was in a bookshop the other day, and it is so big that it even has it’s own café. It's a nice little nook where you can enjoy a coffee and a muffin; perfect for those people who need a break from the rigours of looking at books for twenty minutes. Some people don’t like this bookshop though, as it represents something what most bookshops do not - bulk buying hence affordability.

I was there looking for a book that I needed for an assignment I was working on. At some point, after having checked out the comedy section and having a quick laugh, I walked past the relationship section, and noticed that there were a lot of books about dating and relationship success. They contained amazing insights into the female psyche, the male psyche, fail-safe plans on how to attract that special girl; basically 101-ways to pants-jumping success. There were some really big books there, with alluring ‘buy-me’ covers, all written by people with ‘Doctor’ preceding their name, which I found really impressive. If the author were titled Dr Doodlelittle, Sir Usemylancelot or some other such saucy, impressive name, maybe I would have taken one of those books home and had an extended leaf through it.

Left: "Wish me luck, I'm about to battle my dating demons."

When did the first dating books actually appear? I suppose a few cultures have arranged marriages, so there is no market there at all, but other places would have been ripe for the reading.

In Ancient Greece was there a man entitled Datius Maximus who released a stone tablet on how to successfully date women? Did he call it “How to turn your lowly thatched cottage into a colosseum of love?” or “How to fool girls into thinking that you’re a gladiator and not a loser?” Maybe there were ten love commandments inscribed on the tablet. Here are a couple I haven’t selected:

Love Commandment Five: Thou shalt honour your father and your mother, and not use their bed for love-making if they are away on vacation.

Love Commandment Eight: Thou shalt steal someone else’s woman.

So maybe Datius Maximus was in fact the first verifiable respected authority on dating. A few others may have popped up on the way.

What about Sun Tzu’s lesser-known title, The Art of Dating? Apparently he released this book after his famous book on how to fight a war, as he found that so many soldiers were getting lucky before they proceeded to destroy whatever village they were in.

One of Sun’s immortal dating lines that I have found to be invaluable is:

You can be sure of succeeding with you attacks if you only attack places which are undefended.

Or if you are being threatened by a not-so-pleasant member of the opposite, or same sex:

You can ensure the safety of your defence if you only hold positions that cannot be attacked.

I interpreted the last line to mean “go and lock yourself in your car, or jump into a taxi before your defences are worn down.”

Apparently Tzu also talked about how to deny the fact that the person you are attempting to court is in fact not the least bit interested:

Therefore the clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed on him.

Some men maybe become intimidated by a female’s friends and then run off into the toilets. This is in fact a turn off according to Sun Tzu.

To begin by bluster, but afterwards to take fright at the enemy’s numbers, shows a supreme lack of intelligence.

If you can tell that someone is about to make a move on a ‘bird’ in a bar, Sun has warned us of the danger signs.

The rising of birds in their flight is the sign of ambuscade. Startled beasts indicate that a sudden attack is coming.

It seems that dating books have been around for years, and apparently a cave painting was recently uncovered in a forest somewhere with a picture of a man in a bear skin giving a woman a dead boar on a stick as a sign of his intent. The next cave drawing had to be censored, as this ole’ cavemen got lucky.

Dating; it seems that when man discovered fire, he also found the eternal flame of love.

Cock and Roll

2006-06-05T20:56:00.000-07:00

It started one morning two years ago when you were propped up on the couch in front of the telly, eating soggy corn flakes and slurping down a cold glass of killer hangover. Sick of watching cartoons about cute creatures you’d love to strangle with piano wire, you switch over to a music video show. The instant sight of the hunk of rough-hewn man meat belting out a predictable rock tune melts your heart like hair gel in the rain.

“Gosh,” you think to yourself, “After all this bible reading I’ve finally found god, and there he is on channel ten.”

The cliché doesn’t stop there, and over the next year or so you start collecting their entire back catalogue of crap albums, and raid news agencies on a never-ending quest to get every different picture you can find of this Adonis and his firm arse. Before you know it you have an obsession with a rock star and his band, although you had some clues about your pre-occupation on the way. Camping overnight on a turd-encrusted pavement to be the first to get those precious tickets to their tour, and punching people to get up the front of the crowd to see his shopping center appearance, where you not un-predictably cried.

You dump your boyfriend and replace his photo in your wallet with our Rock Star, and his photos are even stuck inside your underwear drawer, and you start drinking whiskey out of the bottle because he does; except you replace it with cola cordial.

Now we zoom over to the other side of the world to our cool, swaggering Rock Star. He’s getting loads of fan mail, none of which he reads, and countless marriage proposals from complete strangers - and not just females either. Then something strange happens, he reads one marriage proposal and decides in his north-end English accent, “Fuck it, I’m a Rock Star and I’ll do something edgy and cool, I’ll marry this Australian bird and see what all this marriage shit is about.”

What you might not ask? Someone actually taking one of those marriage proposals seriously? People send marriage proposals to their ‘idol’ because it’s all part of their celebrity fantasy, not expecting it to actually happen. But what if it does?

Before this obsessed fan knows it, her life is turned upside down, and her plans for opening a tea-towel store are put on hold. She finds herself stepping out of a stretched limo onto the doorstep of a posh English manor. She still can’t believe what has happened to her, and after the door is opened by Jeeves, she is led through ye-olde palace past twenty toilets and loads of nude paintings. She’s so excited and shaking and is predictably uttering “Oh my god, oh my god” over and over again.

Then as she walks through the double doors to the observatory, she sees Rock Star lying prone on a chesterfield couch, surrounded by beer bottles, shaving cream, and vixens in varying states of undress. It becomes clear to her that he doesn’t eat vegetables, as carrots, cucumbers and sweet potatoes are all in various spots, which we don’t need to go into (they’re already there).

However she sees through the vegetables, shaving cream and passed out women, seeing only our Rock Star, rugged and handsome. Rather, his liver is getting a prolonged workout and his veins are pumping with methadone. Oblivious, she takes a few furtive steps toward him and softly whispers his name.

“Rock Star,” she breathes gently. This is her fairytale moment, one that she’s dreamed of for ten months, and he opens his eyes, looks over to her general direction and sees the blurred outline of his bride. He smiles and the burps out an “Ullo gorgeous” then promptly passes out.

Fast-forward two months, and she is on a plane with beer-stained divorce papers in hand. What happened you may ask? During their short marriage, it slowly dawned on her that Rock Star is in fact, Cock Star. She also realizes he isn’t perfect either. He leaves the toilet seat up on the odd time he bothers to use it, sleeps in until 4 in the afternoon, and when he is awake, he just eats cereal and watches racing cars on the telly. He doesn’t really talk about much except for being mashed up, and Obsessed Fan is nay to happy.

So let this be a lesson to all of you obsessed fans. He may be sexy, but you’re probably better off saving the obsession for the spotty mailroom boy at work. Maybe you can photocopy your respective arses, then send them to each other in the internal mail system. And at least he won’t sleep in until 4 in the afternoon, as he has to be at work by 9am.

A World of Lies, a World of Spies.

2006-05-30T18:07:00.000-07:00

'Is your best friend a spy?'
'Found a gun in your boyfriends' pants?'
'10 top-secret sex tips from the hunkiest spies.'

Did they just sound like those titles that you might find on the cover of an edition of Cosmo?
It recently dawned on me that we rarely see our friends, housemates or even parents at work, and so I understandably jumped to the conclusion that they might all be spies.

Imagine your living with an accountant, who comes home every night complaining of how the water cooler ran out, while they refer to their loopy co-workers as ‘loop holes.’ They might even remark how they couldn’t wait to come home and ‘debit’ some love from their ‘partner.’ However this white shirt, bad tie wearing number-eater might in fact be putting up a rather tax-offset front. (Like all relationships, people need to contribute equally so the love runs strong, so they need to ‘balance their love-ledgers.’)

The water cooler may in fact have run out, but that might instead mean that they ran out of ammunition in their secret machine-gun. Those ‘loopy’ co-workers could in fact be hard-ass, seething spies who have fallen into enemy hands a few times too many. I’m not sure what those enemy hands may have done, but it certainly didn’t make them love life more.

Instead of crunching numbers, our accountant could in fact be crunching hard middle-eastern desert sand under their boots, dropping half smoked Cuban cigars that sear into the sand as if they were prawn crackers in black bean sauce. Over dinner one night, I may complain about the traffic or how the milk might have gone slightly off, while he is sitting next to me comparing my wimpy peak-hour traffic story to the crowded streets of an anarchic African nation he was driving through two days prior.

Maybe my parents are spies, and all those times they came home late from work might have been because their flights from Beirut were delayed. While they were photographing blueprints for weapons guidance systems, I was probably growing impatient as the Bold and Beautiful was a couple of minutes late. Later that night, I would complain to them how I got held back at school for being a bit too loud in class, all the while they were getting their finger-nails pulled out by a sweaty, unshaven bloke wearing a stained singlet in a dungeon somewhere far away.

My next question is, how come I’ve been left out of all this? I thought I would make a great spy, as I can act, make wisecracks and appear clueless. Who would suspect a primary school teacher might in fact be blowing up ammunition dumps and flipping through laser beams in a perfectly timed break dance? I like dressing up, especially sometimes in the bedroom, but heck it’s all practice isn’t it? I make a pretty good pretend doctor, so I think I may as well put that on my spy CV.

After realising that you're all spies I now feel alone and excluded from you crime fighters, and it’s circumstances like this that turn people like me into super-villains who want to take over the world by controlling the weather or shrinking people. So if anyone is looking for any work and wouldn’t mind being sneering henchmen wearing matching orange suits and helmets, then drop me a line. Austin Powers 4? More like Austin Cowers 4.

Some Tips for Post-Revenge Retirement

2006-05-04T21:16:00.000-07:00

Your brother was killed ten years ago by a heartless sword master called Blackheart. Upon his last breath you swore revenge on his death, and henceforth dedicated your life to perfecting the deadly art of fencing. You trained day and night, slurping down medieval protein shakes and ruining ancient tracksuits until you and the sword became one revenge-driven killing machine.

