Regular readers will have read about my exploits this time last week, when sleep deprivation lead to the pimped out fridge, the mango incident and the Chilly Beans song.
Last week, I basically went shopping after being up for nearly 26 hours straight.
Guess what I did again this week?
You see, I suffer from regular, inexplicable bouts of insomnia. I feel perfectly fine, no stress or worries, but then my brain just refuses to switch off. I find myself lying awake in the middle of the day (I sleep days and get up at night), feeling obnoxiously awake.
Well, this week was a little different. For about a week I’ve felt like absolute crap. Constant headache, sore throat and cough. Yup, the bug Sunny had, made its way to me.
The result of this was that yesterday I got into bed, and slept for 16 hours straight. In fact, the only reason I got up was because I looked at the clock and thought: “Holy Shit! I’ve been asleep for 16 hours!”
Guess what happens when to get out of bed 9pm after sleeping for 16 hours?
You can’t sleep for shit afterwards, that’s what.
However, I’ve discovered the upside to this problem.
When you’re high as a kite from sleep deprivation, it makes grocery shopping MUCH more interesting.
You see, your body is running on sheer will-power. Your energy, concentration and ability to form a cogent thought have just gone bye-bye. You’re running on some sort of weird, whacked out cheapo ‘energy substitute’. The stuff that kept you awake and running as a caveman when those pesky raptors wouldn’t stop chasing you.
I’ve never done drugs, but I think this might be what it feels like.
Now I would like to point out that I don’t have an American Drivers license, so the more life-endangering parts of the shopping were handled by Sunny. (The driving, in other words).
Let’s just say that grocery shopping usually involves trudging around a supermarket, keeping track of prices and all out boredom.
Grocery shopping on 26 hours without sleep involves me saying to my Wife:
“What are you looking at me like that for? Haven’t you ever seen an English guy singing the words ‘Cheese on Toast’ to the tune of “Got my Mind Set on You” by George Harrison?”
Oh, one last thing:
Chicka chicka chicka chicka chickeeeeeeeeeeen! Chicka chicka chicka chicka chickeeeeeeeeen! - The shopping cart wobbly-wheel mantra (Used only when buying chicken.)
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Weirdos
From Davesdaily.com:
LEON, Iowa, Feb. 24 (UPI) -- An Iowa sex offender who belongs to a church that believes electricity is evil has asked a judge to exempt him from wearing an electronic monitor.
Scott Smith was given a short jail sentence and five years probation for molesting two teenage girls in 2003. At the time, he was a member of the Brotherhood of Christ and his wife and children still belong to the group.
At a hearing Thursday, Ron Livingston, leader of the Brotherhood, testified that the group believes literally that electricity can cause people to disobey God, the Des Moines Register reported. Livingston said an electronic monitor could harm Smith’s children.
Smith has been refusing to wear the monitor. Judge Sherm Phipps could order him sent to prison or could grant him an exemption.
A social worker testified that she believes Smith is unlikely to commit another crime.
WTF?
Some sick fucking wacko, who belongs to a weird religious cult is refusing to wear an electronic tag, because he believes that electricity makes people disobey God?
Listen, you child molesting prick! Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the crime!
You’re all concerned that this little electronic tag might offend your twisted, fucked up religious sensibilities? Afraid it might ‘make you evil’?
Well, fuck you.
I hate to tell you this, but MOLESTING UNDERAGE GIRLS IS EVIL! If this judge grants this weirdo an exemption, he should be thrown into the same padded room.
A child molester worried about an electronic tag?
I’d but two on him, just to make sure.
Oh, and fill his pockets with batteries.
LEON, Iowa, Feb. 24 (UPI) -- An Iowa sex offender who belongs to a church that believes electricity is evil has asked a judge to exempt him from wearing an electronic monitor.
Scott Smith was given a short jail sentence and five years probation for molesting two teenage girls in 2003. At the time, he was a member of the Brotherhood of Christ and his wife and children still belong to the group.
At a hearing Thursday, Ron Livingston, leader of the Brotherhood, testified that the group believes literally that electricity can cause people to disobey God, the Des Moines Register reported. Livingston said an electronic monitor could harm Smith’s children.
Smith has been refusing to wear the monitor. Judge Sherm Phipps could order him sent to prison or could grant him an exemption.
A social worker testified that she believes Smith is unlikely to commit another crime.
WTF?
Some sick fucking wacko, who belongs to a weird religious cult is refusing to wear an electronic tag, because he believes that electricity makes people disobey God?
Listen, you child molesting prick! Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the crime!
You’re all concerned that this little electronic tag might offend your twisted, fucked up religious sensibilities? Afraid it might ‘make you evil’?
Well, fuck you.
I hate to tell you this, but MOLESTING UNDERAGE GIRLS IS EVIL! If this judge grants this weirdo an exemption, he should be thrown into the same padded room.
A child molester worried about an electronic tag?
I’d but two on him, just to make sure.
Oh, and fill his pockets with batteries.
I dont feel so good.
I don’t feel so good today.
It turns out that the bug that Sunny had, the bug she gave to Frank, has finally broken down the walls of my frankly ‘superman-esque’ immune system, and is currently beating the shit out my body.
My anti-bodies, usually stamping out disease with no effort and an Arnie-like quip, are now running like the sissies they are.
Pussies.
It makes me wonder, though, who the hell decided pain and discomfort was a good idea?
You see, pain, apparently, is very useful. It lets you know you’d better pull that arm out of that fire right now, or that you’re body’s getting its ass kicked by microbes, so you’d better take it easy and let it heal itself.
But why PAIN, exactly?
If ‘intelligent design’ is real, it should be called ‘not very’ Intelligent Design’.
You see, pain comes along whether you can do anything about it or not. I mean, great, I picked up that pipe that I thought was room temperature, and it turned out to be 500 degrees Celsius. Thanks pain! Thank you for letting me know that I’d better drop it!
Now imagine I’m trapped in a burning building. Oh dear. I’m on fire, and this support beam across my chest means I can’t do anything about it:
“PAIN! PAIN! YOU’RE IN PAIN! YOU’RE ON FIRE AND TAKING DAMAGE!!!”
“Um, I know, pain. There’s not a lot I can do about it though, so can you go away, so I can die peacefully, and not screaming in agony?”
“SORRY, IT’S MY JOB! ANYWAY… PAIN! PAIN! OWWWWWW! THAT HURTS! THIS IS VERY BAD, YOU KNOW!”
“I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it! Shut the fuck up and go away!”
“I’M VERY USEFUL, YOU UNGRATEFUL PRICK!!! IF IT WASN’T FOR ME YOU’D BE COOING AT THE WEIRD LOOKING ORANGE STUFF THAT’S ALL OVER YOUR BODY! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN!”
“You mean, other than the fact I can see my skin charring? Look, we both know this is very bad, so can you just leave?”
“LA LA LA, NOT LISTENING!! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN!”
Then we come to the other kicker. There’s only so much pain a body can take before it passes out. Now, while this at first would seem to negate the above point, let me explain.
If we could turn pain on and off, if I trapped and set on fire, I could turn the pain off and prepare myself for the whole dying part. Instead, the last thing I experience before losing consciousness is agony beyond anything I’ve ever experienced.
But what if I’m not trapped? I’m on fire, but I’ve just managed to push that support beam off my chest:
“It’s 25 yards to the door! I can make it! Ok, I need a new face and have burns over 99% of my body, but I want to LIVE!”
“PAIN! PAIN! IT’S ME! PAIN!”
“I know, we’re probably going to get to know each other really well over the next year or so.”
“ANYWAY, YOU’VE TAKEN QUITE ENOUGH OF ME, I’M OFF!”
“Oh, so now you decide to leave.”
“WELL, NOT LEAVE, EXACTLY. I’VE BEEN AROUND SO LONG, YOU’RE BRAIN’S ABOUT TO SHUT DOWN FOR A BIT. YOU KNOW, A BIT OF A BREAK.”
“But the door’s right there! If I make it I’ll live! If I pass out now, I’ll be burned to a crisp!”
“SORRY PAL, I DON’T MAKE THE RULES! SLEEPY TIME NOW!”
“You complete and utter fuc…”
(Thud)
Nope, if intelligent design was real, you’d get the occasional jolt of pain, just to remind you of why you avoid dangerous things, but when you get sick, or you’re in pain and there’s nothing you can do about it, you’d hear:
“Bing-Bong…This is your central nervous system here. We apologize for the convenience, but whatever you’re doing is making your pain receptors go crazy. You may want to cease this activity, or suffer permanent damage. Thank you.”
There you go, nice and polite, gives you the message, and you could just call your Boss and say:
“Yeah, my central nervous system gave me a damage report this morning, apparently, I’m not feeling too well, so I’d better stay home for a couple days.”
Of course, what would be really nice is if you could get play-by-play, frontline reports on how the battle’s going for your anti-bodies. That’d be great. Like a war film.
(I apologize in advance if this post has got a crap load of spelling mistakes, run on sentences, or if I’ve over used commas even more than usual…I can’t be bothered proof reading today.)
It turns out that the bug that Sunny had, the bug she gave to Frank, has finally broken down the walls of my frankly ‘superman-esque’ immune system, and is currently beating the shit out my body.
My anti-bodies, usually stamping out disease with no effort and an Arnie-like quip, are now running like the sissies they are.
Pussies.
It makes me wonder, though, who the hell decided pain and discomfort was a good idea?
You see, pain, apparently, is very useful. It lets you know you’d better pull that arm out of that fire right now, or that you’re body’s getting its ass kicked by microbes, so you’d better take it easy and let it heal itself.
But why PAIN, exactly?
If ‘intelligent design’ is real, it should be called ‘not very’ Intelligent Design’.
You see, pain comes along whether you can do anything about it or not. I mean, great, I picked up that pipe that I thought was room temperature, and it turned out to be 500 degrees Celsius. Thanks pain! Thank you for letting me know that I’d better drop it!
Now imagine I’m trapped in a burning building. Oh dear. I’m on fire, and this support beam across my chest means I can’t do anything about it:
“PAIN! PAIN! YOU’RE IN PAIN! YOU’RE ON FIRE AND TAKING DAMAGE!!!”
“Um, I know, pain. There’s not a lot I can do about it though, so can you go away, so I can die peacefully, and not screaming in agony?”
“SORRY, IT’S MY JOB! ANYWAY… PAIN! PAIN! OWWWWWW! THAT HURTS! THIS IS VERY BAD, YOU KNOW!”
“I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it! Shut the fuck up and go away!”
“I’M VERY USEFUL, YOU UNGRATEFUL PRICK!!! IF IT WASN’T FOR ME YOU’D BE COOING AT THE WEIRD LOOKING ORANGE STUFF THAT’S ALL OVER YOUR BODY! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN!”
“You mean, other than the fact I can see my skin charring? Look, we both know this is very bad, so can you just leave?”
“LA LA LA, NOT LISTENING!! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN!”
Then we come to the other kicker. There’s only so much pain a body can take before it passes out. Now, while this at first would seem to negate the above point, let me explain.
If we could turn pain on and off, if I trapped and set on fire, I could turn the pain off and prepare myself for the whole dying part. Instead, the last thing I experience before losing consciousness is agony beyond anything I’ve ever experienced.
But what if I’m not trapped? I’m on fire, but I’ve just managed to push that support beam off my chest:
“It’s 25 yards to the door! I can make it! Ok, I need a new face and have burns over 99% of my body, but I want to LIVE!”
“PAIN! PAIN! IT’S ME! PAIN!”
“I know, we’re probably going to get to know each other really well over the next year or so.”
“ANYWAY, YOU’VE TAKEN QUITE ENOUGH OF ME, I’M OFF!”
“Oh, so now you decide to leave.”
“WELL, NOT LEAVE, EXACTLY. I’VE BEEN AROUND SO LONG, YOU’RE BRAIN’S ABOUT TO SHUT DOWN FOR A BIT. YOU KNOW, A BIT OF A BREAK.”
“But the door’s right there! If I make it I’ll live! If I pass out now, I’ll be burned to a crisp!”
“SORRY PAL, I DON’T MAKE THE RULES! SLEEPY TIME NOW!”
“You complete and utter fuc…”
(Thud)
Nope, if intelligent design was real, you’d get the occasional jolt of pain, just to remind you of why you avoid dangerous things, but when you get sick, or you’re in pain and there’s nothing you can do about it, you’d hear:
“Bing-Bong…This is your central nervous system here. We apologize for the convenience, but whatever you’re doing is making your pain receptors go crazy. You may want to cease this activity, or suffer permanent damage. Thank you.”
There you go, nice and polite, gives you the message, and you could just call your Boss and say:
“Yeah, my central nervous system gave me a damage report this morning, apparently, I’m not feeling too well, so I’d better stay home for a couple days.”
Of course, what would be really nice is if you could get play-by-play, frontline reports on how the battle’s going for your anti-bodies. That’d be great. Like a war film.
(I apologize in advance if this post has got a crap load of spelling mistakes, run on sentences, or if I’ve over used commas even more than usual…I can’t be bothered proof reading today.)
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Happy Birthday Sunny
I’ve written, in the recent past, about the perils and pitfalls of having your Birthday too close to Christmas. Basically, cheap-assed relatives doing the “I’ll just get you one big present.” Trick, which roughly translates as: “There is no fucking way I’m shelling out for a Birthday present so soon after Christmas, so I’ll create the illusion that I’m spending more on you for Christmas, so I can stiff you out of your Birthday Present.”
However, I’ve recently discovered something that is much, MUCH worse:
Having your birthday little over a month before your wife’s.
You see, I’m a horrible, horrible person to be around on my Birthday. It’s like at midnight I exchange minds with God for 24 hours:
“Lo, it iseth my Birthday! I Command that you obey me! Do things for me, or thou shalt call down upon thyself my terrible Wrath! I shall not be denied! Bring me Coffee! Go forth and cook me steak! Rubeth my back, or thou shalt regret it!”
In other words, I guilt trip everyone around me into waiting on me hand and foot. If I want coffee, I ask someone to make me some ‘Birthday Coffee’. I don’t want a backrub, I want a ‘Birthday Backrub’.
It’s passive-aggressiveness at its finest. You don’t need to cajole or be mean about it. You just turn to your significant other and say:
“My feet hurt. Would you give me a Birthday Foot Rub? Oh, wait. Would you be really, really nice and make me some Birthday Coffee and get me some Birthday Ice-Cream first?”
Basically, if you add the prefix ‘Birthday’ to anything you want, anyone who professes to love you is obliged, nay, COMPELLED to obey you.
This is all just a flowery way of saying that I turn into a complete asshole for 24 hours every birthday and make people do shit for me.
So why is it a bad thing that my Wife’s birthday is today, which just happens to be one month, two days after mine?
Well, basically she hasn’t had 6 months to forget what a pain in the ass I was.
This boils down to one word:
Payback.
Now, I could actually be really mean and tell her to sod off, but this has one major drawback. Refusal to obey a Birthday Command brings the whole system crashing down around my ears, and I don’t get my ’24 Hour Asshole License’ next year.
Yes, it might be pure evil, but it’s pure evil on the Honor System.
Anyway, I have to go. The missus has just asked how long I was going to be on the computer. Translation: “Get off the computer.”
‘Birthday-Favor’ Imminent.
How long is it to my Birthday again?
That’s right…a whole frickin’ year.
However, I’ve recently discovered something that is much, MUCH worse:
Having your birthday little over a month before your wife’s.
You see, I’m a horrible, horrible person to be around on my Birthday. It’s like at midnight I exchange minds with God for 24 hours:
“Lo, it iseth my Birthday! I Command that you obey me! Do things for me, or thou shalt call down upon thyself my terrible Wrath! I shall not be denied! Bring me Coffee! Go forth and cook me steak! Rubeth my back, or thou shalt regret it!”
In other words, I guilt trip everyone around me into waiting on me hand and foot. If I want coffee, I ask someone to make me some ‘Birthday Coffee’. I don’t want a backrub, I want a ‘Birthday Backrub’.
It’s passive-aggressiveness at its finest. You don’t need to cajole or be mean about it. You just turn to your significant other and say:
“My feet hurt. Would you give me a Birthday Foot Rub? Oh, wait. Would you be really, really nice and make me some Birthday Coffee and get me some Birthday Ice-Cream first?”
Basically, if you add the prefix ‘Birthday’ to anything you want, anyone who professes to love you is obliged, nay, COMPELLED to obey you.
This is all just a flowery way of saying that I turn into a complete asshole for 24 hours every birthday and make people do shit for me.
So why is it a bad thing that my Wife’s birthday is today, which just happens to be one month, two days after mine?
Well, basically she hasn’t had 6 months to forget what a pain in the ass I was.
This boils down to one word:
Payback.
Now, I could actually be really mean and tell her to sod off, but this has one major drawback. Refusal to obey a Birthday Command brings the whole system crashing down around my ears, and I don’t get my ’24 Hour Asshole License’ next year.
Yes, it might be pure evil, but it’s pure evil on the Honor System.
Anyway, I have to go. The missus has just asked how long I was going to be on the computer. Translation: “Get off the computer.”
‘Birthday-Favor’ Imminent.
How long is it to my Birthday again?
That’s right…a whole frickin’ year.
Happy Birthday Sunny!!!
I’ve written, in the recent past, about the perils and pitfalls of having your Birthday too close to Christmas. Basically, cheap-assed relatives doing the “I’ll just get you one big present.” Trick, which roughly translates as: “There is no fucking way I’m shelling out for a Birthday present so soon after Christmas, so I’ll create the illusion that I’m spending more on you for Christmas, so I can stiff you out of your Birthday Present.”
However, I’ve recently discovered something that is much, MUCH worse:
Having your birthday little over a month before your wife’s.
You see, I’m a horrible, horrible person to be around on my Birthday. It’s like at midnight I exchange minds with God for 24 hours:
“Lo, it iseth my Birthday! I Command that you obey me! Do things for me, or thou shalt call down upon thyself my terrible Wrath! I shall not be denied! Bring me Coffee! Go forth and cook me steak! Rubeth my back, or thou shalt regret it!”
In other words, I guilt trip everyone around me into waiting on me hand and foot. If I want coffee, I ask someone to make me some ‘Birthday Coffee’. I don’t want a backrub, I want a ‘Birthday Backrub’.
It’s passive-aggressiveness at its finest. You don’t need to cajole or be mean about it. You just turn to your significant other and say:
“My feet hurt. Would you give me a Birthday Foot Rub? Oh, wait. Would you be really, really nice and make me some Birthday Coffee and get me some Birthday Ice-Cream first?”
Basically, if you add the prefix ‘Birthday’ to anything you want, anyone who professes to love you is obliged, nay, COMPELLED to obey you.
This is all just a flowery way of saying that I turn into a complete asshole for 24 hours every birthday and make people do shit for me.
So why is it a bad thing that my Wife’s birthday is today, which just happens to be one month, two days after mine?
Well, basically she hasn’t had 6 months to forget what a pain in the ass I was.
This boils down to one word:
Payback.
Now, I could actually be really mean and tell her to sod off, but this has one major drawback. Refusal to obey a Birthday Command brings the whole system crashing down around my ears, and I don’t get my ’24 Hour Asshole License’ next year.
Yes, it might be pure evil, but it’s pure evil on the Honor System.
Anyway, I have to go. The missus has just asked how long I was going to be on the computer. Translation: “Get off the computer.”
‘Birthday-Favor’ Imminent.
How long is it to my Birthday again?
That’s right…a whole frickin’ year.
However, I’ve recently discovered something that is much, MUCH worse:
Having your birthday little over a month before your wife’s.
You see, I’m a horrible, horrible person to be around on my Birthday. It’s like at midnight I exchange minds with God for 24 hours:
“Lo, it iseth my Birthday! I Command that you obey me! Do things for me, or thou shalt call down upon thyself my terrible Wrath! I shall not be denied! Bring me Coffee! Go forth and cook me steak! Rubeth my back, or thou shalt regret it!”
In other words, I guilt trip everyone around me into waiting on me hand and foot. If I want coffee, I ask someone to make me some ‘Birthday Coffee’. I don’t want a backrub, I want a ‘Birthday Backrub’.
It’s passive-aggressiveness at its finest. You don’t need to cajole or be mean about it. You just turn to your significant other and say:
“My feet hurt. Would you give me a Birthday Foot Rub? Oh, wait. Would you be really, really nice and make me some Birthday Coffee and get me some Birthday Ice-Cream first?”
Basically, if you add the prefix ‘Birthday’ to anything you want, anyone who professes to love you is obliged, nay, COMPELLED to obey you.
This is all just a flowery way of saying that I turn into a complete asshole for 24 hours every birthday and make people do shit for me.
So why is it a bad thing that my Wife’s birthday is today, which just happens to be one month, two days after mine?
Well, basically she hasn’t had 6 months to forget what a pain in the ass I was.
This boils down to one word:
Payback.
Now, I could actually be really mean and tell her to sod off, but this has one major drawback. Refusal to obey a Birthday Command brings the whole system crashing down around my ears, and I don’t get my ’24 Hour Asshole License’ next year.
Yes, it might be pure evil, but it’s pure evil on the Honor System.
Anyway, I have to go. The missus has just asked how long I was going to be on the computer. Translation: “Get off the computer.”
‘Birthday-Favor’ Imminent.
How long is it to my Birthday again?
That’s right…a whole frickin’ year.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
BEHOLD! The Pimped-Out Fridge!
Ok, I have no idea why you people are finding the new color of our fridge interesting, but here it is. I'm seriously considering chrome accents, putting a subwoofer behind it, and a few LCD screens. That way, I can get my snack on and my movie on at the same time, bizatches! Fo' Shizzle.
Anyway, a couple people who visited Sunny's blog wanted my recipe for Garlic Herb Bacon-wrapped Chicken. Considering this is a fridgey post, I decided to post it. (Although my Chicken-Mushroom casserole recipe will be taken to the grave with me):
Ingredients:
1 Chicken Breast (per person)
1 Package bacon
Garlic Powder
Garlic Pepper
Mozzarella Cheese
Dried or Fresh Oregano, Basil and Thyme
Half stick of butter or margarine.
Method:
Place chicken breast between 2 pieces of cling film (Saran Wrap), and hammer out flat with a rolling pin. Don't just whack it, you want to end up with a thin piece of chicken, not chicken paste.
Grate your cheese, and cover the top of your chicken breast with it. Sprinkle your herbs on top of the cheese.
Roll your chicken up, to trap your cheese inside the chicken. Think Jam roly-poly (Jelly Roll to the Americans).
Take one or two slices of bacon, and wrap around your chicken to hold everything in place. Place your chicken on a baking sheet (No need to grease it, the bacon provides enough grease to stop it from sticking.)
Place in an oven at 400 degrees.
While that begins to cook, place your half stick of butter into a microwave safe cup. (You may need more or less butter depending on how much chicken you're making). Add a liberal amount of garlic powder, a touch of garlic pepper, and about a teaspoon of your herbs (That's ONE teaspoon of your herbs mixed together, not one teaspoon of each herb). Microwave on high for 30 seconds until the butter is melted.
Stir your butter thoroughly.
Open the oven and baste your chicken with some of the butter.
The chicken takes roughly 20 minutes to cook, baste every so often to prevent your chicken from drying out.
After 20 minutes, cut into a piece of chicken to check that it's cooked through.
Before serving, place a slice of mozzarella on top of every piece of chicken and put back in the oven to melt.
Before serving, drizzle a little garlic butter on top.
Serve with sauteed mushrooms, mashed potatoes or anything you like.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Bring On The Canvas Overcoat!
Ever had one of those really weird days?
If you want an idea how weird my day’s been so far, let’s just say that my afternoon began with me standing in our bathtub, naked from the waist down, ankle deep in very hot soapy water…while drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette.
…and no, I haven’t started taking acid.
Let’s start at the beginning.
My day began with me getting absolutely no sleep. I got into bed at 5am, and by 7am this morning, I was lying there, noxiously awake.
You know. When you’re too awake to go to sleep, but too tired to get out of bed. However, I knew that Sunny wanted us to go grocery shopping, take off the trash and look at some material for new curtains today, so I decided to get up. The alternative was to lie there, get asleep at around 10am, then end up sleeping right through to about 7 in the evening.
My day started, bizarrely, with me firing off a rocket (no, that isn’t a euphemism). Considering I have absolutely nothing but free time, I’m constantly on the lookout for something to occupy me. When I saw a re-usable model rocket for $15, I snapped it up (What can I say, I take after my Dad…I’m a hobby-aholic).
Just in case you’re wondering, the first launch went perfectly. The second time I hadn’t packed the wadding well enough (Not a euphemism either), and the parachute half melted from the ejection charge (ditto on the not euphemism bit). Luckily, it only came with 2 rocket engines, and parachutes are about 15 cents each.
So after the fireworks (Not a euphemism) we went grocery shopping.
Now, a funny thing happens when I’ve not had enough sleep. I get fascinated by everyday words.
So walking through the grocery store, to get the hamburger buns Sunny forgot to pick up the first time around, I noticed a sign next to the mangos:
“Mango….MANgo…manGO. Man go where?” I thought.
It was at this point I actually said “Maaaaan-go.” In exactly the same tone of voice Beavis uses when he says “BUNG-hole.”…but with a slight Barry White/Rico Suave twist.
The old guy, who was putting a mango into his cart at that exact moment, stopped dead, and just gave me a look. You know the look. The look that says: “I don’t know whether to stay perfectly still and hope he goes away, or run for help.” I just gave him a grin, and watched him put the mango back and run away.
Then, on the way back to my wife, I spotted the cans of chili beans, and treated myself to a slightly updated version of the Michael Jackson song ‘Billy Jean.’
Do I need to draw you a picture?
“Chili Beans are not my lover…It’s just a can who says that I am the one…but the tin is not my son.”
Then I drove Sunny nuts by repeating “Man-goooo!” Every 15 minutes.
Then we went to Walmart for the curtain material.
Like all true men do upon entering Walmart, I went to look at the guns. For once, I had a valid reason, I need a new clip for my rifle (Well, it’s actually Sunny’s, but I paid for it), because my dad wants a go when he comes over.
Of course, I looked at the guns for a few minutes, then headed straight for the toy aisle. (Oh, Sunny, in case you read this, I really like the Die-Cast X-Wing…it’s look great on top of my monitor.)
Anyway, remember how our fridge blew up? We got a replacement from my sister in law, but let’s just say the outside was a little dinged up and stained, so we wanted to paint it. Walmart has paint.
So, I desperately tried to convince Sunny to guy the gold spray paint, because it would make our fridge look truly pimpin’. I had it all figured out. My new portable DVD player could be mounted in the freezer, subwoofer in the fridge, spinners on the handles. She said no.