Finally after ten years of training and searching, you find Blackheart, who is no less heartless even after having started a family and already going through a mid-life crisis. On that historic day, you duel into the night and after hours of toil, you finally have him on his knees, where you utter those oft-practiced words “My name is Jock Hutton, you killed my brother, now you must die.” He sneers, and in one swift stroke you drive your rapier home, where he then exhales his last breath and crumples to the ground like a sack of turnips. Triumphant you hold your sword aloft and breathe a sigh of relief.

However something suddenly dawns on you. “What the hell do I do now?” you ask yourself. You didn’t plan for this post-killing moment; not thinking past the bit when Blackheart dies, and realize you’re barely in your thirties and have no qualifications or trade. You’ve got nothing to fall back on, and so over the next 6 months you lead a directionless life, develop depression and anxiety due to recurring thoughts of worthlessness and end it all by swallowing a packet of those yellow toilet blocks.

The revenge business is a fickle sort of game, as once someone has had their revenge, they must then make the transition to the post-revenge period of lives, and most of us are thoroughly unprepared for it. The post-revenge transitional period is one that has plagued us since their dawn of man, but one that has never been talked about because men in general are unable to open up to anyone about their feelings and insecurities. Instead they grunt into their skein of ale, or kill a boar.

The lack of plan is an issue that happens mainly with men successfully gaining revenge over a close family-member or even a friends’ death.

What defines revenge, you may not ask? I don’t really feel that any non-murder-avenging type of revenge should be called revenge, as it just doesn’t sound revenge-ey enough. Fancy someone stealing your prized gumboots, inspiring you to then go and dedicate the next ten years of your life training to avenge the theft of those beloved red wellies. Upon killing the gumboot thief, I wouldn’t think, “may my red gumboots and I now grow old together after this triumph.” Instead I’d probably think, “what the hell have I just done, spending years in the revenge business over some rubbery footwear that is by now hideously out-dated?

It is from this realization that I thought the responsible thing to do would be to provide some post revenge planning education to those people who are either currently in revenge or are seriously thinking about it.

As I have discussed, the problem is that of what to do once revenge has been carried out. Triumph will soon turn to heartbreak if you don’t plan carefully. Your dead relative or friend will turn over in their hastily dug grave if you fail so soon in life after your triumph.

It is important to think about how much of your time you will dedicate to revenge. If you were particularly close to that dead person, then you will probably spend a lot of time in training. Step back for a second though, and contemplate a few things. So many of us are dedicated to some goal that we lack balance in our lives. Instead of doing sword-fighting all day, take some time to maybe start a certificate in landscape gardening at night-school, or try reading a book about decorating eggs and baskets. All that machismo would be enough to make Hercules look like he was about to decorate his sword, not stab someone with it. So get a balance, yin and yang, feminine and masculine, junk food and fruit, and insert uninspiring analogy here.

Why not open a small pub? It would be perfect, as you could be trainee during the day, and innkeeper by night. Once Blacktwig is dead, all you need to do then is go back to your inn and pour a beers for thirsty soothsayers, break up a fight between elves and dwarves, and feed some hay to a few horses; a seamless revenge/post-revenge transition.

For those who are not only seeking revenge, but are also fugitives on the run from the hated city inquisition, then why not masquerade for a while as a hairdresser. No one would suspect that the well-manicured man with a pencil thin moustache who specializes in layering and medieval mullets is also a master swordfighter who is just biding his time. The guards aren’t going to search ye olde salon and upon the sight of aforementioned hairdresser immediately come to the conclusion that he could kill them all with a playful laugh and a few casual slices of his rapier.

So if you are thinking about entering the revenge business, or are already some way into your sword training and “you killed my father...” line-practicing, then make some time in that deadly schedule to think about your future. I haven’t had anyone come up to me seeking advice before, as I still have all family members intact. However I will leave you with this line,

“Yon person who forgets thy future, willeth finde yourselth un-skilled and directionless thou lumpish, onion-eyed, flax-wench.” That roughly translates to “Have a post-revenge plan you nitwit.”

I love you, you're fired.

2006-03-28T20:31:00.000-08:00

I don't really like to call this thing a blog, because if it was, I'd be ranting on about how I spilt a coffee on myself or ran out of toilet paper whilst doing a poo. I don't think people need to know about my life as I don't think talking about sex, drugs and rock and roll is all that interesting on paper, and I certainly couldn't be bothered reading about it. I'd rather read the shipping times at the back of the newspaper, but I don't have any friends illegally stowed away on a Chinese container ship so I don't need to know when they're coming in.

[insert segway here]

With the new industrial relations laws coming in, can I 'sack' a girlfriend and give no reason at all? I think it would be a great idea at the start of that new and exciting dating phase to draw up a position description to cover any potential breaches of employment law. If a girl knew from the outset that she was a 'casual, then I could let her go without so much as a holler.
Could I have a few casuals and sack the lot if I don't think they're effectively carrying out their defined tasks? This could be the beginning of the end of traditional relationships as we see them.

"I love you, you're fired" - the new Industrial Relationship laws.

The new laws are the Prime Minister's brainchild, so what's his take on them? Does Jeanette have to suffer the ignominy of an annual performance review, where she needs to convince her employer, in this case John, as to why he should keep her on? It would be a nervous time, sitting in his office, while he flicks through his files.

"Jeanette...Jeanette....Jane, no, Julia, whoops gone too far..ahh here we are Jeanette. So Jeanette. I'm reading here that you are my...wife...of 30 years...a few kids.

I'm looking at your 2005/2006 performance. Ahh that's right, now you might remember a couple of months back when you burnt that curry, three weeks ago when you turned my shirts pink, and at some point you also pestered me for sex. Things aren't rosy are they? Hanging on by a thread I reckon. Look, I believe in second chances, so I might give you another three months and see how you go, just to be on the safe side, and we'll go from there."

She clearly didn't a get a word in, as I couldn't bothered typing out any dialog but you get the picture.

Clearly, this can all be avoided if there are correct interview procedures in place. There are plenty of new methods of choosing that right person, with complicated interviewing techniques, psychological tests and the like. A curly question you might want to throw at a potential significant other (or insignificant through poor interviewing techniques) might be, "so what do you enjoy doing outside of work...maybe cheating?" Or some more practical tasks to test intelligence such as putting shapes through holes or a questionnaire about the topics you love. Here is an example:

Section 2 - Rock and Roll

1. You can't wait to see Iron Maiden, especially their bassist:

a) Joe Bloggs
b) Steve Harris
c) Bon Jovi
d) Gary Glitter

Section 3 - Beverage General Knowledge

You've just cracked open a cold brew, what the hell am I talking about?

These questions seem a little shallow, but heck every deep lake needs a surface, just like every puddle needs a bottom.

So choose that next person wisely, as they could turn out to be in it just for the money, and not the love of the job.

Leaders and Ponchos

2006-03-17T00:09:00.000-08:00

What we wear reflects our status and state of mind - you won't find a national accounts manager heading into work wearing small shorts and a poncho.

I don't wake up thinking "I feel so good, I'm going to head into the kitchen, wrap myself in cling wrap and somersault down to the milk bar." Instead I'll probably wake up thinking about how much I need to go the toilet, or how I wish I hadn't woken up at all.

So do world leaders ever appear infallible? Do they have moments where their air of power they assume magically transforms into an air of silliness? I think there is a time when presidents and prime ministers serve their time of humbleness - where they appear even laughable, and that is at the annual APEC summit.

If you're unfamiliar with this annual meeting of the who's who of international leaders then I'll fill you in: world leaders get together every year at a host country and talk about things, such as cigars, wine and most likely golf. I think they would also chatter excitedly about the highlight of every APEC summit, and that is the anticipation surrounding wearing of the host country's national dress. At the end of every summit, the leaders don the national dress for a photo call, and for me this overshadows any ground-breaking tariff deals or resource sharing.

The photo is a bit small isn't it? Check out this close up:

John wouldn't know bad fashion if it overtook him on a powerwalk, but George Bush? He looks slightly embarrassed doesn't he? This one was taken at the 2004 summit in Mexico. Here are some past years highlights:

George has that knowing look that some how's your father may have happened one cigar smokin', whisky swillin' night with the guy in front of him. John is probably clueless.

Is there something we don't know? Is our Prime Minister a good kisser? Too much tongue? Maybe we should ask George. I know one thing, even the best of us can have a bad fashion day. For some of us we have no choice, and the consquences involve every major source of media around the world. My only gripe is that it only happens once a year, and I'm sick of seeing our leaders wear suits. Is there ever a casual clothes day or would that be a bad move as far as leader popularity goes? Anyway whatever the case, I'm going to put on my bikini made from watermelons and yesterdays newspaper, and hold my own summit of tropical nations that don't exist.

One might be Palm Palm Island, where there are no people, just palm trees. Who can forget Caravanalan? A quaint little nation who's chief export is caravans, but at the same time doesn't exist. These little nations slip under the radar which is a shame really, as the Japanese don't have any nations to exploit and bribe so they let them whale in their waters.

Poncho poncho!

Hi

2006-01-06T21:43:00.000-08:00

It has been a long time between posts, and this is pretty much because I haven't had access to a computer where I've been staying. I've been camping at a rock festival and then across the coast for a week and now I'm finally back in Melbourne I'm doing my last clinical trial and then head back off again.
In the next few days I'll endeavour to think of something funny. Or maybe I have been for the last two weeks and have nothing. There's a bit of suspense for you guys.

Sorry if you've been checking and nothing has come up, it's a pretty poor effort on my behalf.

Cheers

Can I have a guinea for that pig.

2005-12-11T16:29:00.000-08:00

Pardon for the delay, but I've felt that before I did the latest guinea-pig update I should have a think about what I could take away from my three nights away; three nights confined big-brother style in essentially three rooms, a corridor and a bathroom.

From the outset, I have to say that I actually had fun. Seeing as though we only took one tablet for the duration, it was easy to forget why we were there in the first place. The thing that really interested me over my stay is how males interact when thrown together in a group.

I made some friends pretty early on, and I had a couple of loosely banded groups to choose from. There was the more sporty group who bowled tennis balls to each other in the hallway, and they were generally pretty cool but nice. The second group was the slightly nerdier group with all the usual geeky wisecracks and so forth. I gravitated toward the latter.