So, after I drove her nuts for a few minutes doing my best Xhibit impression:
“Hey y’all, this is X to the Z Xhibit, and this is Pimp My Fridge!”
In the end, after going through all the possibilities (Sunny nixed my “Paint the fridge white and brown like a cow.” Idea, as well as my “Black, green and brown! Camo baby!” Idea.” We came down to three possible colors: White, to restore the fridge’s original color (BORRRR-ING), Black (Nicer) or Red (Huh?).
Knowing how Sunny usually lets me make the decisions, so she can blame me when it all goes tits up, I left the thing to her:
“Pick a color, black or red.”
“No.”
“Alright, heads or tails?” (I mentally assigned heads to black, tails to red).
“Oh, I’m not good at this.”
“Just pick one, off the top of your head.”
“I don’t know.”
“Alright, pick a number. One or Two.”
“Uhhhh.” (For fuck’s sake…I’m asking for a random choice, not whether you’re pro-choice or pro-life).
“Oh, fer fu…Pick a number between One and Fifty.” (one through twenty-five was red, twenty-six through fifty was black.)
“Uhhh, twenty-three!”
“Red it is!” (Oh fuck, this is going to look terrible).
So we got the red paint. I figured two cans would be enough. Now two cans is enough if you only want to paint the front of the fridge. We wanted to paint the whole thing…oh well.
So we get home, cover the kitchen in newspaper, and we go at it.
Half an hour later, we have the angriest looking fridge in the world, and my glasses, my arms, legs and most of the kitchen has become slightly pink. My feet stick to the newspaper (I wasn’t wearing shoes or socks…I hate both), and I try to shake it off.
Sunny says I look like a cat that’s got sticky-tape stuck to its paw.
Har, bloody, har.
Anyway, by the time I was done, the soles of my feet had become completely red…and that’s why I was standing in a bathtub, naked from the waist down, sipping on coffee and smoking a cigarette.
Good mental picture, huh?
Oh, and as a sidenote, once the cream handles where put back on the fridge, we ended up with a fridge that looks like the interior of classic muscle car.
Shit-hot!
I’ll take a pic and post it if I can be bothered, and if you all find my fridge so interesting. But I probably won’t, because I’m lazy
If you want an idea how weird my day’s been so far, let’s just say that my afternoon began with me standing in our bathtub, naked from the waist down, ankle deep in very hot soapy water…while drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette.
…and no, I haven’t started taking acid.
Let’s start at the beginning.
My day began with me getting absolutely no sleep. I got into bed at 5am, and by 7am this morning, I was lying there, noxiously awake.
You know. When you’re too awake to go to sleep, but too tired to get out of bed. However, I knew that Sunny wanted us to go grocery shopping, take off the trash and look at some material for new curtains today, so I decided to get up. The alternative was to lie there, get asleep at around 10am, then end up sleeping right through to about 7 in the evening.
My day started, bizarrely, with me firing off a rocket (no, that isn’t a euphemism). Considering I have absolutely nothing but free time, I’m constantly on the lookout for something to occupy me. When I saw a re-usable model rocket for $15, I snapped it up (What can I say, I take after my Dad…I’m a hobby-aholic).
Just in case you’re wondering, the first launch went perfectly. The second time I hadn’t packed the wadding well enough (Not a euphemism either), and the parachute half melted from the ejection charge (ditto on the not euphemism bit). Luckily, it only came with 2 rocket engines, and parachutes are about 15 cents each.
So after the fireworks (Not a euphemism) we went grocery shopping.
Now, a funny thing happens when I’ve not had enough sleep. I get fascinated by everyday words.
So walking through the grocery store, to get the hamburger buns Sunny forgot to pick up the first time around, I noticed a sign next to the mangos:
“Mango….MANgo…manGO. Man go where?” I thought.
It was at this point I actually said “Maaaaan-go.” In exactly the same tone of voice Beavis uses when he says “BUNG-hole.”…but with a slight Barry White/Rico Suave twist.
The old guy, who was putting a mango into his cart at that exact moment, stopped dead, and just gave me a look. You know the look. The look that says: “I don’t know whether to stay perfectly still and hope he goes away, or run for help.” I just gave him a grin, and watched him put the mango back and run away.
Then, on the way back to my wife, I spotted the cans of chili beans, and treated myself to a slightly updated version of the Michael Jackson song ‘Billy Jean.’
Do I need to draw you a picture?
“Chili Beans are not my lover…It’s just a can who says that I am the one…but the tin is not my son.”
Then I drove Sunny nuts by repeating “Man-goooo!” Every 15 minutes.
Then we went to Walmart for the curtain material.
Like all true men do upon entering Walmart, I went to look at the guns. For once, I had a valid reason, I need a new clip for my rifle (Well, it’s actually Sunny’s, but I paid for it), because my dad wants a go when he comes over.
Of course, I looked at the guns for a few minutes, then headed straight for the toy aisle. (Oh, Sunny, in case you read this, I really like the Die-Cast X-Wing…it’s look great on top of my monitor.)
Anyway, remember how our fridge blew up? We got a replacement from my sister in law, but let’s just say the outside was a little dinged up and stained, so we wanted to paint it. Walmart has paint.
So, I desperately tried to convince Sunny to guy the gold spray paint, because it would make our fridge look truly pimpin’. I had it all figured out. My new portable DVD player could be mounted in the freezer, subwoofer in the fridge, spinners on the handles. She said no.
So, after I drove her nuts for a few minutes doing my best Xhibit impression:
“Hey y’all, this is X to the Z Xhibit, and this is Pimp My Fridge!”
In the end, after going through all the possibilities (Sunny nixed my “Paint the fridge white and brown like a cow.” Idea, as well as my “Black, green and brown! Camo baby!” Idea.” We came down to three possible colors: White, to restore the fridge’s original color (BORRRR-ING), Black (Nicer) or Red (Huh?).
Knowing how Sunny usually lets me make the decisions, so she can blame me when it all goes tits up, I left the thing to her:
“Pick a color, black or red.”
“No.”
“Alright, heads or tails?” (I mentally assigned heads to black, tails to red).
“Oh, I’m not good at this.”
“Just pick one, off the top of your head.”
“I don’t know.”
“Alright, pick a number. One or Two.”
“Uhhhh.” (For fuck’s sake…I’m asking for a random choice, not whether you’re pro-choice or pro-life).
“Oh, fer fu…Pick a number between One and Fifty.” (one through twenty-five was red, twenty-six through fifty was black.)
“Uhhh, twenty-three!”
“Red it is!” (Oh fuck, this is going to look terrible).
So we got the red paint. I figured two cans would be enough. Now two cans is enough if you only want to paint the front of the fridge. We wanted to paint the whole thing…oh well.
So we get home, cover the kitchen in newspaper, and we go at it.
Half an hour later, we have the angriest looking fridge in the world, and my glasses, my arms, legs and most of the kitchen has become slightly pink. My feet stick to the newspaper (I wasn’t wearing shoes or socks…I hate both), and I try to shake it off.
Sunny says I look like a cat that’s got sticky-tape stuck to its paw.
Har, bloody, har.
Anyway, by the time I was done, the soles of my feet had become completely red…and that’s why I was standing in a bathtub, naked from the waist down, sipping on coffee and smoking a cigarette.
Good mental picture, huh?
Oh, and as a sidenote, once the cream handles where put back on the fridge, we ended up with a fridge that looks like the interior of classic muscle car.
Shit-hot!
I’ll take a pic and post it if I can be bothered, and if you all find my fridge so interesting. But I probably won’t, because I’m lazy
Monday, February 20, 2006
Wrasslin'
Professional Wrestling is a ‘Sport’ in which gaudily dressed, oiled-up steroid abusers pretend to slap each other.
The main characteristics of Professional Wrestling are the actual fighting moves, which fall under three categories:
The wrestlers themselves are quite interesting. Especially the ones that constantly refer to themselves in third person (“The Steroid ain’t afraid of you! The Steroid’s gonna kick your ass!”) The surprising thing is that while these wrestlers are happy to appear half naked in front of a few million people…they have to wear a mask (It is my theory that this is so their probation officers don’t realize they’re out of state, or that the government doesn’t realize that they’re working and cut off their unemployment benefits).
Now, in any professional sport, you expect more or less the same thing in every match. Two athletes fight each other, and the better man wins.
While this is true of Professional Wrestling, it’s not exactly the same as say, boxing:
Good guy wrestles bad guy. Good guy gets upper hand. Bad guy’s friends storm the ring (Surely that would result in a disqualification in a real sport?). Good guy takes a beating. Good guy makes amazing comeback and beats 8 7”8 steroid poster-boys. Occasionally, the good guy will lose, in order to set up a soap-opera like storyline or feud.
On the subject of good buys and bad guys, it is extremely common for the good guy to become a bad guy for no particular reason, and vice versa. Surprisingly this can happen multiple times in the space of a single match.
However, the most amazing thing about Wrestling is the soap-opera style storylines. These too are formulaic, and the only good thing that can be said about them is that they’re just as bad as regular soap opera storylines.
For example : Good guy wins belt from bad guy. Bad guy steals belt and holds it hostage. Bad guy sleeps with good guy’s girlfriend. Good guy beats up bad guy. Good guy gets belt back. Bad guy starts feud with good guy. Bad guy steals belt…repeat ad nauseum.
This brings me to the most unique part of professional wrestling. The fans.
Wrestling fans fall into numerous categories:
Wrestling.
Just say ‘No.’
The main characteristics of Professional Wrestling are the actual fighting moves, which fall under three categories:
- Punches and kicks. This is where the oily homo-erotic icons pretend to punch, slap or kick each other, while missing by a clear foot. However, stamping on the ground apparently ‘sells’ these moves and makes them look real…apparently.
- Overly elaborate dances which would do precisely dick in a real fight. For example, taking off an elbow pad (which few wrestlers actually wear), jumping over your opponent (who lies conveniently still through the whole process) bouncing off a rope, jumping over your opponent again, bouncing off the other rope, coming to a dead stop…and then performing a perfectly ordinary elbow drop (which misses). This apparently just about kills the opponent, rather than more realistically making him say “Ouch! That stings a little! Why am I lying here, just letting you do this?”
- Moves which would hurt you just as much as your opponent, such as body-slamming someone from 25 feet from some form of ladder, and crashing through a table. Many wrestling fans have discovered that Mom’s old oak dining table doesn’t break quite as easily as the compressed fiberboard tables on the show, to their own cost (usually a rib).
- Moves which would actually kill someone in a real fight, such as dropping someone on their head…again from some form of ladder.
The wrestlers themselves are quite interesting. Especially the ones that constantly refer to themselves in third person (“The Steroid ain’t afraid of you! The Steroid’s gonna kick your ass!”) The surprising thing is that while these wrestlers are happy to appear half naked in front of a few million people…they have to wear a mask (It is my theory that this is so their probation officers don’t realize they’re out of state, or that the government doesn’t realize that they’re working and cut off their unemployment benefits).
Now, in any professional sport, you expect more or less the same thing in every match. Two athletes fight each other, and the better man wins.
While this is true of Professional Wrestling, it’s not exactly the same as say, boxing:
Good guy wrestles bad guy. Good guy gets upper hand. Bad guy’s friends storm the ring (Surely that would result in a disqualification in a real sport?). Good guy takes a beating. Good guy makes amazing comeback and beats 8 7”8 steroid poster-boys. Occasionally, the good guy will lose, in order to set up a soap-opera like storyline or feud.
On the subject of good buys and bad guys, it is extremely common for the good guy to become a bad guy for no particular reason, and vice versa. Surprisingly this can happen multiple times in the space of a single match.
However, the most amazing thing about Wrestling is the soap-opera style storylines. These too are formulaic, and the only good thing that can be said about them is that they’re just as bad as regular soap opera storylines.
For example : Good guy wins belt from bad guy. Bad guy steals belt and holds it hostage. Bad guy sleeps with good guy’s girlfriend. Good guy beats up bad guy. Good guy gets belt back. Bad guy starts feud with good guy. Bad guy steals belt…repeat ad nauseum.
This brings me to the most unique part of professional wrestling. The fans.
Wrestling fans fall into numerous categories:
- The ‘ironic’ fan. The guy who says he hardly every watches wrestling, but likes it for the over-the-top storylines. Barely admits to watching it, but loves every minute of it and never misses an episode.
- The ‘sensible’ fan. Like the ironic fan, but is actually telling the truth. He can appreciate the athleticism involved, and treats it as ‘chewing-gum’ entertainment…IE, ok to watch if there’s absolutely nothing else on.
- The ‘Over the top’ fan. All he talks about is wrestling, despite the fact he’s nearly 50 years old. Loves everything about wrestling, and amazingly, actually believes that it’s all real. Despite the common-sense point of view (IE, stealing a championship belt would simply have the offender banned for life from the sport…Oh, and that dropping someone on their head from an overhead gantry would actually kill them.)
- The ‘Backyard Wrestler’. The scariest of fans. These are usually males, aged 15 to 30, who have zero common sense, a life long dream of becoming a wrestler, and don’t understand that a lot of what they see on TV could kill them. These are the people you see on the internet or read about in newspapers who attempt to body slam their brothers off the roof of their house. Then, when surrounded by left over pieces of brother, they are honestly shocked that a 30 foot fall onto an exercise mat could result in injury.
Wrestling.
Just say ‘No.’
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Married Moments
When you’ve been married for a while, things change.
Not in a bad way, not in a good way…just a ‘different’ way.
You see, when you first get married, the normal every day stuff you do becomes a minefield of probable inappropriateness.
For example, going to the bathroom becomes a big production. You make sure the door’s locked, put a towel at the bottom of the door to keep the noises and smells in, turn on the shower, cough loudly every time you fart in there…God forbid that she knows that you are even capable of crapping.
It’s a mess.
It’s the same when it comes to laundry. You’d rather throw your underwear away than have your new beautiful wife to be pick them up and notice that they smell slightly.
But as time goes on you get used to each other, comfortable with each other…and this leads to ‘Married Moments’.
So what exactly is a ‘Married Moment’?
A married moment is when you discover that you know your significant other so well, that you either do something, or ask them to do something, that you wouldn’t do with anyone else…
…No, I’m not talking about THAT, you filthy minded reprobates! Get your minds out of the gutter, people.
Now that unpleasantness is out of the way, let me give you an actual real life example.
When I was first married, I would actually get up, get dressed and then check myself thoroughly in the mirror. Does my T-Shirt go with these pants? How’s my hair? Any five ‘o clock shadow?
Now that doesn’t sound so unusual, until you realize that I was preening myself for a full day of sitting on the couch and watching TV.
Basically, you get dressed with the same amount of precision, to sit in your own living room, that you would for a night out on the town. God forbid your wife see that your socks, while the same color, are not EXACTLY the same length.
Then we fast-forward a couple years.
That’s when I find myself stepping out of the shower, gut hanging over the top of my towel, and I walk into the bedroom and say:
“Hey, sweetie? Do I have a spot on my back?”
Then I find myself asking:
“Does it look like it’s ready to pop?”
Then, I step across the line:
“Could ya get that for me?”
It’s at that point, when your wife asks you to turn another light on, to better see the disgusting zit on your back, then gets ready to pop it for you that you think:
“Oh my God, we are SO married!”
And you know what else? You can keep your flowers, chocolates and expensive gifts. When a woman is willing to pop a zit on your back that you can’t reach, and makes no big deal out of it, and can do it with a smile on her face…That’s love.
Not in a bad way, not in a good way…just a ‘different’ way.
You see, when you first get married, the normal every day stuff you do becomes a minefield of probable inappropriateness.
For example, going to the bathroom becomes a big production. You make sure the door’s locked, put a towel at the bottom of the door to keep the noises and smells in, turn on the shower, cough loudly every time you fart in there…God forbid that she knows that you are even capable of crapping.
It’s a mess.
It’s the same when it comes to laundry. You’d rather throw your underwear away than have your new beautiful wife to be pick them up and notice that they smell slightly.
But as time goes on you get used to each other, comfortable with each other…and this leads to ‘Married Moments’.
So what exactly is a ‘Married Moment’?
A married moment is when you discover that you know your significant other so well, that you either do something, or ask them to do something, that you wouldn’t do with anyone else…
…No, I’m not talking about THAT, you filthy minded reprobates! Get your minds out of the gutter, people.
Now that unpleasantness is out of the way, let me give you an actual real life example.
When I was first married, I would actually get up, get dressed and then check myself thoroughly in the mirror. Does my T-Shirt go with these pants? How’s my hair? Any five ‘o clock shadow?
Now that doesn’t sound so unusual, until you realize that I was preening myself for a full day of sitting on the couch and watching TV.
Basically, you get dressed with the same amount of precision, to sit in your own living room, that you would for a night out on the town. God forbid your wife see that your socks, while the same color, are not EXACTLY the same length.
Then we fast-forward a couple years.
That’s when I find myself stepping out of the shower, gut hanging over the top of my towel, and I walk into the bedroom and say:
“Hey, sweetie? Do I have a spot on my back?”
Then I find myself asking:
“Does it look like it’s ready to pop?”
Then, I step across the line:
“Could ya get that for me?”
It’s at that point, when your wife asks you to turn another light on, to better see the disgusting zit on your back, then gets ready to pop it for you that you think:
“Oh my God, we are SO married!”
And you know what else? You can keep your flowers, chocolates and expensive gifts. When a woman is willing to pop a zit on your back that you can’t reach, and makes no big deal out of it, and can do it with a smile on her face…That’s love.
De-Lurking Spray
Ok, I’ve got a bone to pick with you people.
Whilst scanning my stats, I’ve discovered that I have about 40 hits per day, 20 of which are regular visitors.
Now, if memory serves me correctly, I know of only four or five people who actually comment on this blog. I also know a few of the other readers who don’t, or rarely, comment (Hello, Mum, Dad, Jim and Gill).
So, out of 20 regular visitors, only about 8 of you comment.
So it’s about time that “Life, What the Hell is Going On?” was given a bloody good de-lurking.
So, all you quiet type readers out there…Make Yourself Known! I don’t need a life story, just gimme a ‘Hello’ in the comments section.
If you don’t, I’ll set fire to your teddy-bears.
Whilst scanning my stats, I’ve discovered that I have about 40 hits per day, 20 of which are regular visitors.
Now, if memory serves me correctly, I know of only four or five people who actually comment on this blog. I also know a few of the other readers who don’t, or rarely, comment (Hello, Mum, Dad, Jim and Gill).
So, out of 20 regular visitors, only about 8 of you comment.
So it’s about time that “Life, What the Hell is Going On?” was given a bloody good de-lurking.
So, all you quiet type readers out there…Make Yourself Known! I don’t need a life story, just gimme a ‘Hello’ in the comments section.
If you don’t, I’ll set fire to your teddy-bears.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Bad Wookie! Off The Furniture!
A few posts ago, I mentioned how Bosco, the new puppy chewed through the lead for my headset mic. I quote:
“Well, I’d rather have a puppy that destroys a $15 headset than one that craps all over the house.”
I rescind that statement…basically because it isn’t true.
You see, in some ways, Bosco is especially good. Despite the fact he’s been a family member for less than a week, he whines and lets you know when he needs to go to the bathroom, and every time you let him out he ‘does his business’.
What a good dog.
Well, that’s what I thought before I discovered his gargantuan ‘Stash ‘o Poop’ today.
You see, in our Kitchen, where Bosco prefers to sleep, there is a small storage room. It’s off the beaten path and is blocked to human access by my bike. The door is ajar, and there are no lights inside.
Well, today I was looking for something, opened the door, and just inside there was no less than 9 small poopy piles.
Our puppy is both figuratively and literally a ‘closet pooper’.
He’s also developed the annoying habit of doing his “I need to pee-pee” song and dance, and when you return from getting your shoes, he’s sitting proudly next to a puddle. I just wish he didn’t have one of those faces that looks like he’s constantly a half inch from floods of tears…because then I could stay mad at him.
Oh well, no one said that house training was going to be fun or easy.
On a completely different topic, have you seen those ads for the new Gillette razor?
Let’s do a quick history lesson.
At first, there where disposable razors, then someone had the idea to make a high quality razor handle, and sell replacement blades. This was a good idea.
Then Gillette had another great idea. Two blades instead of one, spring mounted to follow the curves of your face, and a moisturizing strip along the top edge. This was also a good idea.
This lead got copied, so Gillette had to come out with something new. So they invented the three bladed razor, with the grip stips to stretch your skin, and an entirely spring mounted head. This was a good idea…but it’s all starting to get a little bit silly. I mean, three blades?
Not to be outdone, Schick get in on the act and decide that they need to create a razor that will blow Gillette out of the water. The problem is that there’s not a lot extra that they can do. So what do they do? Release a razor with FOUR blades. This is starting to go right past silly, and into ridiculous country.
Then Gillette bites back with the ‘powered’ wet-razor. The marketing spiel say that this razor emits ‘micro pulses that make your beard stand up’. Unfortunately it doesn’t. It just makes the whole thing vibrate rather uncomfortably in your hand, and when the razor gets dull, it’s like trying to shave with a chainsaw. This is just plain stupid. Oh, and the button is perfectly placed for you to accidentally turn the damn thing off while shaving.
Then, there’s the latest ‘advance’. Yup, Gillette have released the worlds first FIVE bladed razor. Available in both powered and manual.
I mean, seriously…WTF? Two blades I can see. 3? Maybe…but five? What can five blades do that two can’t? Other than create four gaps between the blades to get gunked up with beard hair, of course.
What will we be shaving with in five years?
“The New Gillette Overly-macho-name Razor! The only razor with 86 blades for an unmatchable Shave! That is until Schick come out with an 87 bladed one, of course!”
Gimme a fucking break.
“Well, I’d rather have a puppy that destroys a $15 headset than one that craps all over the house.”
I rescind that statement…basically because it isn’t true.
You see, in some ways, Bosco is especially good. Despite the fact he’s been a family member for less than a week, he whines and lets you know when he needs to go to the bathroom, and every time you let him out he ‘does his business’.
What a good dog.
Well, that’s what I thought before I discovered his gargantuan ‘Stash ‘o Poop’ today.
You see, in our Kitchen, where Bosco prefers to sleep, there is a small storage room. It’s off the beaten path and is blocked to human access by my bike. The door is ajar, and there are no lights inside.
Well, today I was looking for something, opened the door, and just inside there was no less than 9 small poopy piles.
Our puppy is both figuratively and literally a ‘closet pooper’.
He’s also developed the annoying habit of doing his “I need to pee-pee” song and dance, and when you return from getting your shoes, he’s sitting proudly next to a puddle. I just wish he didn’t have one of those faces that looks like he’s constantly a half inch from floods of tears…because then I could stay mad at him.
Oh well, no one said that house training was going to be fun or easy.
On a completely different topic, have you seen those ads for the new Gillette razor?
Let’s do a quick history lesson.
At first, there where disposable razors, then someone had the idea to make a high quality razor handle, and sell replacement blades. This was a good idea.
Then Gillette had another great idea. Two blades instead of one, spring mounted to follow the curves of your face, and a moisturizing strip along the top edge. This was also a good idea.
This lead got copied, so Gillette had to come out with something new. So they invented the three bladed razor, with the grip stips to stretch your skin, and an entirely spring mounted head. This was a good idea…but it’s all starting to get a little bit silly. I mean, three blades?
Not to be outdone, Schick get in on the act and decide that they need to create a razor that will blow Gillette out of the water. The problem is that there’s not a lot extra that they can do. So what do they do? Release a razor with FOUR blades. This is starting to go right past silly, and into ridiculous country.
Then Gillette bites back with the ‘powered’ wet-razor. The marketing spiel say that this razor emits ‘micro pulses that make your beard stand up’. Unfortunately it doesn’t. It just makes the whole thing vibrate rather uncomfortably in your hand, and when the razor gets dull, it’s like trying to shave with a chainsaw. This is just plain stupid. Oh, and the button is perfectly placed for you to accidentally turn the damn thing off while shaving.
Then, there’s the latest ‘advance’. Yup, Gillette have released the worlds first FIVE bladed razor. Available in both powered and manual.
I mean, seriously…WTF? Two blades I can see. 3? Maybe…but five? What can five blades do that two can’t? Other than create four gaps between the blades to get gunked up with beard hair, of course.
What will we be shaving with in five years?
“The New Gillette Overly-macho-name Razor! The only razor with 86 blades for an unmatchable Shave! That is until Schick come out with an 87 bladed one, of course!”
Gimme a fucking break.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Picture the scene
Picture the scene.
You’re watching an old black and white British World War 2 movie, circa 1946. The scene opens as one British soldier falls from a sudden burst of machine gun fire. The three surviving soldiers quickly lie down behind a small rise in the ground.
Officer : “Ok chaps! One of you needs to run up that hill and throw a grenade into that Jerry pill-box. Jenkins, you go.”
Jenkins : “No!”
Officer : “What?!?”
Jenkins : “No bloody way!”
Officer : “Now, come on Jenkins! Do your duty! Take out that pill box!”
Jenkins : “No, sir. That’s bloody dangerous that is! You go!”
Other soldier: “Yeah, why don’t you do it, sir?”
Officer : “Fuuuuck off!”
They’re silent for a few moments.
Jenkins: “Surrender, sir?”
Officer : “Alright, who’s turn is it?”
Other Soldier : “Mine, sir.”
Officer : “Alright, Jenkins, give him the white flag.”
Jenkins hands the other soldier a white flag, when from across the field, we suddenly see not one, but four white flags start waving from the German Pill Box.
Other Soldier : “Look, they’re surrendering!”
Jenkins : “Quick! Shoot ‘em!”
--- --- --- --- --- ---
I have to point out there that the above is not meant as a slight against my fellow countrymen’s bravery during WW2. It’s actually a sketch from the British comedy show named simply “The Fast Show.”
I must say, it loses a lot in translation into text. There’s nothing like seeing your typical stoic ‘stiff upper lip’ Army Officer telling his men to ‘fuck off’, as if the idea of putting himself in any kind of danger is utterly absurd.
No, the reason I’m sharing this with you today is because something reminded me of it. Rather bizarrely, it was when I was playing “Star Wars : Rogue Squadron II” on the Gamecube.
You see, one of the biggest complaints about video games, in the past, was that you never really got to do the ‘cool’ stuff.
Yeah, in a Star Wars game, you may have got to shoot down a few Tie-Fighters in space, but the technology just wasn’t there to create the few hundred fighters, the 20 or 30 capital ships, and the interior of the Death Star and all the rest of the cool things that make up the ‘Battle of Endor’ movie sequence.
Now you can create all those things in a game…and sometimes, in an effort to let you do all the ‘cool’ stuuf, the game designers make you do just a little too much.