I guess no hospital scenario is complete without the obligatory hard ass nurse. Ours came in the form of an attractive middle aged woman. She seemed really nice; that was until I was waiting in my bed one morning for her to extract crimson from my arm and she stood at the foot of my bed and asked:

"So did you break your legs last night?"

To be honest I had no idea how to respond to that, as I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. I thought maybe she was commenting on the way my legs were bent in my almost too small bed. I didn't feel that was the most interesting observation in the world but alas no, she wasn't talking about my bent legs, but the fact that I hadn't got up to put some rubbish from the night before in the bin. My first thought was that she was a cow. However I realised the hard ass nurse syndrome is but just another way that nurses stay sane while they're working. Other nurses have a really quirky sense of humour, but the hard ass nurses' humour was just dark.

Three nights spent somewhere under one's own free will led to a feeling of claustrophobia. We persuaded a nurse to take us all to the local park. I can see why people in jail love their hours exercise everyday. Freedom was sweet while it lasted.

Apparently using oneself as a clinical triallist is really big in Europe. In England, some trials involve a full day of screening where the number of hopeful applicants exceeds the actual number of places in the trial. Therefore it is not unlike try-outs for a team where being looked over means to feelings of despondency and disappointment.

One interesting thing to note is the fact that we are not being paid for the risks associated with trialling these prototype drugs, but rather our time. We get paid by the hour, which is interesting as not being paid for the risks is something that the research co-ordinators made extremely clear to us at right from the outset.

Sedentary Guinea Pig

2005-12-09T04:12:00.000-08:00

Day Two

Oh how people can lie. We thought we were to be woken at six thirty, but no, the lights flickered on at five thirty. I was dismayed when I checked the time and immediately decided not to join the army, as if I were at boot camp I'd be running three kilometres with a log on my back at this time.
After showering and dressing, half of us were given a classically fatty bacon and eggs brekky, while the other half looked on in envy and disdain. Seeing as though we'd been fasting for about ten hours, we were all pretty hungry. Those who were eating were required to consume it over a half hour period. I don't think I've ever taken that long to eat breakfast. It was a great exercise in restraint and patience, two traits I need to work on. Anyway the doctor came around after breakfast and administered our doses. This was a big anti-climax as we took one tablet, and this was all we were to consume for our three night stay here. I thought I was going to get pumped full of drugs like a right little guinea pig so you can imagine my disappointment when informed of the depressingly small dosage.
The anaesthetist then came round and gave us some locals in our elbows and then inserted the cannula into our arm. I didn't know what one was until this morning, and it's essentially a tap that sits in a vein and everytime the nurses take a blood sample they just turn the tap on and blood comes out. Simple and not too scary. I wasn't tempted to turn into a vampire and pour myself a silver goblet of crimson, instead I stuck to water today.

Overall for the whole day we gave about ten blood samples, and the time periods between samples started off at fifteen minutes after taking the tablet to two hours by the end of the day.

I slept a lot, played tennis on the x-box and tried to read. After a while I got a bit restless so bonded with my fellow triallists and we shared some laughs over a few Monty Python episodes. We are treated really well here however I don't feel like I'm at my joking best so maybe I can put that down as a side-effect to RU-486 or whatever the stuff is called.

Maybe by the end of the weekend the instructions in the final public release will read something like:

Known Side Effects:

- may cause flirting with cute nurses
- may cause humour to drop to embarrassing levels
- may cause people to realise they are so bad at flirting they couldn't flirt with a barbie doll
- may cause hypochondria and imagine that my side hurts only to realise I'm lying on a remote control

I'm considering throwing away teaching as career and selling my body to pharmaceutical companies for the rest of my life, turning into a hideous freak and wearing a mysterious mask. Hopefully the mystery will still lure curious females to me after my face looks like a vertical plate of spaghetti.

I'm off to bed.

Guinea Pig

2005-12-08T03:53:00.000-08:00

I'm going to do a small serial over the coming days. I'm currently sitting in a small room in a hospital located somewhere in Melbourne readying myself for my first night as a test subject in a clinical trial.
Tomorrow I'm to take a drug that will potentially be used to combat rheumatoid arthritis, and so will begin my not-so-secret life as a medical prostitute. Tonight I arrived with too much luggage, and a sense of adventure. Although any adventure will be limited to about three rooms. One giant room is full of hospital beds that are side by side to each other. We sleep in these. The room next to this has a telly, a DVD player and a pool table. The final room has computers and an X Box. It really is like a little holiday so far. We ate pizza and watched Futurama. I think all this fun stuff we've done so far is designed to take our minds off the fact that I and 19 other similar aged males are to be taking an unreleased medication and have lots of blood taken for testing.
The only annoying thing so far is the fact that I've forgotten my toothbrush so if anyone is in the area give me a buzz and if you bring a toothbrush and some toothpaste I will buy you dinner. Otherwise I'll have to brush my teeth with aftershave and fair degree of stupidity. I think I already have the latter as evidenced by my being here in the first place.

I'm not sure when the turning point for using my body as a physical tool to make money, however it could prove to be a popular fad amongst Australian uni students.

Let the trial begin!

Famous Lines

2005-12-04T02:41:00.000-08:00

There is something about celebrities I can’t quite put a finger on. There are those with such horrible plastic surgery I don’t even want to put a finger on. Plastic surgery or not, they seem strange and seem so far removed from our own personal world that when they enter ours it’s a pretty big thing.

We stick their posters up on our bedroom walls, put their photos in our wallets/purses (sometimes instead of a significant other), and generally go gaga when we see them in real life. Sometimes I pretend that I don’t care when I see them on the street, but I’m secretly jealous of them. They set trends, however sometimes the things that they do, actually don’t turn into a trend. I didn’t have much need to go and do some lines after seeing Kate Moss get caught, nor did I want to go and make myself shorter after watching Lord of the Rings. I didn’t put on Harry Potter glasses as they were all too small, nor did I go and take countless photos of myself and then spam all of my friends’ email accounts. See, my last name isn’t Hasselhoff, so I can’t “Hoff” anyone, I’d have to “Jock” them.

“Hey guess what Nancy, I got Jocked again, and this time he was wearing nothing but a Christmas stocking and a cheeky smile. I wonder what theme it’ll be next.”

What I find really interesting however is that when we do see a celebrity, we don’t know what to do. I once met someone who danced alongside a Chemical Brother guy in a club, another person who saw Guy Pearce at a book reading, and someone who once saw me at the fish and chip shop buying a hamburger. Once I saw a comedian down at the shops and as he walked past I tried to say something funny to my friend so he’d turn around and say “Hey that was really funny, can I get your number and take you under my wing?” Instead he kept walking, so I’m hoping that he didn’t hear.

It can be that big once-in-a-lifetime moment for someone to talk to the person they’ve idolized for so long, however chances are they won’t do anything, as they have absolutely no idea what to do. What do you say to someone famous? When people find themselves standing shoulder to shoulder with someone who is known the world over, they either clam up or say something obvious like “Hey aren’t you (insert name here)?” If I was a celebrity and someone asked me if I was who I was supposed to be I’d tell them I wasn’t and to piss off. It’s like someone seeing me and asking “Hey are they jeans your wearing,” or “wow it’s pretty bad weather today isn’t it?” That would be met with another piss off I think.

Basically, we want to avoid having celebrities tell us to piss off and actually engage them in a meaningful conversation. Here are a few strategies to set you on your way.

Situation One: The Takeaway shop.

When you realize that they are in the same fried food purveyor as you, don’t wet your pants. Just relax, breathe slowly, and let your mind and body become one. The trick is to get to the famous person’s level, so you don’t look like some slathering, sub-human idiot. There are few different openers you can start off with, adjusting them to the food genre with which the take-away shop is engaged. Turn to them and say:

“I can’t believe this place doesn’t put pineapple in their burgers (if in a roast chicken shop, you could comment on the price of chicken nuggets).” If all goes to plan they’ll say “Yeah I definitely agree, although I reckon a bit of beetroot is pretty tops too.” This is perfect if you’re a guy because it’s a chance to relate to them. “Ha ha, for sure. You can root a beet, but you can’t beet a root (Russell Crowe might like that one).”

After seizing the opportunity to tell that crap-but-funny joke, you can go on to talk about sex, become good mates and then before you know it you’ll know a famous person. All you did was make an appropriately crap sexual joke and they were putty in your hands.

Situation Two: In their home.

You may be sorting through their rubbish, climbing over their security fence or hiding under their bed while they sleep. These aren’t the most favourable situations to bump into your favorite celebrity, however with some quick thinking and good old-fashioned acting, you’ll be sharing a coffee and a biscuit and swapping stories in no time.

There is a good probability that when you’re going through their rubbish before you know it, a pair of legs will appear in front of you, and as you look up it turns out be the celebrity your actually stalking. It’s make or break here, as in three months you could either be in jail, or in their bed. You look up and say “Oh hi (insert first name here).” Say it in a familiar tone, as if you’ve been friends for ages. Disarm them with a reassuring smile while your working out what to say next. “Excuse me, what the hell are you doing going through my rubbish you freak?” Things are on a knife’s edge right now, so be careful.

“I’m sorry (insert first name here), I’m new to the neighborhood and trying to work out what day rubbish goes out, but obviously it’s not today.” If they’re thick enough, they’ll invite you into their kitchen and check the local councils’ rubbish pick-up calendar that’s stuck on their fridge. Then they’ll hopefully ask you if you would like a coffee, and the rest they say, is a mystery.

Van Nguyen

2005-11-30T16:09:00.000-08:00

The plight of Nguyen Tuong Van has been saturating the news for the last few weeks or so, and it sunk in the other day how unbelievably difficult it must be for his family, knowing that his death is imminent and only a miracle could see his life spared. Nguyen is going to be hung by the Singaporean authorities tomorrow morning at 9am AEDT, and I cannot help but feel, like so many other Australians, that I have been emotionally drawn into his saga.

Singapore is a sovereign state, and although I do not believe in the death penalty, we need to show some respect for the laws of another country, however I feel that respect and support are two different things and Singapore is no exception. Van Nguyen knew the risks, but to take his life is wrong.

I know that when I wake up tomorrow morning, Nguyen's execution is the first thing I will think about, and I'm pretty confident that I will shed a tear.

A haircut in time saves nine.

2005-11-25T22:28:00.000-08:00

“I’m in between jobs at the moment.”

We’ve heard that one a few times before. It’s the classic statement that reflects a certain pride so many of us try to maintain in our various social groups through life. Humans do it all the time; a maintaining of face. I’m not too sure if animals feel pride, and I've never actually thought about it but who knows. A tiger might greet a rather skinny tiger that has terrible hunting skills with something like, “how’s hunting?” and our skinny tiger might reply with, “oh you know, I’m in between meals at the moment, things will happen don’t you worry.”

I’ve had this same problem with haircuts, and I’m sure I’m not alone (I certainly hope so). Once that all-important appointment has been made with a hairdresser, a sense of nervousness creeps in, not unlike the build up to a game of sport or asking a girl out, god forbid. Once the hair ordeal is over, chances are that when the hairdresser does their final brush of any excess hair with that fluffy brush thing, whips off the poncho and does the 360 pan of your head with the mirror, you want to grab that hair off the ground and scream to the heavens in despair. I've been in this situation a few times before, but that’s not to say that all haircuts I’ve had are bad, but there is a certain level of control that one relinquishes when sitting in the hairdresser’s chair waiting for the impending doom.

To get the control over the future direction of my hairstyle back, I decided that because I knew what I wanted, I might as well do it myself. You could say that I have a hands-on approach to life, and untrained hacking at my own coiffure is no exception. I haven’t been to a hairdresser for about three years now, and whether or not I’m proud of that feat can only be measured by the overall quality of my haircuts over this time period. All you need is a pair of scissors, preferably ones that cut, and brush and shovel, a mirror, and a sense of mischief and adventure. Starting off is the easy bit, as most of the initial cuts are pretty uneventful, but after a while there really is no turning back, unless you've got some sticky tape and no shame. Cutting the hair on the back of the head is the hardest bit as you might have guessed, it's hard to see it. An experienced home haircutter will develop a 'feel' for cutting the back, as it's all feeling and guesswork. Anything that involves guesswork equates to risk, as well as a sense of adventure, which can be an exhilirating ride.

Sometimes I’m in the zone and I can’t put a snip wrong. That’s when I really feel alive and myconfidence is high. During this time I know that after about half an hour I'll be knocking back offers from haircut magazines. Most hairdressers have these on the tables in the waiting area, and I've found that they are always out of date. For some go-getters, that means that they're 'in-date,' and they've got a one way ticket to Hipsville.
However there are perils associated with home-cutting, and sometimes my hair looks so wonky and atrocious that it resembles a backyard lawn that's been left to grow for a couple of months, then mowed by a blind person.

Most of the time a slightly errant haircutting attempt needs a couple of days of ‘settling’ and some sort of hair product and things start to improve. Occasionally I treat my hair like a painting, doing a majority of the cut in one sitting, then improving bits here and there until I can finally throw off the curtain and reveal all.

When I do have a bad haircut that can only be reversed with the cruel passage of time and someone asks me how I’m going, I just say, “oh you know, I’m in between haircuts at the moment, but life will get better.” I guess if we see life as a haircut, sometimes a new look can work wonders, or it can be crap, but whatever the outcome it will always get better. However if you cut your own hair at home over the laundry sink with a pair of blunt kids scissors, just don’t expect much to happen with your life.

I'm going to wear a house

2005-11-10T03:32:00.000-08:00

At the moment my life is unlike that of an island prison, but at least I know I'll be released soon, as the food is appalling.
Right now I have a huge amount of uni work to finish off for the next week, which has not been helped by the fact that I'm working full time in a warehouse. I can't really sit down for an extended period of time and do a cool blog entry so if you're still reading this piece of underwear, please sit tight as it'll happen soon.
For 45 hours a week I'm part of the working class of the suburbs, and it's great. Days are filled with guys abusing each other based on sexuality, race, sexuality, race again, stupidity and so on. Today a guy poured sugar in another guys' lap in the kitchen, and the other day someone thought it would be funny to put the same guys' newspaper in the bin so that he then spent ages looking for it and blaming other people. There's a shit cafe around the corner that relies on keeping its food hot in a bain marie all day, so who knows when it was actually cooked. A hamburger with the lot turned out to be hamburger with the not. It was soggy and they might as well have sold me a sponge.
It's a different world I'm in right now, and it's very surreal but really interesting. I doubt I'll have so many nice words for it by the end of my run there which will end in five weeks.

It's a bit of a laugh, but full respect to the guys who the job that I'm doing their whole lives, as after a week I'm working out whether or not to start drinking to get through the day.

Stay cool.

Robot? More like No-bot

2005-10-28T21:27:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking geeky thoughts lately - I know I shouldn't but I don't think there is much I can do about it. I bought a wireless card for my laptop a couple of days ago, and I felt excited. Last night I went to the local shopping mall cinema and saw Doom, a movie based on a computer game and enjoyed it. That's all I've got actually so it's not all that geeky, but the following is:

In fifty years time, scientists and the like finally invent some sort of intelligent robot, one that can think, feel and learn and constantly reprogram itself to adapt to the world. However once they start being produced for use in society, cheap imitations will pop up like Tamagotchi fakes (geek).
Maybe like a car or a computer, there would be different models starting at the base model, and going right through to the deluxe, top-of-the-range release. I don't really care about the deluxe one, but the base model could prove interesting.

Would it be less intelligent? Would it be a bit of a slob and not really obey any commands? Once it's settled into your home it could start getting lazy; instead of making fresh hot coffee for you, it squirts oil into your cup and adds the curdled milk it forgot to put back into the fridge two days ago and pretends nothing's wrong. It hears you swearing so it decides to add a few words to it's own vocabulary, so when asked to do something such as vacuum the house you might not be met with a "yes master," but instead something like "piss off I'm watching telly, do it yourself." There's not much point having one really. Instead of cooking a gourmet meal to delight your friends, it might cook toast or give you a can of baked beans and an opener, telling you to share it amongst yourselves while it heads to the pub.

They'd be like one of those friends who says they're only staying for a few days while they sort their life out, only to still be there three months later. He'll crack onto your girlfriend, saying that he's got 10 inches of cold steel for her, when in fact there is an infrared port where his penis should be, and he'll wolf-whistle when your mum comes around for tea. Maybe the only thing we can do is shove one of these base-model robots into the big brother house and watch it come alive. Darren TX-379 could be competing for a million bucks along with a ditzy hairdresser and a boring football player.

There is also the distinct possibility that it could turn on you, but instead of killing you it punches you in the face, pisses off, but comes back two days later mumbling something about being mugged and having no money. Darren TX-379, or "Darren" for short would then feel guilty, and so would do a quick clean of the house, involving a half-arsed vacuuming job, sweeping all of his dirty dishes and beer cans under his bed and hiding an oil patch in the carpet under a rug.
I hate robots already.

Old School Wrap.

2005-10-23T22:16:00.000-07:00

A lot of people get a fair way through their lives and say that they always wished that they could have done something differently – one of those comments made in hindsight. My parents and grandparents say that they wished they had learned a musical instrument, and when they say this I automatically respond with the tried and true cliché, “well you know, it’s never too late to start.”

As I was going through my teenage years, I played the saxophone, but eventually got to the point where I didn’t really enjoy it, however my parents kept saying “you’ll regret it later on down the track if you give it away now.” All these years later, I guess I’ve discovered that they’re right; I did stop playing the sax but I still kept it, and now that I appreciate jazz and blues music a lot more, I can pick it up the sax and really enjoy playing it.
It’s good to think about these things early on, as I want to make all the necessary preparations to ensure that in twenty, thirty or forty years time, I won’t regret having not tried done anything. This means trying new things, continuing with my music and art, and maybe even learning a strange tongue from a hidden dwarf tribe nestled deep in a forest somewhere.

However, when I think about the different things I want to learn to do before I die, there are a few notable talents that come to mind. One skill that I’ve never been able to master, or even bluff my way through, is re-wrapping the butchers paper that bacon or ham comes in. I’m talking about when you go to the deli section of the local supermarket and ask for say, 200 grams of bacon rashers. They put it in the plastic bag, using the classic ‘inside-out’ insertion method, which allows the handler to avoid touching the food product with their hands yet it still goes in the bag when they flip it inside-out. The real magic comes when they place the bag onto the pile of butcher’s paper then effortlessly wrap it, where the end result being a lovely well-wrapped parcel.

I’m unable to replicate this perfect process at home, and every time I re-wrap the paper, I might as well have scrunched it up. If anyone can write in and share any similar wrapping stories then that would be great. When I get to 70, I want to be able to say “I’m so glad that I learnt the piano, did some acting, and mastered the art of butcher’s paper wrapping.” What grandkid wouldn’t be proud of that? It’s not like you can use an ancient lost language used by forest dwarves when serving up brunch on Sunday morning, but you can impress your grandkids with your sought-after butcher’s paper re-wrapping techniques.

Some photos...not too interesting!

2005-10-21T03:14:00.000-07:00

Heres some photos to have a geeze at. Note the bad self-portrait shot. Others show the lovely drive I get to do everyday. Seeya!

Hi's and stuff.

2005-10-21T01:57:00.000-07:00

Ok everyone (that could be a few people or a lot, I don't know...) a big shout out to everyone, as well as some sort of apology. I haven't had any time at all to do a posting, as teaching 27 grade fives hasn't been the easiest thing in the world. I have had a blast in the last few weeks, but the whole experience has been quite full on, with heaps of preparation, consumed time and definetly fatigue. All I have wanted to do when I get back home is to have a beer and either walk down to the beach or become a blob in front of the television. Fortunately I've managed to keep my skeletal system, so I have in fact been able to avoid becoming a blob (obviously as I have all my structural systems intact). One saddening thing is the state of television these days, however that doesn't really worry me too much.