Cool as that is, it can take you a little out of the ‘experience’.
Let me explain with a side by side comparison:
In the movie, the second Death Star (otherwise known as the ‘Sphere o’ Fear’, or the ‘Deathsticle’…basically a huge ball with a massive planet-destroying gun on it), is halfway through being built. The rebels have to blow it up before it gets completed, because if they don’t, it’ll be indestructible.
However, the mean old Emperor actually leaked the location of the new Death Star to the rebels, sweetened the deal by actually being on the thing…but has actually got the big gun working. Basically, it’s a trap.
The rebel fleet arrives, finds a few hundred Star Destroyers (The big pizza slice looking ships) behind them, and they’re trapped as a very trapped thing…in a trap.
In the movie, we see the space battle start, then you see the ground battle where our plucky heroes manage to blow up the big satellite dish (they must have on hell of a TV service on the Forest Moon of Endor) that is shielding the Deathsticle.
The good guys fly into the giant space station, through the incomplete superstructure, and lay a massive smack-down on the power generator. It blows up.
Woot! The Ewoks sing the ‘Yub Yub Song’ (At least in the non-ruined version), and all is well with the galaxy.
Great, right? Lots of people working together to save the day.
Now let’s move onto the game.
It starts just like in the movie. You fly towards the Deathsticle, you discover the shields are still up, and then you turn your fighter around to see the giant grey pizza slices looming menacingly in the distance.
A few seconds later a few hundred enemy fighters swarm you.
This is your first challenge. It’s not too bad at this point. There appear to be a good few friendly ships helping you out. You fight away, and destroy some bad guys.
Then Lando the Space Pimp warns you that they’re going for the medical frigate.
Ok, about 40 fighters swarming it.
I’ll just take them on all by myself, right? I mean, the two wingmen you gave me already crashed their fighters by drooling so badly on their controls that they stopped responding…not that the retards noticed.
Well… I AM supposed to be one of the greatest fighter pilots in the galaxy.
So you take them out. A few moments after the last one is kablooey, Lando takes another break from pimping his Space Whores to warn you that there are bombers heading for the medical frigate.
Ok, this is getting a little old. If this ship is so bloody important…so important in fact that its destruction ends the mission in failure…why aren’t they sending more fighters to help me out? Why not just park one of those bloody great Space Pickles (Sorry, I mean Mon Cal cruisers, arguably the most powerful capital ships in the galaxy) next to it and just blow them to hell?
No, it’s ok. The other pilots are busy hiding behind stuff, I’ll take them on by myself…again.
(I really need to find a better fighter-pilot union).
So after crunching my way through about 50 bombers, the Deathstickle shows its teeth by blasting a bloody big hole through a Mon-cal Cruiser.
The fish-looking guy absolutely shits himself and wants to run away…but the Space Pimp tells him to chill, because Han Solo (whose name sounds scarily like a masturbation euphemism) will have the shield down.
Yep, so the Fish-Admiral takes tactical advice from a Space-Pimp, who in the last movie sold Han-Solo and all his friends to Darth Vader. Exactly the person I’d want to take tactical advice from.
His advice? Instead of going left or right, to get out of range of both the Pizzas AND the Deathsticle…he advises getting as close to the Star Destroyers as possible.
Good work, Space Pimp.
So I’m just tootling around in my X-wing. What’s my part in this going to be? Just avoid the bad guys and stay alive until the shields come down?
No, apparently my job is to take out TWO Star Destroyers by myself. That’s right, I’m in a 17 foot long fighter with 4 guns and 8 missiles. I’m supposed to destroy, not just one, but TWO 6 mile long pizzas ‘o death. Each of which has literally thousands of guns…many of which can turn my fighter into a fine powder with two shots.
Ever seen a mouse rape try to rape an elephant?
Anyway, I remember that I’m Mr. Super-Space-Adventure-Pilot-Guy, and that this game doesn’t have a “Tell Space Pimp to go fuck himself and run off to one of those planets with the scantily clad, triple breasted women who always ask “Show me what this human ‘love’ is” like on almost every episode of Star Trek”” option.
The worst part is that while you’re attacking the solid slabs of death, single handedly, Space Pimp keeps getting on the radio to tell you to hurry up.
Oh, and if you take too long, and one of the death-pizzas gets in range of one of the space-pickles, fish-man shits himself again, and starts bitching along with space pimp.
That’s right, the heavily shielded space-pickle, with all its hundreds of guns can’t possibly take a hit from a Star Destroyer. After all, you don’t send a gargantuan ship, absolutely bristling with armament to take out another gargantuan weapon-bearded ship:
You send me, in my equivalent of a space ford-fiesta, with four BB guns tied to the roof-rack.
Then, if you manage to survive that, you get to fly into the actual Deathsticle itself, which is a lot like trying to back an articulated lorry through a hedge-maze, with a half inch of clearance on each side. Oh, and if you manage that, you then get to do the course in reverse…with an explosion chasing you.
Anyone else think they ‘Top Brass’ are asking just a little too much of you?
If Star Wars was real, here’s what would really happen.
Space-Pimp : “They’re heading for the medical frigate!”
Me : “I’m on it!”
Peeeeeeeeyow! Peeeeeyow! Boom! (ooooh, pretty explosion!)
Me : “It’s ok, Space Pimp. I took care of those be-hotches.”
Space-Pimp : “Whatever. Look out! They’re sending bombers!”
Me : “Uhhh, little help…please?”
Space Pimp : “No can do. One against 40 ain’t so bad. I’d help you, but I’m busy…uuuuh, flying over HERE in my ship, the one that has more shields and weapons than yours.”
Me : “So you’re not going to help? Or send any help? You’re going to leave me alone to tackle 40…count ‘em, 40 enemy ships?”
Spsce Pimp : “That’s the long and short of it, yes.”
Me : “You’re a complete and utter fucking bastard. If I survive this, I’m sticking an R2 unit up your backside.”
Peeeeyow! Booom Rattattaaa! (And all that bollocks).
Me : “Ok, I’m done, but my ship now looks like swiss cheese. Any chance of me landing on a carrier for a bit of a breather? I think the 80 ships I just shot down means I’ve done my bit in this battle.”
Space Pimp : “No! Wait! That blast came from the big ball thingy! You! Disposable fighter dude! Go and attack those two Star Destroyers…on your own. I’ll stay here and guard this bit of empty space…you know. In case we need it.”
Me : “Did you hear what I just said? My shields are gone, my R2 unit has just shit itself, I’ve got holes all over my ship, and I think I’m a little bit on fire!”
Space Pimp : “So? You know the drill. You have to go destroy those giant capital ships before they get near our capital ships!”
Me : “Uh, why?”
Space Pimp : “To protect them!”
Me : “So what you’re saying is that despite the fact I’m flying a small fighter, that just happens to be on fire…and despite the fact that I’ve just killed 80 guys…I’ve got to protect our capital ships?”
Space Pimp : “Uh-huh.”
Me : “The ones with the fifty bazillion kajillion watt shield generators, and all those bloody big guns on them?”
Space Pimp : “That’s right.”
Me : “Uh, why?”
Space Pimp : “Because they need protecting, dammit!”
Me : “So let me get this straight. Despite the fact they’re the biggest and most powerful ships here…we can’t let the other big ships anywhere near them.”
Space Pimp : “Finally, you’re getting it!”
Me : “So, why are they here?”
Space Pimp : “Wha?”
Me : “Well, all our little ships have their own hyper-drives, meaning the big ships didn’t come along to deliver us here. Therefore, we don’t need them to get home, and it’s our jobs in our little ships to shoot their little ships. So obviously the big ships aren’t here to take out their little ships, but you’re saying our big ships can’t actually get in range to shoot at THEIR big ships, because if they did, the big ships could shoot back at them.”
Space Pimp : “Yeah.”
Me : “So what are they for? From what I can see, they’re not contributing anything to the battle…so we don’t actually, as such, NEED them, do we?”
Space Pimp : “Well, not as such, no.”
Me : “So fuck ‘em.”
Space Pimp : “That’s enough! Now go take out those two closest Star Destroyers, and when you’re done, go fly into the Death Star and blow it up from the inside. Oh, and Fish-guy says hurry up. Some of those laser blasts are getting close, and the light is hurting his eyes and keeping him awake. He’s got to be nice and fresh to accept all the credit for winning this battle, so go win it for him. He says he wants more pretty, shiny medals.”
Me : “Right! That’s it!”
Space Pimp : “What’s ‘it’?”
Me : “This is. You lot are a bunch of fucking loonies. R2, plot us a course out of here. We are officially fucking off.”
Space Pimp : “You can’t do that!”
Me : “Fuck you, Lando. I’m Offski! Oh, and all your whores have crabs.”
And with that, the X-wing goes into hyperspace.
Epilogue:
The X-wing pilot landed on some far-flung backwater planet and just chilled for the rest of his life. The Rebel Alliance got fist-fucked at the Battle of Endor…which they deserved…stupid bastards.
You’re watching an old black and white British World War 2 movie, circa 1946. The scene opens as one British soldier falls from a sudden burst of machine gun fire. The three surviving soldiers quickly lie down behind a small rise in the ground.
Officer : “Ok chaps! One of you needs to run up that hill and throw a grenade into that Jerry pill-box. Jenkins, you go.”
Jenkins : “No!”
Officer : “What?!?”
Jenkins : “No bloody way!”
Officer : “Now, come on Jenkins! Do your duty! Take out that pill box!”
Jenkins : “No, sir. That’s bloody dangerous that is! You go!”
Other soldier: “Yeah, why don’t you do it, sir?”
Officer : “Fuuuuck off!”
They’re silent for a few moments.
Jenkins: “Surrender, sir?”
Officer : “Alright, who’s turn is it?”
Other Soldier : “Mine, sir.”
Officer : “Alright, Jenkins, give him the white flag.”
Jenkins hands the other soldier a white flag, when from across the field, we suddenly see not one, but four white flags start waving from the German Pill Box.
Other Soldier : “Look, they’re surrendering!”
Jenkins : “Quick! Shoot ‘em!”
--- --- --- --- --- ---
I have to point out there that the above is not meant as a slight against my fellow countrymen’s bravery during WW2. It’s actually a sketch from the British comedy show named simply “The Fast Show.”
I must say, it loses a lot in translation into text. There’s nothing like seeing your typical stoic ‘stiff upper lip’ Army Officer telling his men to ‘fuck off’, as if the idea of putting himself in any kind of danger is utterly absurd.
No, the reason I’m sharing this with you today is because something reminded me of it. Rather bizarrely, it was when I was playing “Star Wars : Rogue Squadron II” on the Gamecube.
You see, one of the biggest complaints about video games, in the past, was that you never really got to do the ‘cool’ stuff.
Yeah, in a Star Wars game, you may have got to shoot down a few Tie-Fighters in space, but the technology just wasn’t there to create the few hundred fighters, the 20 or 30 capital ships, and the interior of the Death Star and all the rest of the cool things that make up the ‘Battle of Endor’ movie sequence.
Now you can create all those things in a game…and sometimes, in an effort to let you do all the ‘cool’ stuuf, the game designers make you do just a little too much.
Cool as that is, it can take you a little out of the ‘experience’.
Let me explain with a side by side comparison:
In the movie, the second Death Star (otherwise known as the ‘Sphere o’ Fear’, or the ‘Deathsticle’…basically a huge ball with a massive planet-destroying gun on it), is halfway through being built. The rebels have to blow it up before it gets completed, because if they don’t, it’ll be indestructible.
However, the mean old Emperor actually leaked the location of the new Death Star to the rebels, sweetened the deal by actually being on the thing…but has actually got the big gun working. Basically, it’s a trap.
The rebel fleet arrives, finds a few hundred Star Destroyers (The big pizza slice looking ships) behind them, and they’re trapped as a very trapped thing…in a trap.
In the movie, we see the space battle start, then you see the ground battle where our plucky heroes manage to blow up the big satellite dish (they must have on hell of a TV service on the Forest Moon of Endor) that is shielding the Deathsticle.
The good guys fly into the giant space station, through the incomplete superstructure, and lay a massive smack-down on the power generator. It blows up.
Woot! The Ewoks sing the ‘Yub Yub Song’ (At least in the non-ruined version), and all is well with the galaxy.
Great, right? Lots of people working together to save the day.
Now let’s move onto the game.
It starts just like in the movie. You fly towards the Deathsticle, you discover the shields are still up, and then you turn your fighter around to see the giant grey pizza slices looming menacingly in the distance.
A few seconds later a few hundred enemy fighters swarm you.
This is your first challenge. It’s not too bad at this point. There appear to be a good few friendly ships helping you out. You fight away, and destroy some bad guys.
Then Lando the Space Pimp warns you that they’re going for the medical frigate.
Ok, about 40 fighters swarming it.
I’ll just take them on all by myself, right? I mean, the two wingmen you gave me already crashed their fighters by drooling so badly on their controls that they stopped responding…not that the retards noticed.
Well… I AM supposed to be one of the greatest fighter pilots in the galaxy.
So you take them out. A few moments after the last one is kablooey, Lando takes another break from pimping his Space Whores to warn you that there are bombers heading for the medical frigate.
Ok, this is getting a little old. If this ship is so bloody important…so important in fact that its destruction ends the mission in failure…why aren’t they sending more fighters to help me out? Why not just park one of those bloody great Space Pickles (Sorry, I mean Mon Cal cruisers, arguably the most powerful capital ships in the galaxy) next to it and just blow them to hell?