My time at my little country school is sadly, but relievedly, and I don't know if that's a word nor do I care, is coming to a close. So as of next week, I'll again be able to sit down at a computer and talk some stuff. Just not yet, but early next week I'll be able to. I hope you're all well, and not an actual well, otherwise you'd be just way to deep for me (eh eh). Seeya soon.

School Teaching Fun

2005-10-07T22:56:00.000-07:00

Bingo: Thursday Night, Heads Down at 8:00. That short and to-the-point statement emblazons the sign that sits outside the Inverloch Bowls Club. I forgot to go in the end, but it would have been satisfying to go home with a frozen chook or a meal voucher for the local pub after a fast and furious night's bingo.

I'm doing my teaching rounds at the moment and so far I've been having a hoot; although my intake of bad instant coffee has increased dramatically, however that comes with the territory. Yep, International Roast and Nescafe Blend 43 are still here not because they taste delicious, but they are the lifeblood of school staffrooms all around Australia.

My class is great. They are all lovely kids and there's some bright cookies there too. However being new at this there is one thing I've found hard and that is being serious when required. Lots of stuff amuses me and here's a little example.
One afternoon the class had their weekly religious instruction teacher come in for half an hour and do her thing. I thought I'd make the most of this time and sit in the front corner at my laptop and type up a lesson plan for the next day. It went well until right at the end. The religious instruction teacher was reading out a passage from their exercise books, and at the end of every passage the class recited a certain line. I think it was something like, "He will always love us." I thought nothing of it, that is until they started to hold the 'sss' sound at the end of this passage. For some reason I smirked, but I composed myself and turned back to my lesson plan. Before I knew it, they repeated the passage again and this time it was "He will always love usss." I found this a little more amusing, however being a religious class it was supposed to be serious and I was not helping. The teacher read out another passage, and this time I dreaded what would come next. "He will always love ussssssss;" this time I giggled and they knew they had me. I was supposed to be Mr Hutton here, a trainee teacher who was trying his hardest to do all the right things and this was about to come undone. "He will always love usssssss." It took every bit of my concentration not to smirk; I thought of sad things, I thought of a waterfall, I tried so hard, but it was just too funny and I giggled again, going bright red. I was trying really hard to concentrate on my work but out of the corner of my eye I could see heads turning and smiles on faces. They held me to ransom for another 30 seconds, and once it was over I was exhausted, having put every ounce of energy into not laughing for the rest of the exercise.
However it was the first genuine laugh I'd had for ages, and the amusement came from doing something that I love, and that is being a primary school teacher. I think I've found my calling, plus I can fart in the classroom and walk off and before I know it the kids are squabbling amongst themselves as to who the culprit is. Who would suspect the teacher?

Hold On I'm Coming

2005-10-06T18:05:00.000-07:00

Sorry guys, I haven't had a chance to post anything as I've been pretty busy with teaching rounds down here in the country so I'll endeavour to do something this weekend.

Jock

Sell me something I don’t know...

2005-09-27T14:51:00.000-07:00

Marketers, advertisers and salespeople are really clever; their job is to get us to buy stuff that we usually don’t need or want but eventually end up with anyway. Just the other day I was walking down the street thinking about how bad the weather was and before I knew it I was walking home with a pink two-piece bathing suit; except it wasn’t called hot pink, but rather Surfari Pink. See, just change the name of something and all of a sudden everyone wants to own it; heck I’ve ditched speedos for bikinis. And what kid wants to drink a bottle of plain boring old cola? It undoubtedly appeals to a small demographic, but add a touch of marketing by changing the name to Krazy Kola, or Radical Fun Cola and kids will be selling their parents to get it.

Some salespeople have been rumoured to be able to sell ice to Eskimos, but I think that’s a big fat myth and I’d probably tell that rumour-spreader that pigs might fly. However if a salesperson were rumoured to sell not plain ice to Eskimos, but rather Super Crazy Frozen Water, I’d be inclined to believe them and would even try to saddle up a pig and find the nearest runway so I can get that porky thing up in the air.

A bar of soap is almost as common as dirt; however ditch that bland name, call it a Beauty Bar and it’s something so radically different, it could actually change one’s life. Imagine it, beauty in the convenience of something that looks like a bar of soap, but instead of rubbing it in your armpits, you rub it on your face and become gorgeous. I’ve ordered a box and as a reward I get a free exfoliating glove thing to rub myself with.

A new contender for the “best thing since sliced bread” saying has arrived and in my opinion has actually eclipsed the bread in terms of greatness. Soap on a rope has saved us banging our heads into shower screens so many times as we pick that slippery beauty bar off the ground it’s just magic. A piece of rope attached to your wrist makes a lot of sense really, as do hats with mini fans attached to them. There’s also something a bit kinky about soap on a rope, however I can’t really work out why. I thought picking up rope-less soap was supposed to be kinky, however bending over is avoided if the soap is attached to your wrist so go figure.
In fact would people stop at soap on a rope? I always seem to be dropping stuff, and not just soap, so why not even attach knives and forks to a bit of rope or even a can of beer? Post-party clean ups would be a thing of the past, as all drinks would stay firmly attached to one’s hand and it would save the carpet getting intoxicated and trying their luck with the couch or even the coffee table. Big Brother Furniture Edition? I could spend some quality time on the Tropical Fun grey coloured couch for that one.

Picture: http://www.huckster.com/images/ice-bags1.jpg

I think my radio just waved

2005-09-19T06:35:00.000-07:00

At one point last summer I had a labouring job building some steps on a farm, and over the course of a few sun-soaked days we’d been listening to the cricket on the radio. However all good things must come to an end and alas the final ball was bowled and the match was over. All was not lost though, as another sport was flooding the AM frequency, not tonsil hockey but tennis. I must admit I laughed when I first heard the description of two sweaty guys hitting a ball at each other.

“Federer hits a forehand to the left-back of Hewitt’s side; Hewitt hits a strong forehand, forcing Federer to stretch, oh Federer’s return has gone into the net.” (This commentary was poorly reproduced courtesy of an AM radio channel that I don’t remember, you know, just to cover any copyright issues)

However before I knew it I was enthralled, and felt my whole body moving like a tennis player, so after a few seconds I was a bit sore.

“Hewitt to serve. He tosses the ball and hits a fault. The ball boy (or girl) runs out and grabs the ball, resuming their position on that little black mat next to the net, undoubtedly scared shitless of a green thing being slammed past her (or his) head at 200 kilometres per hour. Anyway back to whatever Hewitt was doing.”

Ok so that didn’t quite happen but it was great to listen to, and it almost felt like I was getting burnt whilst stuffing my face with overpriced, gourmet hot-dogs at Rod Laver arena.

Is there other radio sports commentary that I’m missing out on? I hope not, although I suspect that a few sports may have made the successful conversion to voice description as well. Maybe one of these is the game of darts.

“Barry’s eyeing of the dart board. He’s got other things on his mind though, and he reaches down and grabs his pint, taking the head off it and a bit more. He looks back up at the board, and throws his dart. He goes through this procedure two more times. His nemesis, Big Slim Jim goes through the same process three times, and they alternate for half an hour unless one of them needs to go the toilet. They do this until someone wins, or passes out; gee it’s tense in here.”

Maybe darts doesn’t sound that fun, but what about cheese rolling?

“Helga stands on top of the hill, nervously shifting her giant wheel of cheese between each hand. She looks sneeringly over at the other cheese rollers, but then turns her focus back to her wheel of cheese. She rolls it back and forth, tensing and sweating which is a little gross to look at. The cow bell is rung and before she knows it, she’s tumbling down a hill after a giant wheel of Brie.”

Only a few sports really succeed on the radio, and although some may have tried to make the grade, just didn’t sound all that interesting, alas I don’t really listen to the radio so I don’t care.
By the way on Friday, John Landy had a bit of lunch with the Opposition leader Robert Doyle at John’s place. The next day John went to the Melbourne Show to no doubt grab a couple of show bags and some fairy floss, and then jumped on a plane to the United Arab Emirates. This was apparently for an official visit although I’m not too sure whether they’d know who he is. While he’s there he might even grab a few litres of discount oil for himself in duty-free, as I’m sure before it gets to our pumps are few little extras have been built into the price. I don’t know what sort of car he drives, but I suspect he has a driver so he’d be able to give him a souvenir of black gold. Before you know it, it’ll be cheaper to run my car on gold nuggets, so I’ll be panning for my petrol at Sovereign Hill in the lovely and cold Ballarat.

Philosophy on a side plate

2005-09-14T18:39:00.000-07:00

Some people would rather fill their stomach than fill their mind. Some people can only afford to choose the first. I wish everyone could afford or choose both, and not be ignorant to their world.

That quote was from some young and idealistic bloke who remain anon(Jock)ymous.

On a lighter note, the sun is out. Plus if one note was made from concrete and the other from polystyrene, there would be a lighter note in their somewhere too. Groan.

A time to cringe...

2005-09-12T21:43:00.000-07:00

I love fashion. It is one of those things that I’ve found so hard to get right. Fashion trends move so quickly that for me, happy pants were uncool as soon as I pulled on my first pair, and people’s hypercolour t-shirts were old and fading by the time I was making the first hand print in mine. I could never get it right, and admittedly, I was still wearing tracksuit pants in late high school. I didn’t realise, but back then I was an uncool cat.
Yes, trends have come and gone, falling by the wayside as new and exciting trends pick up their discarded guns and fight on in the murky fashion trenches. Tight black rock pants dodge fire from ugg-boots and trucker hats. Pink polo tops try to deflect blows from 80’s Iron Maiden t-shirts. Yep, that’s how it works; competition is fierce and it’s a denim eats polyester world out there, meaning us fashion luddites have to avoid the pain of a potentially embarrassing outfit and resign ourselves to the safety of jeans and a t-shirt.
I don’t have any really strong opinions on most fashion; I think if something looks good then wear it - however, there is one fashion item that makes me feel nauseous, an item that makes me break out in a cold sweat every time I see it, making me reach for a bottle of Mylanta and drinking every single disgusting drop.
It’s Small Dogs in Handbags. I can’t think of anything more annoying and gross as a dog in someone’s handbag. I thought I’d seen it all, until one fateful turn of a Cosmo page proved that I was wrong, causing my innocent world to come crashing down. In this new, terrible world when it rains, it doesn’t rain cats and dogs anymore, it rains handbags and dogs. I can’t stand small dogs and I’m not a big fan of handbags either, so combining the two is like kryptonite to Superman.
"Excuse me ma’am, I think your cell phone might be ringing in your handbag," a helpful passer-by suggests.
"Oh no daaaahling, that’s just my dog barking," replies a lady that’s seen more surgeons knives than a surgeon themself has.