No, it’s ok. The other pilots are busy hiding behind stuff, I’ll take them on by myself…again.
(I really need to find a better fighter-pilot union).
So after crunching my way through about 50 bombers, the Deathstickle shows its teeth by blasting a bloody big hole through a Mon-cal Cruiser.
The fish-looking guy absolutely shits himself and wants to run away…but the Space Pimp tells him to chill, because Han Solo (whose name sounds scarily like a masturbation euphemism) will have the shield down.
Yep, so the Fish-Admiral takes tactical advice from a Space-Pimp, who in the last movie sold Han-Solo and all his friends to Darth Vader. Exactly the person I’d want to take tactical advice from.
His advice? Instead of going left or right, to get out of range of both the Pizzas AND the Deathsticle…he advises getting as close to the Star Destroyers as possible.
Good work, Space Pimp.
So I’m just tootling around in my X-wing. What’s my part in this going to be? Just avoid the bad guys and stay alive until the shields come down?
No, apparently my job is to take out TWO Star Destroyers by myself. That’s right, I’m in a 17 foot long fighter with 4 guns and 8 missiles. I’m supposed to destroy, not just one, but TWO 6 mile long pizzas ‘o death. Each of which has literally thousands of guns…many of which can turn my fighter into a fine powder with two shots.
Ever seen a mouse rape try to rape an elephant?
Anyway, I remember that I’m Mr. Super-Space-Adventure-Pilot-Guy, and that this game doesn’t have a “Tell Space Pimp to go fuck himself and run off to one of those planets with the scantily clad, triple breasted women who always ask “Show me what this human ‘love’ is” like on almost every episode of Star Trek”” option.
The worst part is that while you’re attacking the solid slabs of death, single handedly, Space Pimp keeps getting on the radio to tell you to hurry up.
Oh, and if you take too long, and one of the death-pizzas gets in range of one of the space-pickles, fish-man shits himself again, and starts bitching along with space pimp.
That’s right, the heavily shielded space-pickle, with all its hundreds of guns can’t possibly take a hit from a Star Destroyer. After all, you don’t send a gargantuan ship, absolutely bristling with armament to take out another gargantuan weapon-bearded ship:
You send me, in my equivalent of a space ford-fiesta, with four BB guns tied to the roof-rack.
Then, if you manage to survive that, you get to fly into the actual Deathsticle itself, which is a lot like trying to back an articulated lorry through a hedge-maze, with a half inch of clearance on each side. Oh, and if you manage that, you then get to do the course in reverse…with an explosion chasing you.
Anyone else think they ‘Top Brass’ are asking just a little too much of you?
If Star Wars was real, here’s what would really happen.
Space-Pimp : “They’re heading for the medical frigate!”
Me : “I’m on it!”
Peeeeeeeeyow! Peeeeeyow! Boom! (ooooh, pretty explosion!)
Me : “It’s ok, Space Pimp. I took care of those be-hotches.”
Space-Pimp : “Whatever. Look out! They’re sending bombers!”
Me : “Uhhh, little help…please?”
Space Pimp : “No can do. One against 40 ain’t so bad. I’d help you, but I’m busy…uuuuh, flying over HERE in my ship, the one that has more shields and weapons than yours.”
Me : “So you’re not going to help? Or send any help? You’re going to leave me alone to tackle 40…count ‘em, 40 enemy ships?”
Spsce Pimp : “That’s the long and short of it, yes.”
Me : “You’re a complete and utter fucking bastard. If I survive this, I’m sticking an R2 unit up your backside.”
Peeeeyow! Booom Rattattaaa! (And all that bollocks).
Me : “Ok, I’m done, but my ship now looks like swiss cheese. Any chance of me landing on a carrier for a bit of a breather? I think the 80 ships I just shot down means I’ve done my bit in this battle.”
Space Pimp : “No! Wait! That blast came from the big ball thingy! You! Disposable fighter dude! Go and attack those two Star Destroyers…on your own. I’ll stay here and guard this bit of empty space…you know. In case we need it.”
Me : “Did you hear what I just said? My shields are gone, my R2 unit has just shit itself, I’ve got holes all over my ship, and I think I’m a little bit on fire!”
Space Pimp : “So? You know the drill. You have to go destroy those giant capital ships before they get near our capital ships!”
Me : “Uh, why?”
Space Pimp : “To protect them!”
Me : “So what you’re saying is that despite the fact I’m flying a small fighter, that just happens to be on fire…and despite the fact that I’ve just killed 80 guys…I’ve got to protect our capital ships?”
Space Pimp : “Uh-huh.”
Me : “The ones with the fifty bazillion kajillion watt shield generators, and all those bloody big guns on them?”
Space Pimp : “That’s right.”
Me : “Uh, why?”
Space Pimp : “Because they need protecting, dammit!”
Me : “So let me get this straight. Despite the fact they’re the biggest and most powerful ships here…we can’t let the other big ships anywhere near them.”
Space Pimp : “Finally, you’re getting it!”
Me : “So, why are they here?”
Space Pimp : “Wha?”
Me : “Well, all our little ships have their own hyper-drives, meaning the big ships didn’t come along to deliver us here. Therefore, we don’t need them to get home, and it’s our jobs in our little ships to shoot their little ships. So obviously the big ships aren’t here to take out their little ships, but you’re saying our big ships can’t actually get in range to shoot at THEIR big ships, because if they did, the big ships could shoot back at them.”
Space Pimp : “Yeah.”
Me : “So what are they for? From what I can see, they’re not contributing anything to the battle…so we don’t actually, as such, NEED them, do we?”
Space Pimp : “Well, not as such, no.”
Me : “So fuck ‘em.”
Space Pimp : “That’s enough! Now go take out those two closest Star Destroyers, and when you’re done, go fly into the Death Star and blow it up from the inside. Oh, and Fish-guy says hurry up. Some of those laser blasts are getting close, and the light is hurting his eyes and keeping him awake. He’s got to be nice and fresh to accept all the credit for winning this battle, so go win it for him. He says he wants more pretty, shiny medals.”
Me : “Right! That’s it!”
Space Pimp : “What’s ‘it’?”
Me : “This is. You lot are a bunch of fucking loonies. R2, plot us a course out of here. We are officially fucking off.”
Space Pimp : “You can’t do that!”
Me : “Fuck you, Lando. I’m Offski! Oh, and all your whores have crabs.”
And with that, the X-wing goes into hyperspace.
Epilogue:
The X-wing pilot landed on some far-flung backwater planet and just chilled for the rest of his life. The Rebel Alliance got fist-fucked at the Battle of Endor…which they deserved…stupid bastards.
I'm Pissed...and I'm Bloody Happy About It
So we received yet another communiqué from our friends at the Department of Homeland Security. (That’s immigration to you and me).
This time we got yet another request for more information. After almost two years, they’ve decided now that the copy of our marriage license was not good enough, and we have to send off the original.
This ads yet another 90 days to my wait for a work permit as “No work permit may be issued until 90 days after this information is received”.
This puts me at Work Permit ETA at May 14th. Almost two years, one month, to the day that I first stepped foot into the country.
It’s a bit of a bugger, but to be honest, it’s a huge relief.
Why?
Because last time I heard from them, they told me that I needed to send them a bunch of forms (The ones that prove I took and passed a medical before I entered the USA). The problem was that I had already sent these forms, and didn’t have any more copies of them. (Let’s just say that since then, we get two notarized copies of every form we send them).
So here was the deal. I could either:
We went with option ‘c’…the only one we could do.
Now, not to badmouth them, but immigration is not ‘free’ with its information. You see, the onus is on me to get all the information I need. So if I write to the processing staff explaining the situation, they’re quite within their rights to say: “It’s not my job to explain the process to you, we asked you for information, and if you don’t provide it within the time limit, we’ll deny your application.”
In other words, I don’t hear anything until an Immigration Enforcement Officer turns up on my doorstep, takes me to an Immigrant Detention Center (read: Jail), until someone arranges passage back to England for me.
Let’s just say that my parents are coming to visit in April, and I was starting to have serious doubts as to whether I’d still be over here by then.
So basically, despite the fact that it was yet another delay, it means the other problem is solved, and I’m safe again.
Phew!
In other news, today I found myself holding a piece of paper up to my webcam that read:
“Mum and Dad. Puppy Ate Headset. Start Text Chat. The Button is At the Top of This Window.”
Yup, the little bastard chewed through the cord that I foolishly left dangling from the desk.
But as I told them, once I dug out my old crappy mic:
“I’d rather have a pup that destroyed a $15 headset, and learned his lesson…than one that craps all over the house.”
This time we got yet another request for more information. After almost two years, they’ve decided now that the copy of our marriage license was not good enough, and we have to send off the original.
This ads yet another 90 days to my wait for a work permit as “No work permit may be issued until 90 days after this information is received”.
This puts me at Work Permit ETA at May 14th. Almost two years, one month, to the day that I first stepped foot into the country.
It’s a bit of a bugger, but to be honest, it’s a huge relief.
Why?
Because last time I heard from them, they told me that I needed to send them a bunch of forms (The ones that prove I took and passed a medical before I entered the USA). The problem was that I had already sent these forms, and didn’t have any more copies of them. (Let’s just say that since then, we get two notarized copies of every form we send them).
So here was the deal. I could either:
- Get on a plane back to England, go to London and ask the doctor for another copy (These forms can’t be mailed from the doctor). This has the added complication in that my Visa has expired. Although I’m perfectly legal in the USA as long as immigration is processing my status change…if I leave the USA, I’m not allowed back in…so I’d have to go back through the whole Visa process (2 years and about $40,000, including phonecalls and airfare)
- Take another medical over here, one that would cost about $500, and send in the new forms (Which we could in no-way afford).
- Write to them, explain the situation, and hope for the best.
We went with option ‘c’…the only one we could do.
Now, not to badmouth them, but immigration is not ‘free’ with its information. You see, the onus is on me to get all the information I need. So if I write to the processing staff explaining the situation, they’re quite within their rights to say: “It’s not my job to explain the process to you, we asked you for information, and if you don’t provide it within the time limit, we’ll deny your application.”
In other words, I don’t hear anything until an Immigration Enforcement Officer turns up on my doorstep, takes me to an Immigrant Detention Center (read: Jail), until someone arranges passage back to England for me.
Let’s just say that my parents are coming to visit in April, and I was starting to have serious doubts as to whether I’d still be over here by then.
So basically, despite the fact that it was yet another delay, it means the other problem is solved, and I’m safe again.
Phew!
In other news, today I found myself holding a piece of paper up to my webcam that read:
“Mum and Dad. Puppy Ate Headset. Start Text Chat. The Button is At the Top of This Window.”
Yup, the little bastard chewed through the cord that I foolishly left dangling from the desk.
But as I told them, once I dug out my old crappy mic:
“I’d rather have a pup that destroyed a $15 headset, and learned his lesson…than one that craps all over the house.”
Monday, February 13, 2006
Great! Great. Uh, Can You Go Away Now Please?
Hey all,
Sorry I’ve been silent for the past few days, trust me, it was with good reason. Basically, every post topic I could think of had something to do with the new puppy, our cat’s reaction to it, or other cutesy pet stuff.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but to me at least, there’s nothing more boring than listening to a long diatribe about the cute things other people’s pets do. It’s like “We know, your puppy is acting like a puppy! What a shocker!”
It’s the same with babies. When it’s your child, everything it does is miraculous. The rest of us just think it’s a baby. As a side note, have you ever noticed every single baby you ever meet is always ‘advanced for its age’?
“See the way he moves his eyes? Not all babies can do that! The doctor says he’s very advanced!”
Just once I’d like for someone to get a new pet or child and say “Yeah, he’s completely normal in every way.”
However, in case you have some weird OCD disorder, where you really have to know about other people’s pets, here’s the ultra, super condensed version:
Puppy’s settled in, and has started acting like a boisterous puppy. Cat didn’t like it. Cat ran away from home. Cat came back two hours later when it got cold. Puppy ate, drank, did all kinds of cute puppy stuff and fell asleep. Cat now sleeps out of the puppy’s reach.
(Deep breath)
Ok, I think that about covers it.
Today’s post is actually about something that’s very British to talk about. The weather.
Ok, Americans… your weather sucks.
There, I’ve said it.
You see, there are 4 seasons in Britain: Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring.
In America (or at least the South) you have two seasons . Two seasons that I like to call “Far too bloody hot.” And “Far too bloody cold”. There isn’t even a couple of short transition seasons. One day it’s 110 degrees in the shade, the next it’s 20 below.
We’re currently in the middle of a powerful cold snap. Cold enough to have three full sized heaters running in our living room alone, and if you turn just one off, it’s 50 degrees in that room 5 seconds later.
The only good side of this is that our refrigerator gave up the ghost a few days ago, so the food that was in the fridge will actually still last for a while. The outside of are fridge was actually colder than the inside.
However, I don’t want this post to be purely about weather differences. I like to save that to freak out people when they ask me inane questions about England.
You see, one of the downsides of being an immigrant is that you CONSTANTLY get asked what your home country is like. In order to keep that flimsy grip on my sanity, I have to continually make up creative ways to describe England in the hope that:
a) I won’t completely lose it one day upon being asked the “Do you live in thatched cottages over there?” question for the 14 billionth time, and:
b) You may freak out the questioner enough that they won’t ask you any more questions.