Paris Hilton, and some other people I can’t think of, parade around with their chihuahua wedged in their handbag, rubbing it’s bum on her purse and lipstick and whatever else she’s got in there. If I was begging for money and saw a rich lady (or man) walking down the street I’d hope that they could spare a few quid. However if I was begging and saw someone with a dog in a handbag, I definitely would not want money that’s touched a dog’s behind, unless it was maybe ten bucks or something.

We’ve all heard about these inhumane, thoughtless people who keep their dogs locked up in cars on steaming on hot days, with the inevitable happening. Well dog and handbag people should be careful when theyleaves their handbag parked somewhere in the sun, because DOGS DIE IN HOT HANDBAGS. They need to make sure that they leave the zip undone a bit, or could even have a dog-operated window installed in the handbag, so little Poo-Poo or whatever it’s called can enjoy a comfortable coolness. I hope I don’t turn on the news tonight and see a handbag related dog death, but if I do, just remember I told you so.
I don’t think this phenomenon is going to stop with dogs in handbags, I think next we might see environmentally friendly people taking little Schnuff-Schnuffs or whatever their dog might be called in their recyclable green canvas bags, while it rubs it’s bum on the milk and bread.

My stomach churns so I must click on 'publish post' and have a lie down.

A Brisk Walk

2005-09-04T08:18:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be a bit busy over the next couple of days, with assignments and a bunch of other stuff, so I thought I'd do something quickly before my next pair of underpants.

Apparently a butcher wanted to kick-start his social life, looking for a potential mate who would also shared his love of butcher-related stuff. So he decided to do something about it and 'meat' someone.

There you go, that will possibly make you groan - but it's a reaction, and that's what I do. Come on, we all make 'mi-steaks' occasionally. Ho Ho.

Melways and Wallpaper

2005-08-28T23:55:00.000-07:00

I often think I could redesign everyday objects, just to make them a little more user-friendly, or even useable. One such object is the trusty tome of travel directions, our very own Melways. Every driver I know has a Melways wedged under their seat, in their side door or even that special empty spot on their back seat. A Melways can even take preference over friends; "I'm sorry mate, I've only got room for three, you know, with Melways in the back seat and all."
They are hallowed institutions, and enjoy sitting on the same throne as other worshipped symbols such as comb-overs, socks with thongs, and little hats for dogs.
Nothing's perfect, and the Melways is no exception. Every Melways I've owned, borrowed, or seen in other people's car has the same hubris - they fall apart as easily as a pair of Dunlop Volleys.
Sometimes the pages that have come out disappear entirely, and so for example, after getting close to one's destination, pulling out the Melways and working out how to get to that barbecue you're late for, it's the only page missing. That or you've blown your nose with it and chucked it out.
The cover always comes off, there are strange stains over destinations, it's just getting to be a problem.

When the Melways has really reached the end of its life as a street directory, it doesn't mean it has to be retired to the bin. Here are some top-tips:

1. Randomly pasted pages all over your walls as some sort of clichéd student bedroom wallpaper.
2. Pasting all of the pages together on the ground to recreate a whole map of Melbourne, then using it to play Micro Machines.
3. Folding the pages in half and turning them into lovely cards for that special person, giving them the page that their house is on, and making it a pseudo post-modern self-improvement-find-yourself piece of crap.
4. If you run out of pastry, maybe the pages could be used to finish off a lasagne or the rest of those sausage rolls, perfect for when trying to recreate the taste of Melbourne if you happened to be in another country.

Hope you like it!

2005-08-22T23:32:00.000-07:00

Hi and stuff. I hope you like the new much more user-friendly address, the crisper graphics and all that stoof.

Jock

Is that a cardigan?

2005-08-20T20:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, we have to take a course of action based not on choice but a lack of choice. We may not be able to choose between A or B, or this path or that. Making choices can be painful, especially when each potential ‘suitor’ is so closely matched. Not having two things to choose from takes away the decision-making aspect, so the painful experience of deliberation, heart-string tugging and the like are gone.
The other day, I came to the realisation that I had either lost all of my jumpers, or they were in the wash. It was cold outside; there was potential for rain. The day just didn’t permit the casual wearing of a t-shirt, no, more warmth was required if I was to avoid becoming a human ice-sculpture.
My dilemma began there: out of my vast collection of clothes, the only slightly warm thing I had to wear was a brown female cardigan. A cardigan. My heart began pumping uncontrollably, my mind was awash with anxiety, and my body was seizing up with the anticipation of this seemingly unavoidable destiny. I was to wear a man cardigan to university that day, and go against any traditional sense of masculinity, and face head-on my sometimes-shaky self-esteem.
I managed to think happy thoughts about beer and waterfalls, and quickly don my brown garment of pain. I jumped on my bike and rode to uni. There was something nice about the unbuttoned option, with the wind in my face, and the man cardigan trailing behind me in the breeze like a super hero’s cape. Definitely not like Super Man, more like a Not Quite a Man Man. I got to uni, quickly took off the man cardigan, rolled it up and squashed it up in my bag. The t-shirt was sufficient for sitting inside, but by the time the lecture had finished and we were outside, I realised due to the intense need for warmth, my secret wouldn’t remain so for much longer. I pulled up the flap on my satchel-bag, slid a hand in, and whipped it out, in one smooth easy motion. Then I pulled the man cardigan out. Actually I pulled just the man cardigan out.
I put it on. I announced to my friends that I had just put a cardigan on, a brown cardigan. The cardigan used to be a girl’s, and right now I, a man was wearing it. They turned around, and I waited with nervous anticipation. Would they approve? Would they think I was gutsy for trying to turn the fashion world up on its head? No, the world isn’t that forgiving.
Instead they laughed and asked what the hell I was doing. I needed excuses fast, which wasn’t too hard, as I didn’t have any other warm clothes to wear. I tried to justify my cardigan though, quickly reeling off theories of changing fashion norms, the fact that I was trying to make a statement, through brown female clothing. Alas, my argument wasn’t strong, and their laughter and jokes dwarfed my small cardigan like the Eiffel Tower (Paris is the centre for fashion I’ve heard).
I tried two methods of wearing it too, the first being the buttoned-up, old-style Italian look, and the unbuttoned casual, going for a walk armed with loads of mojo look. The latter version of the man cardigan gained higher approval, however when I talk about approval, to my friends, it wasn’t really approval but the agreeance upon the lesser of two evils.

After all this, I didn’t care as it didn’t change who I was, just how I looked, and that surely doesn’t matter. Well I think it does to be honest, and although I don’t quite agree with it, I can’t escape it.
The Man Cardigan, or Mandigan was born that day, worn by a young guy, trying to be hip, trying to be different – daring even. That day showed however, that to look manly, cardigans don’t have much currency, in fact due to fashion hyper inflation, I’ll need a wheelbarrow full of Mandigan Dollars to buy some coolness, and next week, probably a trailer full.
That is the tale of the Mandigan, and I am a proud man.

A day in the life of a guv'nor

2005-08-15T20:50:00.000-07:00

My day began in essentially the same fashion as those days that have ruled before them, by me waking up. However, there was more. I won’t bore you with the details, bar one; the one when I was reading the morning paper. So I was reading my paper, going through all the usual bits, when for some strange reason I happened to glance over the second-last page at the back of the main section in The Age. Usually I don’t give it the time of day (or morning), however one small thing did catch my eye. It was the “FYI” section, which I assume is an acronym for “For Your Information,” not to be confused with the “FYI” for reformed rude people, which of course stands for “Fasten Your Innuendo.”
I glossed over the correction policy, the shipping news and the faith headings, and arrived at the heading entitled Vice Regal. “What could that mean?” I thought to myself, so I began to read. Here it is in its entirety as it appears on page 19 in the 15/8/05 edition of The Age:

“On Friday Governor John Landy received the call of former Irish president Mary Robinson at Government House and later, at a reception at the Grand Hyatt Hotel, presented Mrs Robinson with the United Nations Association of Australia International Peace Award. Mr Landy then attended the centenary dinner of the Bird Observers Club of Australia at the University of Melbourne.
On Saturday, Mr Landy attended the Collingwood Football Club president’s dinner and presented the Peter Mac Cup at the MCG.
On Sunday, Mr and Mrs Landy visited Mildura where Mr Landy attended the dedication of an Avenue of Honour for the Fallen, and opened the 2005 Masters Games.”

One thing that bemuses me is the fact that I have never noticed this section of The Age. I thought that maybe it was a once off, so I quickly pulled out some editions from last week and was met with this from page 21 in the 10/8/05 edition:

“The Governor, John Landy, presided at a meeting of the Executive Council at the Old Treasury Building and later received the call of the Ambassador of the Slovak Republic, Dr. Peter Prochaka.”

August 12th:

“The Governor, John Landy, and Mrs Landy hosted a reception at Government House for the 2005 Victoria Prize and Fellowships for Innovation in Science, Technology or Engineering, and the Anne and Eric Smorgon Memorial Award. During the morning, Mrs Landy visited the Abbotsford Convent Foundation.”

I was blown away to say the least, knowing that I am able to know exactly what our Governor does with himself everyday. Even his wife gets a mention, which I’m sure she’s happy about.
We’ll assume her name is Anne. A friend may ask a routine question one day over coffee and assorted biscuits like, “So Anne, how’s your week been so far?” With a knowing smugness and an air of class, Anne Landy would reply, “Oh June, if you read The Age everyday, you’d know wouldn’t you.”
Maybe our Governor can dodge being suspected of losing his memory/mind by cutting out the ‘minutes’ of his days and keeping them in his pocket for quick reference when someone asks him where he was, say, the day before.

Here’s a small excerpt from my day today, which doesn’t appear anywhere, and may not be entirely accurate:

On Monday, Mr Hutton awoke from his slumber and arrived for an early breakfast in his kitchen. He unveiled a new box of tea, and presented himself with a freshly brewed cup.
During the afternoon, he visited the University of Melbourne, where he attended a number of lectures, and then in front of fellow students, purchased a medium cappuccino with two sugars. There is no Mrs Hutton, but if there was she would have opened a door at some point, and taken a brisk walk to visit the household toilet.
Mr Hutton then arrived at home where he opened a recently purchased beer and then retired to bed. Mrs Hutton, being non-existent, didn’t follow him up to bed later, nor feigned a headache when pestered for sex, as she doesn’t exist.

I rest my case.

Lessons in Pedestrian Crossing Cool

2005-08-05T20:53:00.000-07:00

I'm a staunch supporter of adhering to road safety rules, specifically those concerning pedestrians. Pressing the button to walk, and waiting until the 'little green man' flashes up, is just so important.
I'm lying, I don't really give a crap at all, but the one thing I love about pedestrian crossings is pressing the button. There isn't just one way to do it, there are heaps.
Most people like to adopt the orthodox walk up and press the button, although some then proceed to hit it about twenty times, thus revealing to the world that they can't relax. I've noticed that a few older people do this too, and I would have thought that by now they would realise that repeated button pressing does shit all, but I guess it does allow some steam to be let off.
I've found that even if I walk up and press the button, then proceed to lean on the pole, that people will still come up and press it, not realising that by leaning on it, I've probably pressed it too. This is I find annoying, plus their hand goes dangerously close to my bum, which I find exhilarating.
I've digressed a bit here, so I'll go back to my main topic, which is the various ways in which one can press the pedestrian crossing button.

1. I like a technique I call 'the knee,' which involves me lifting my knee, and connecting it with the button. This doesn't require any hands, and can look cool, but slightly try-hardish at the same time.
2. The Rock Star. This is one of my faves, especially on dates where I'm trying to look a bit carefree and original. It involves walking up normally, then extending out the leg in a kind of rock star kick. This technique is a bit risky because a mis-hit, or non-hit, can turn this potentially cool moment into sheer embarassment, so be careful. Maybe practice at home with a small target blu-tacked to the wall.
3. Variations on the Kick. A hacky-sack kind of round-the-back heel technique, where you pretend that the button is a hacky-sack, and contact here makes you and look geeky and cool at the same time. The creme de-la creme of button hitting. More like curdled creme de-la creme.
4. Actually, I've found that the use of foreign objects is ok too, such as the pointy end of an umbrella. A bike pump or a box of pringles (lid on) could work too, especially if you're going for the 'I'm trying to be weird, and I feel a bit self-conscious doing it but I don't want people to know that' look.

Enjoy these tips and soon you'll be turning heads and all that sort of thing when you transform from pedestrian crossing loser to totally rad crossing cool guy.

I'm off to cross some roads, and win some admirers on the way.

Please don't look at me I'm scared...

2005-08-02T20:54:00.000-07:00

It doesn’t get talked about much, good-old social awkwardness. I actually have no idea what other ‘awkward’ people experience, and what, if anything, they would lump under this heading. Here are a few of my socially awkward moments and others that I think I may have recognised other people experience.
For some reason, when I’m walking down the street, in the park, or whatever, and someone is approaching from the opposite direction, the awkward feeling starts to kick in. I sort of look up, and make eye contact, then quickly look away. They may or may not do the same thing eg keep looking towards me, or away, but eventually I realise that I then don’t really know where to look all of a sudden.
I sort of pick out something around me and focus on it then proceed to pretend that I’m rather interested in it. It could be anything really, a tree, a dog tied up in the street, or a bloody spot on the wall. It doesn’t really matter, but it solves the problem of where to look. Other people look down at their feet as they walk past, or pull out their mobile phone and pretend their doing something on it. I like it when we both feel awkward, as it makes the situation so much easier to deal with as eye contact is eliminated altogether.
I recently started playing a game to amuse myself when I was walking somewhere, and that is to actually try to unnerve someone as they walk past. It was hard to start off with, as it meant breaking down these pre-conceived ideas of the ‘walking past a stranger phenomenon.’ It’s fun though; I hold eye contact until they have to turn away, and it feels like a small victory. I mean I don’t go to the pub to celebrate, but it’s still satisfying.
When I recognise someone on the street and they are say, a good 5 – 10 seconds of walking towards each other distance from me, the following encounter usually occurs: You recognise each other, smile and say hi, realising straight away that they can’t hear you, then find it impossible to maintain eye contact and look down, or around (see focus on a spot tip from before). Then, when the distance between me and the friend is conducive to actually being able to hear each other, that’s when I resume eye contact and the conversation is then allowed to start. This is so commonplace for me, especially down the street or at uni.

I find talking about to be a huge help, and if anyone has any contact details for an “I am walking past someone and don’t know where to look” support group, then that would be much appreciated. Don’t give me the details in person, where I have to meet you somewhere, as I’m sure I’ll feel awkward.

Strange Fetish and a Keyboard

2005-07-27T20:55:00.000-07:00

I'm so interested in weird fetishes, not that I think I have any myself - unless you think that watching people polish their shoes and loving it a bit weird. I don't actually like this as I don't care much for clean shoes.
Don't get me wrong, I don't like grubby shoes, but I don't lose any sleep over whether I've remembered to clean my shoes that day. Now I actually don't have any shoes worth cleaning as they're all suede and I can't bothered with suede really.
One shoe that is completely useless to clean is the Dunlop Volley. Even two of them would be hard. They are an Australian institutuion, yet they fall apart quicker than a rolex from bali. I love them to bits, literally.

I always get the same little toe side-of-the-shoe hole, and they get really dirty and eventually all of my toes end up poking out, making a mad dash for freedom, not realising that they are connected to my foot, so there ain't no escaping there.
I'm not sure if you guys have this problem, but I have a friend (exciting!) and everytime I walk somewhere with her, she always seems to bump into me. She doesn't seem to know how to get into sync with a fellow walker, and so every ten seconds she'll break her imaginary walking line and veer across into me. Imagine trying to negotiate a puddle with her. Yes I did that today and my shoes almost took a dip into the footpath pool.

Anyway back to the fetish thing, I don't have a typing fetish so I'm going to stop now.

ps I still don't like typing that much, I mean it doesn't really turn me on or anything, but I'm going to apologise for the possible (I'm not totally sure yet) lack of humour in this entry.

ps oooh yeah this typing is hot. I'm going to open microsoft word and have a good typing sesh...

Iron

2005-07-22T20:56:00.000-07:00

How ironic would it be if a guy called Nic got hit by an Iron. Think about it, go on, do it.

I have a Sun

2005-07-21T20:56:00.000-07:00

I love the sun, and combine sun with beer and a lovely couch on a porch, I can pretend I'm up in heaven. Beer heaven.

I was reading a book last night, and it wasn't huge but still about 400 pages. I found it to be almost tiring just holding up the book! After a while it becomes really heavy and I have to keep changing my position just so I don't get a sore wrist. Imagine if I was a really slow reader and I had to get through the new Harry Potter book? I reckon I'd have to retire from the book reading game as two wrist reconstructions would be too much. That was a shit football joke trying to fit knee reconstructions into a book reading context, and I don't think it worked too well.

Walking Not Driving (you know, drowning not waving)

2005-07-19T20:57:00.000-07:00

I, along with a heap 'o' people, think that drivers are some of the most aggressive humans in our society. I'm categorising them as drivers, because once they step off the curb and climb into the drivers seat, they change. It's like an Incredible Hulk-style change.
In our lovely little society, we have Teachers, Nurses, Managers, Retail Assistants. Then we have drivers. I love watching this comic-book style transformation, perfect one second, then green and physics-defying muscley the next. I'm writing about this as I think it's embarassing. They speed up like maniacs, give each other the finger, swear, and turn into selfish, uncompromising knobs (not all of them, but some).

What if this type of behaviour was translated to our footpaths, or in a busy shopping centre for example? Example: Shit, some slow old grandma with a shopping buggy is in my way! Fuck that, I'm overtaking her, then I'll chastise her for being a slow old bag 'o' bones.
Speed up my walking pace, pull up alongside her, crane my neck and extend that magical finger complete with pissed off asshole face. This is followed up with various obscenities that 100 years ago I'd be doing time for, and then I walk off, leaving her coughing up the dust from my speeding shoes. Yeah thats how it'd be.

Clearly this does not translate into out-of-car activities, and this is my point. It defies our normal civilised code of conduct, and we need to stop it! I suggest putting loudspeakers on top of all the cars and strapping peoples hands to the steering wheel so they can't do anything. It'd be like a car POW camp. Completely, and utterly unworkable. It sounds funny though.

PS I drive too!

Random Crud Corner

2005-06-24T20:57:00.000-07:00

I hate taking bikes on the train, it's like being a full-time carer, you can't let it out of your sight for too long as it could fall over or hit someone. haha

Even after becoming 'mature,' I still show off in front of hot girls. what a nerd!

It's amazing that I can pretend that I'm my own person, but when it comes to trying to keep a job or getting more shifts or whatever, I become a lap dog!

Vaseline is really awesome as lip balm, but it looks suss being a guy and having it in my room, but if I hide it, it looks even more suss if someone finds it. Lose-lose situation there.

Some farts are like siamese twins. First there's this really big smell around the perpetrator, then a few minutes later the fart can be in two different parts of the room. It's like conjoined twins being successfully separated.

Why do Pringles boxes say "once you pop you can't stop," except they have a resealable lid.

I hate chucking out old boxers, even though they're ripped and just downright crummy looking, I can't bear to part with them. Does anyone else have any underwear or other stuff that's past it's use by date but still keep? You can't say your mum.

Why when two people are walking towards each other, always seem to both walk into each other even though there is enough space on either side of them for a couple of elephants? It's amazing, i do it all the time. I think "ok surely when i shift to the left they will shift to the right. Oh shit they're going left too, fuck i'll go the other way oh shit now they're doing it" Then its the usual embarassed chuckle and the "sorry" which you both utter at the same time which finally indicates that the dreadful experience is over.