For example, here is my current answer to the question: “What’s the weather like in England?”:
I stay quiet for a few moments, think a while, then respond:
“Well, rainfall is a considerable factor, yet there is also the situation where over 65% of our days are overcast, which instills in our populace a kind of strange introspective melancholy, that is both undesirable and almost totally alien to our West Atlantic counterparts. In fact, many a sage thinker believes that it is this meteorological induced melancholy that has led to the ironically ‘dry’ and caustic British sense of humor. Although, the fall of the British Empire may be at least partly to blame for the state of our national conciousness…but I don’t think we’ll ever explain why we find men dressed up as ladies so comically appealing.”
This, of course, delivered in stark contrast to my old reply which used to be:
“Like here, but colder and wetter.”
Another good ‘go away’ answer is the one that leaves the asker both bewildered and slightly scared. For example:
“So what do they do in England?” (I never understand this question. For fun? For work? What?)
My answer:
“Well, I personally like to paint my toenails like talons, so when I pick mice up with my feet, I can pretend I’m an Eagle.”
You get the point.
However, one question which will never have an answer is this:
Why is it, in the dead of summer, when it tops 100 degrees in the shade, do we turn on our air conditioning, and only feel comfortable when the temperature in our homes drops to around 65-70 degrees. Yet in winter, we only feel comfortable when we heat our homes up to about 80?
I mean, totally! WTF dude?
Sorry I’ve been silent for the past few days, trust me, it was with good reason. Basically, every post topic I could think of had something to do with the new puppy, our cat’s reaction to it, or other cutesy pet stuff.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but to me at least, there’s nothing more boring than listening to a long diatribe about the cute things other people’s pets do. It’s like “We know, your puppy is acting like a puppy! What a shocker!”
It’s the same with babies. When it’s your child, everything it does is miraculous. The rest of us just think it’s a baby. As a side note, have you ever noticed every single baby you ever meet is always ‘advanced for its age’?
“See the way he moves his eyes? Not all babies can do that! The doctor says he’s very advanced!”
Just once I’d like for someone to get a new pet or child and say “Yeah, he’s completely normal in every way.”
However, in case you have some weird OCD disorder, where you really have to know about other people’s pets, here’s the ultra, super condensed version:
Puppy’s settled in, and has started acting like a boisterous puppy. Cat didn’t like it. Cat ran away from home. Cat came back two hours later when it got cold. Puppy ate, drank, did all kinds of cute puppy stuff and fell asleep. Cat now sleeps out of the puppy’s reach.
(Deep breath)
Ok, I think that about covers it.
Today’s post is actually about something that’s very British to talk about. The weather.
Ok, Americans… your weather sucks.
There, I’ve said it.
You see, there are 4 seasons in Britain: Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring.
In America (or at least the South) you have two seasons . Two seasons that I like to call “Far too bloody hot.” And “Far too bloody cold”. There isn’t even a couple of short transition seasons. One day it’s 110 degrees in the shade, the next it’s 20 below.
We’re currently in the middle of a powerful cold snap. Cold enough to have three full sized heaters running in our living room alone, and if you turn just one off, it’s 50 degrees in that room 5 seconds later.
The only good side of this is that our refrigerator gave up the ghost a few days ago, so the food that was in the fridge will actually still last for a while. The outside of are fridge was actually colder than the inside.
However, I don’t want this post to be purely about weather differences. I like to save that to freak out people when they ask me inane questions about England.
You see, one of the downsides of being an immigrant is that you CONSTANTLY get asked what your home country is like. In order to keep that flimsy grip on my sanity, I have to continually make up creative ways to describe England in the hope that:
a) I won’t completely lose it one day upon being asked the “Do you live in thatched cottages over there?” question for the 14 billionth time, and:
b) You may freak out the questioner enough that they won’t ask you any more questions.
For example, here is my current answer to the question: “What’s the weather like in England?”:
I stay quiet for a few moments, think a while, then respond:
“Well, rainfall is a considerable factor, yet there is also the situation where over 65% of our days are overcast, which instills in our populace a kind of strange introspective melancholy, that is both undesirable and almost totally alien to our West Atlantic counterparts. In fact, many a sage thinker believes that it is this meteorological induced melancholy that has led to the ironically ‘dry’ and caustic British sense of humor. Although, the fall of the British Empire may be at least partly to blame for the state of our national conciousness…but I don’t think we’ll ever explain why we find men dressed up as ladies so comically appealing.”
This, of course, delivered in stark contrast to my old reply which used to be:
“Like here, but colder and wetter.”
Another good ‘go away’ answer is the one that leaves the asker both bewildered and slightly scared. For example:
“So what do they do in England?” (I never understand this question. For fun? For work? What?)
My answer:
“Well, I personally like to paint my toenails like talons, so when I pick mice up with my feet, I can pretend I’m an Eagle.”
You get the point.
However, one question which will never have an answer is this:
Why is it, in the dead of summer, when it tops 100 degrees in the shade, do we turn on our air conditioning, and only feel comfortable when the temperature in our homes drops to around 65-70 degrees. Yet in winter, we only feel comfortable when we heat our homes up to about 80?
I mean, totally! WTF dude?
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Puppies!
Ah, puppies. Is anything cuter?
Everyone likes puppies, and in fact, if you ever come across anyone who sees a puppy, and doesn’t say “Awwww, how cute!” Report them to the nearest police station, as they’re obviously Satanists and/or communists.
The new puppy (Christened ‘Boscoe’ by Sunny, she didn’t want any more Star Wars names…although I’ve taken to calling him ‘Buddy’), is settling in nicely.
I’m sorry to say, however, that it looks like his original owners abused him… although the fact he was outside, alone, at night in 20 degree weather should have tipped me off about that.
I let him outside last night to do his puppy-poopie, and I tried to pick him up to bring him back in, and as I approached in the dark, he backed away. Thinking he just wanted to investigate the outside, I grabbed him…and the poor thing freaked the fuck out.
I started talking to him, and once he recognized my voice he calmed down.
Any sudden movements, and he jumps a few feet into the air.
The good news, however, is it hasn’t taken him long to get over it. He spent most of last night and today sleeping and getting used to the place, and now he’s started to actually act like a puppy. In fact, right now, he’s amusing himself by throwing a rope chew toy around in front of the TV. If he doesn’t see you coming, he’ll still jump and yelp a little…but if he knows it’s you, he’s glad as hell to see you.
To be honest, I’m bloody proud of him. He’s a very fast learner. He knows he can chew his chew toy, but not shoes or furniture (although he will have the occasional relapse), and it only took one or two ‘accidents’, before he learned that if he scratches at someone’s ankles and whines, they’ll take him outside.
Although this may be too much information, he’s 6 out of 8 for pooping outside.
To be completely honest, I know what’s happened. Boscoe is probably just one of a few thousand puppies that were given as Christmas presents.
It’s the old cliché. Little boy or girl wants puppy for Christmas, and their stupid parents go ahead and buy one, with no idea of what raising a puppy involves. Then they’re honestly surprised that a 2 month old puppy doesn’t actually know that it’s not supposed to use the living room rug as a bathroom, not to use the couch as a chew toy, and needs an awful lot of attention. Then they think the way to train a puppy is the beat the hell out of it every time it does something wrong.
Then, the novelty wears off. Little Timmy doesn’t want to clean up after him or walk him every day, Mum and Dad get sick of taking care of it…so the poor thing is kicked out to fend for itself.
It’s upsetting to think about, but if we hadn’t brought Boscoe in, he’d probably have been dead by Monday. It was 26 degrees the day we found him. It almost as cold, and it’s raining today.
I’m not trying to guilt trip anyone, and I’m certainly not suggesting you start giving money to animal charities, or go running off to the pound to adopt one…I’m asking for one thing:
THINK! Think long and hard before you ever CONSIDER getting a puppy.
Ok, here’s the deal:
If you’re thinking of getting a puppy, bear in mind the following things:
A puppy needs almost as much attention as a newborn baby. If you think you can get a puppy, and you think you’re not going to have to clean puppy-poop off the carpet or have one or two possessions chewed, quite frankly, you’re flat-out kidding yourself.
Especially for the first few weeks, you need someone home with them ALL THE TIME. After that, don’t plan on leaving him or her alone for more than an hour or so at a time. You wouldn’t leave a 4 year old at home alone all day, so don’t plan on doing the same with a puppy.
Puppies are cute, but here’s the thing… that puppy WILL grow into a full-size dog. Yeah, shocking, I know. They’re expensive to feed, need lots of exercise, not to mention things like shots, vet visits, etc.
Basically, puppies are expensive, and take up a lot of your time and energy. It’s not quite like having a new child, but it’s as close as you can get without actually giving birth.
If you want an ‘easy’ pet, get a cat. Training consists of sitting them in a litter box and scratching their paw in it, showing them where their food and water is, and leaving them to it. Cats are independent. Dogs aren’t.
The second thing you need to think about is training, or at the veryleast, house-training.
This requires three things. Patience, patience and more patience.
You see, a puppy will very quickly see himself as part of your family. They also need to know that they’re bottom of the ‘pecking order’. This may sound mean, but a dog NEEDS to know his place in his ‘pack’. A dog who KNOWS he’s at the bottom is far happier than a dog who thinks he MAY be near the top. A dog who is unsure of his place can get overly aggressive or fretful as they try to establish dominance.
The most important thing is you train a dog by rewarding success, not punishing failure. That way, the dog will WANT to do as you say and will want to please you. The other way around, the dog will simply fear you…which can again lead to aggression.
I’m not saying you don’t need to occasionally discipline a dog, but disciplining a dog is not beating them.
A dog who knows his place actually WANTS to please you. Disciplining consists of showing them, firmly but gently, that they’re not allowed to do whatever they’ve just done wrong. You see, dogs don’t speak English, and the biggest problem they have is not learning to obey you, but actually understanding what you want them to do.
For example, if a puppy turns onto his back, that’s ‘puppy language’ for “I know I’ve done wrong, or that you want me to do something…but I don’t know what it is!” They’re exposing their belly, making themselves vulnerable and, basically, submitting. It’s their way of saying that they know you’re the boss, they want to do as you say…but they just don’t understand what it is you want them to do yet.
Last, but by no means least, house training a puppy is simple, but patience is required. All you need to do is:
They soon get the message that inside-bad outside-good.
The other thing is as soon as they finish eating, take them outside, and wait until they do what they need to do. It may take 20 minutes, but this is where patience comes in. When they’re finished, treat them like they’ve just discovered a way to power your car with water.
Basically, they soon get the message that they get in trouble for crapping in the house, but get rewarded and made a fuss of for crapping outside.
Get the picture? You don’t need to bet holy hell out of them to get the message across. Any puppy would much rather be made a fuss of for doing something right, than having you mad at them, no matter how mildly.
Puppies are great. They’re fun to play with, and you will never find a more faithful friend anywhere. The flip side is that puppies and dogs are, quite simply, a hell of a lot of work.
Think hard before buying one.
Everyone likes puppies, and in fact, if you ever come across anyone who sees a puppy, and doesn’t say “Awwww, how cute!” Report them to the nearest police station, as they’re obviously Satanists and/or communists.
The new puppy (Christened ‘Boscoe’ by Sunny, she didn’t want any more Star Wars names…although I’ve taken to calling him ‘Buddy’), is settling in nicely.
I’m sorry to say, however, that it looks like his original owners abused him… although the fact he was outside, alone, at night in 20 degree weather should have tipped me off about that.
I let him outside last night to do his puppy-poopie, and I tried to pick him up to bring him back in, and as I approached in the dark, he backed away. Thinking he just wanted to investigate the outside, I grabbed him…and the poor thing freaked the fuck out.
I started talking to him, and once he recognized my voice he calmed down.
Any sudden movements, and he jumps a few feet into the air.
The good news, however, is it hasn’t taken him long to get over it. He spent most of last night and today sleeping and getting used to the place, and now he’s started to actually act like a puppy. In fact, right now, he’s amusing himself by throwing a rope chew toy around in front of the TV. If he doesn’t see you coming, he’ll still jump and yelp a little…but if he knows it’s you, he’s glad as hell to see you.
To be honest, I’m bloody proud of him. He’s a very fast learner. He knows he can chew his chew toy, but not shoes or furniture (although he will have the occasional relapse), and it only took one or two ‘accidents’, before he learned that if he scratches at someone’s ankles and whines, they’ll take him outside.
Although this may be too much information, he’s 6 out of 8 for pooping outside.
To be completely honest, I know what’s happened. Boscoe is probably just one of a few thousand puppies that were given as Christmas presents.
It’s the old cliché. Little boy or girl wants puppy for Christmas, and their stupid parents go ahead and buy one, with no idea of what raising a puppy involves. Then they’re honestly surprised that a 2 month old puppy doesn’t actually know that it’s not supposed to use the living room rug as a bathroom, not to use the couch as a chew toy, and needs an awful lot of attention. Then they think the way to train a puppy is the beat the hell out of it every time it does something wrong.
Then, the novelty wears off. Little Timmy doesn’t want to clean up after him or walk him every day, Mum and Dad get sick of taking care of it…so the poor thing is kicked out to fend for itself.
It’s upsetting to think about, but if we hadn’t brought Boscoe in, he’d probably have been dead by Monday. It was 26 degrees the day we found him. It almost as cold, and it’s raining today.
I’m not trying to guilt trip anyone, and I’m certainly not suggesting you start giving money to animal charities, or go running off to the pound to adopt one…I’m asking for one thing:
THINK! Think long and hard before you ever CONSIDER getting a puppy.