Having a foot"ball"

2005-06-18T20:58:00.000-07:00

Our Australian rules football players are a classic example of man at his finest, fit, toned, chiselled perfection. They are highly tuned athletes, capable of sporting brilliance with fantastic marks, kick super-human goals - just all-round co-ordination.
Why is it that then, that these perfect physical specimens, capable of so much still find it impossible to give each other a co-ordinated high five? When they kick some magical goal that I couldn't even manage on an x-box they run up to each other and always miss the high five or high ten, and instead do some sloppy fresh air kung-fu move. This vexes me. I find that they lack a bit of personality and depth too, based on second-hand female information.

Toilet Rolls and Toast

2005-06-12T20:58:00.000-07:00

Why do people find it so hard to change the toilet roll when it runs out?
I don't mean leaving the empty cardboard tube in the holder and sitting a new roll on top, as you then have to pick it up and manually unroll it. That isn't very convenient. Plus sitting it on top of the toilet is pretty useless too, as the chances of a fresh new roll of two-ply drowning in the bottom of the bowl are greatly increased. I thought about this, and realised that it is really easy to take the rod out of the holder, slide the used tube off, toss it into the bin, get a new roll and reverse the procedure. Hence there are about four to five main actions here in the toilet-roll changeover.

Now this is what is required to make a piece of toast in the morning:
1. You need to open the fridge or bread bin.
2. Take out pack of bread, open it(if its got those sticky ties expect about 20 seconds of fiddling then ripping over packet).
3. Put two slices in the toaster (less or more depending on level of hunger).
4. While the bread is cooking, which usually takes about 2 minutes you need to pull out the spreads and a knife.
5. Once the toast pops up, you need to open the condiments and spread em.
6. Then you have to eat it and clean up, which is at least another five main actions, so overall at least ten actions, and remembering that this does not include including eating time, the process takes about five minutes.

If people manage to eat toast in the morning, why can't they change the toilet roll? Look, I'm not well versed about the nuances of time-and-motion, but the toilet-roll conundrum is something that needs to be addressed in households not only in Australia, but all over the world. It's a simple 4-5 step procedure which is over before you can say "I cook fuckin toast everyday but i cant be bothered changing a toilet roll."

Suggestion Boxes

2005-06-09T20:59:00.000-07:00

At a typical office one day, management, or a specially-formed committee of a non-discriminatory cross-section of office staff meet one afternoon, tip the contents of a suggestion box out onto a table and pick through each piece of paper, evaluating any great ideas and canning the rest. During this process various bad jokes would be made, but everyone would take the exercise seriously enough.
I think if I was a manager, I doubt I’d want to hear how improvements can be made to the workplace that I am supposedly in charge of.
Instead of doing what my job description requires, I’d just walk from cubicle to cubicle, talking business jargon and at all other times sleep under my desk while a sign emblazons my very closed door entitled:
“Parallel-System-Process (PSP) meeting on, please do not disturb under any circumstances.”
Thus I think I’d casually look over these suggestions in the time it takes me to drink a polystyrene cup of cold instant coffee, take them home and use them to start a fire on a cold winter’s night.
If it were summer, I’d donate them to a homeless person.

Upon reading them, said homeless citizen could be slightly confused when a piece of paper handed to them reads:
“I haven’t wanted to say anything as I never like to cause a fuss, but I think the photocopier needs a service.”
Or another well-intentioned suggestion may read,
“Dear sir, I think your water cooler needs to be refilled a little more frequently.”

Upon reading this, the homeless person may then go into a state of confusion, and may not be able to fathom how their non-existent water cooler could run out so quickly. I can only begin to imagine how our homeless person’s mind would be weighed down by the process of trying to fit into their non-existent budget any repair work that their photocopier may need.
Whichever way one looks at it, they are suggestions for improvement, and maybe if they were thoughtfully noted and acted upon, the homeless person may finally be able to enlarge an A4-sized page to A3 on a photocopier that actually doesn’t exist. His life will be changed forever - for the better. He would become the respected manager of his office.

A suggestion box doesn’t have to be reserved solely for workplace however. I think everyone needs a suggestion box in which their friends, colleagues, family, or even just a passer-by can drop in some well-intentioned comments on how this person can improve themselves.
It could come in the form of a backpack, with a pen hanging off a string and a pad securely fastened to the outside, so people can conveniently scribble down a suggestion and then drop through the jaws of improvement.

At the end of a day, just before they go to bed, the person can take the suggestion backpack off, unzip it, and gloss over the days suggestions. It could be just the thing the person needs to turn their life around, and find that secret for success for a productive and fulfilling life.
They may at some point during the day think, “Why is it that I never seem to meet any gorgeous ladies even if I’m a totally hot piece of man-meat?”
Their question could finally be answered one night while they eagerly read through their suggestions with one that may be read something along the lines of:
“Get a haircut, you look like a twat.”

Life-changing stuff, that.

Bargain Bins

2005-06-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

I was in Borders bookshop before, had a look around, checked out the humour section and found some great stuff.
As I kept walking around I found one thing that amuses me in bookshops, the discount books bin.

“Seventy-five percent off” said the sign, beckoning me to come over and check out the crap in the bin. I don’t want to make up a figure as it sounds wanky, but nearly every time I look in a discount bin at a bookstore, the stuff that’s in there is in there for a reason.

Tonight’s offering: Biography of Mark Waugh, an Australian test cricketer I couldn’t give a shit about, and seemingly the general populace too. Another title that caught my attention was the Hardy Boyz; it quickly reminded me of those halcyon days as a kid, spent cosily curled up with those schoolboy detective novels so popular back then. But without even getting my potentially incriminating fingerprints on the cover, I realized it was some boxing crap.

The final title I almost thought about chuckling at was something like, “How steam trains really work,” as if the pages of said book contained some sort of expose whose ‘steamy’ secrets had been kept confined by those railway bureaucracies all those years. I guess then that maybe they actually didn’t use steam to power them but some sort of alien device, but everyone was deceived by the site of sweaty workers shoveling coal into a furnace. Riveting shit I’m sure, and I can tell Borders wants people to have the opportunity to find out these steam train secrets too, by taking 75% off the price. I didn’t have any money so I didn’t get a copy though.

Ruling the World Through Socks

2005-06-05T21:01:00.000-07:00

Today I saw a lady in the park walking her dog. The dog was twenty metres away from her. I casually thought, "I thought dog's had to be on leads." I didn't care but thought that nonetheless. Upon closer inspection I realised she was in fact, adhering to the laws of the park. Her dog was on the end of a 20 metre lead. That lead was so long I could tie ten couches on top of a car with that (couldnt think of funnier example, sorry).
Last week I was walking along, and heard an old lady yelling out off to my left. "Elliot! Elliot no! Elliot!" I looked around, as curiosity definetly got the better of me and I was just in time to see some small shaggy dog mount a fellow park-goers pooch, and proceed to go like the clappers. The lady, unfortunately was old, giving the dog a few seconds before her old legs got her over to her fluffy companion. The fluffy companion being the dog of course. No, I didn't look for too long, carefully avoiding the tag of 'animal porn lover.'

When does an old lady get to the point where she thinks "fuck this, I'm too old to keep shaving this beard," and end up growing more hair than a pubescent boy? On the news once, they were interviewing some old guy after he got mugged, and he was talking from his hospital bed, his name popped up in one of those seven new captions. It was in fact, a lady called betty or something. News being rated 'g?' i don't think so.

Why does every fish and chip shop have a girl behind the counter with a moustache?

Plus how do socks disappear, even after 23 years, I still can't get to the bottom of this one. Is there a friend in every group of friends, a family member out of every family that is secretly contracted to the governement to steal one, or more pairs of socks every couple of weeks to build a huge stockpile of socks hidden somewhere deep in the recesses of a secret desert compound? What they do with them all? My guess is that we are in fact running out of cotton, not oil and thus need to build up some sort of reserve once socks run out, and then the price will skyrocket and Australia will rule the world with socks!

How to Clean a Room

2005-06-03T21:02:00.000-07:00

Cleansing or Pointless?

1. Firstly, I like to survey the scene, looking for any potential problem spots that could cause a room-clean ETA blow out, just like Peter Batchelor and his railway thing.
2. Where to start? A question I, and many others have probably asked themselves when confronted with a messy room. I think the desk is a good start, as a clean desk is one of the things that really motivates you to do a top-class job. I use the clean desk as a tool to picture what the rest of the room could potentially look like. This usually works.
3. I usually move in a clockwise motion around the room, interchanging with the floor as I progress, but that system is quite flexible which for all you non-linear people will be pleasing.
4. I do take my time. Most things get either put away as I get to them, or I gently toss them onto my bed, and these objects I'll turn my attention to later on.
5. Richard Wielga, my housemate, likes to do an up and through cleaning motion, almost like a Lleyton Hewitt fist pump, or low to hi uppercut. He starts with his floor then moves up to the surrounding higher spots, such as a desk or bed. An effective technique, although I don't really use it myself, preferring the familarity of the clockwise technique.
6. Sometimes you are confronted with the uncomfortable situation of having to make the hard choice whether to throw something out or not. As long as it's really something you won't need at some later date, just do it, it's very cathartic.
7. One highlight for me is once I have a tidy room, I move all easily transportable objects out of the room and pull out vacuum cleaner. Ours is quite high-powered, although one drawback is it's lack of hard floor component, with the soft brush surface to avoid scratching a wooden floor. I just have take my time and hover the hard plastic nozzle slightly off the floor, and let the high-powered motor do the rest.
8. It's a really nice feeling looking over a clean room. It looks bigger, smells fresher and really makes you want to spend more time in there, reading and making up crap ballady songs on an old acoustic guitar.

I cleaned my room about 5-6 days ago now, and the feedback from friends and housemates has been really positive. I have actually inspired a couple too, although they were lacking my thoroughness. I think this is made up for by the fact that I do this perhaps once a year, so I can't really talk.

A quick legal thought, and please don't think less of me, but I'm curious. If I went to the toilet and someone swooped in with a small net and snatched one of my "things" and ran off with it, does this constitute theft? Just a thought...