Ok, here’s the deal:
If you’re thinking of getting a puppy, bear in mind the following things:
A puppy needs almost as much attention as a newborn baby. If you think you can get a puppy, and you think you’re not going to have to clean puppy-poop off the carpet or have one or two possessions chewed, quite frankly, you’re flat-out kidding yourself.
Especially for the first few weeks, you need someone home with them ALL THE TIME. After that, don’t plan on leaving him or her alone for more than an hour or so at a time. You wouldn’t leave a 4 year old at home alone all day, so don’t plan on doing the same with a puppy.
Puppies are cute, but here’s the thing… that puppy WILL grow into a full-size dog. Yeah, shocking, I know. They’re expensive to feed, need lots of exercise, not to mention things like shots, vet visits, etc.
Basically, puppies are expensive, and take up a lot of your time and energy. It’s not quite like having a new child, but it’s as close as you can get without actually giving birth.
If you want an ‘easy’ pet, get a cat. Training consists of sitting them in a litter box and scratching their paw in it, showing them where their food and water is, and leaving them to it. Cats are independent. Dogs aren’t.
The second thing you need to think about is training, or at the veryleast, house-training.
This requires three things. Patience, patience and more patience.
You see, a puppy will very quickly see himself as part of your family. They also need to know that they’re bottom of the ‘pecking order’. This may sound mean, but a dog NEEDS to know his place in his ‘pack’. A dog who KNOWS he’s at the bottom is far happier than a dog who thinks he MAY be near the top. A dog who is unsure of his place can get overly aggressive or fretful as they try to establish dominance.
The most important thing is you train a dog by rewarding success, not punishing failure. That way, the dog will WANT to do as you say and will want to please you. The other way around, the dog will simply fear you…which can again lead to aggression.
I’m not saying you don’t need to occasionally discipline a dog, but disciplining a dog is not beating them.
A dog who knows his place actually WANTS to please you. Disciplining consists of showing them, firmly but gently, that they’re not allowed to do whatever they’ve just done wrong. You see, dogs don’t speak English, and the biggest problem they have is not learning to obey you, but actually understanding what you want them to do.
For example, if a puppy turns onto his back, that’s ‘puppy language’ for “I know I’ve done wrong, or that you want me to do something…but I don’t know what it is!” They’re exposing their belly, making themselves vulnerable and, basically, submitting. It’s their way of saying that they know you’re the boss, they want to do as you say…but they just don’t understand what it is you want them to do yet.
Last, but by no means least, house training a puppy is simple, but patience is required. All you need to do is:
- Push their nose towards (not actually ‘in’) their ‘accident’. You do this so they know what they’re in trouble for. Smacking a dog because you find an accident they did a few hours earlier does nothing. They simply don’t know why they’re in trouble!
- Say ‘No’ or ‘Bad Dog’, in a loud firm voice (Do NOT shout, shouting just scares the crap out of them, and stops them learning anything).
- Shake them gently by the scruff of their neck. (Don’t pick them up off the floor). This is what ‘mamma-dogs’ do to their pups when they do something wrong.
- Pick them up, take them outside, and wait with them for about 10 minutes.
They soon get the message that inside-bad outside-good.
The other thing is as soon as they finish eating, take them outside, and wait until they do what they need to do. It may take 20 minutes, but this is where patience comes in. When they’re finished, treat them like they’ve just discovered a way to power your car with water.
Basically, they soon get the message that they get in trouble for crapping in the house, but get rewarded and made a fuss of for crapping outside.
Get the picture? You don’t need to bet holy hell out of them to get the message across. Any puppy would much rather be made a fuss of for doing something right, than having you mad at them, no matter how mildly.
Puppies are great. They’re fun to play with, and you will never find a more faithful friend anywhere. The flip side is that puppies and dogs are, quite simply, a hell of a lot of work.
Think hard before buying one.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Welcome Chewbacca!
Ignore the last post, I've redeemed my soul by finding Chewy and bringing him back in.
Everyone please welcome Chewy, the newest member of the family:
Everyone please welcome Chewy, the newest member of the family:
I'm officially Going to Hell
I’m upset, very, very upset.
An hour or so ago, Frank and I were sitting in the living room, just watching TV. We heard this strange yowling, which both of us thought was on the TV. It turned out it wasn’t.
I opened my front door, and sitting on the front step was a puppy, who I instantly christened “Chewbacca”. Imagine a cross between Chewy, of Star Wars fame, and a fat, cute, cuddly teddybear.
No collar, no ID. It just sat and looked at me.
I brought it inside to get a better look, and the poor thing went to town. Investigating everything it could see, including Padme, who wasn’t too happy about it. Then it pulled a blanket off one of the freshly folded stacks of laundry I folded a few minutes ago, curled up in it, and just stared at me.
Unfortunately, this is a problem.
You see, we already own a cat. We quite simply don’t have the space for a puppy, or the time to train one.
The other problem is where we live. We’re out in the sticks, and the grass around here is flea heaven. We took care of one of my stepson’s dogs for a few days once, and every time we let it out, it would come back in, crawling with fleas.
Between the flea bites and constant flea-baths, he got sick. Not to mention we had to bug bomb the house three times to get rid of the fleas…then spray every inch of carpet with flea killer after that.
So there was my conundrum. It’s dark and pretty damn cold outside. I’ve got the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen, making itself comfortable, lying on my feet, just staring right through me with pure puppy cuteness and gratitude in its eyes.
Then I had to pick him up, and put him back outside.
It took a grand total of four and a half minutes before my heart actually shattered, and I went to let him back inside.
When I opened the door, he went quiet, and I couldn’t find him.
The only small comfort I can get from this is that he was too well fed to be a stray, and there aren’t many houses close to here. Hopefully, someone just lost track of him, he got out, and is on his way home as I write this.
Of course, it doesn’t make me feel any better.
I’m officially going to hell.
An hour or so ago, Frank and I were sitting in the living room, just watching TV. We heard this strange yowling, which both of us thought was on the TV. It turned out it wasn’t.
I opened my front door, and sitting on the front step was a puppy, who I instantly christened “Chewbacca”. Imagine a cross between Chewy, of Star Wars fame, and a fat, cute, cuddly teddybear.
No collar, no ID. It just sat and looked at me.
I brought it inside to get a better look, and the poor thing went to town. Investigating everything it could see, including Padme, who wasn’t too happy about it. Then it pulled a blanket off one of the freshly folded stacks of laundry I folded a few minutes ago, curled up in it, and just stared at me.
Unfortunately, this is a problem.
You see, we already own a cat. We quite simply don’t have the space for a puppy, or the time to train one.
The other problem is where we live. We’re out in the sticks, and the grass around here is flea heaven. We took care of one of my stepson’s dogs for a few days once, and every time we let it out, it would come back in, crawling with fleas.
Between the flea bites and constant flea-baths, he got sick. Not to mention we had to bug bomb the house three times to get rid of the fleas…then spray every inch of carpet with flea killer after that.
So there was my conundrum. It’s dark and pretty damn cold outside. I’ve got the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen, making itself comfortable, lying on my feet, just staring right through me with pure puppy cuteness and gratitude in its eyes.
Then I had to pick him up, and put him back outside.
It took a grand total of four and a half minutes before my heart actually shattered, and I went to let him back inside.
When I opened the door, he went quiet, and I couldn’t find him.
The only small comfort I can get from this is that he was too well fed to be a stray, and there aren’t many houses close to here. Hopefully, someone just lost track of him, he got out, and is on his way home as I write this.
Of course, it doesn’t make me feel any better.
I’m officially going to hell.
Stealth Detterent
I want to ask everyone a question.
Is speeding against the law in order to increase public safety, or just as an incredibly efficient money spinner for the Police department?
I never used to be this cynical, but now I’m starting to lean towards the ‘money spinner’ idea.
While browsing the net this morning, I came upon an article that interested me greatly. Apparently, right here in South Carolina (Mount Pleasant to be exact), the Police have decided that unmarked cars aren’t enough.
The highway patrol now owns a pick-up truck, complete with baby seat, with the sole purpose of catching speeders.
I quote: “For many drivers, the first alert they get is when the blue lights flash.”
Ok, let me try and make sense of this:
--- --- --- --- ---
Once upon a time, cars where invented. People started to drive them too fast, and people got hurt.
“This can’t be allowed to happen!” Roared the King of the Road. “From this day forward, it shall be an offence unto me to drive too fast! People who do shall have to part with their hard earned doubloons, for people do not like to have their money taken from them!”
And so it was.
However, the King of the Road did not have in his employ enough Knights of the Road, and the peasantry realized that it was unlikely that they would get caught while driving too fast.
“Damn and Blast it!” Roared the King of the Road, again. “This will simply not do!”
And so the King hired artists to sit atop tall poles, and paint pictures of drivers that drove past them at too great a pace. He set his knights in strategic positions and had them lay in wait.
For a time, many of the peasantry got caught, and there was a great deluge of hard earned doubloons into the King’s coffers.
It appeared, however, that the peasantry was not slowing down, as they had brains enough to simply memorize where the pole-sitting artists where placed, and simply slow down as they passed them. The Knights where more difficult to avoid, but there still were not enough of them.
“Bugger it.” Said the Peasantry. “Screw those Knights! For they where not on my way to work yesterday, so chances are they will not be there today.”
And so, the doubloon deluge slowed down, and very few peasants got caught.
Back at the Kings Chamber, an argument was taking place:
“Sire!” Said Sir Commonsense. “This is not working! The people are still driving too fast! Perhaps, if we are so concerned about public safety, we should offer some form of incentive instead of punishment! Maybe a $100 tax break for drivers who receiveth not a ticket in the year, or perhaps government funded lower insurance rates for safe drivers! For, you see, the chances of getting caught speeding are too remote for many of the peasants to contemplate! They believe that the risk of running afoul of one of the Road Knights is simply too small to worry about!”
However, the King was too busy counting the mountains of doubloons that had arrived in his chamber.
“What we need,” said the King, “Is a few special Knights.”
“Ah, I see, Sire!” Said Sir Commonsense. “A few knights whose steeds are very visible and well marked. A knight you will see for miles. One, who by his very presence, will make every driver around him slow down, and thereby make driving much safer for all who are near him! A Master stroke, sire! The monies from your pole-sitting-artists could easily fund a few hundred of them!”
“Bugger that!” Exclaimed the King. “For how can we squeeze more money out of the little bastards if they see the Knight coming?”
Sir Commonsense visibly sagged.
“But surely the point of this is to protect and serve, My Leige? To make our roads safer? More knights on the road means less speeding and law-breaking in general, surely?”
“You’re missing the point, Sir Commonsense.” Said the King. “I want to put Knights out on the road that look just like the peasantry! For when the peasants do not know that a Knight is among them, they will speed, get caught, fined…and that memory and pain of the fine will act as a deterrent to stop them from speeding.”
“As opposed to the deterrent of seeing a bloody great police car in their rear view mirror?”
“That will stop them speeding, Sir Commonsense, but it will not allow us to ‘catch them in the act’, as it were, and punish them accordingly.”
“So, sire, what you’re saying is, rather than simply stop the crime from happening in the first place, you want to allow the peasantry to commit the crime, endanger themselves and others, so we can then swoop down and fine them?”
“Exactly!”
“So, Sire, in essence, your plan to stop speeding is to make sure the peasants speed, in the hope that punishing them for it, will stop them doing it?”
“I fail to see the problem you’re having grasping this simple concept, Commonsense.”
“Well, isn’t that a bit like burning down a populated building, to show the people in the building how dangerous fire is, to make sure they don’t accidentally set fire to the building they’re in…which is already on fire?”
“Exactly! Now, please leave, Sir Commonsense, I want to get into my new solid gold jacuzzi.”
Is speeding against the law in order to increase public safety, or just as an incredibly efficient money spinner for the Police department?
I never used to be this cynical, but now I’m starting to lean towards the ‘money spinner’ idea.
While browsing the net this morning, I came upon an article that interested me greatly. Apparently, right here in South Carolina (Mount Pleasant to be exact), the Police have decided that unmarked cars aren’t enough.
The highway patrol now owns a pick-up truck, complete with baby seat, with the sole purpose of catching speeders.
I quote: “For many drivers, the first alert they get is when the blue lights flash.”
Ok, let me try and make sense of this:
--- --- --- --- ---
Once upon a time, cars where invented. People started to drive them too fast, and people got hurt.
“This can’t be allowed to happen!” Roared the King of the Road. “From this day forward, it shall be an offence unto me to drive too fast! People who do shall have to part with their hard earned doubloons, for people do not like to have their money taken from them!”
And so it was.
However, the King of the Road did not have in his employ enough Knights of the Road, and the peasantry realized that it was unlikely that they would get caught while driving too fast.
“Damn and Blast it!” Roared the King of the Road, again. “This will simply not do!”
And so the King hired artists to sit atop tall poles, and paint pictures of drivers that drove past them at too great a pace. He set his knights in strategic positions and had them lay in wait.
For a time, many of the peasantry got caught, and there was a great deluge of hard earned doubloons into the King’s coffers.
It appeared, however, that the peasantry was not slowing down, as they had brains enough to simply memorize where the pole-sitting artists where placed, and simply slow down as they passed them. The Knights where more difficult to avoid, but there still were not enough of them.
“Bugger it.” Said the Peasantry. “Screw those Knights! For they where not on my way to work yesterday, so chances are they will not be there today.”
And so, the doubloon deluge slowed down, and very few peasants got caught.
Back at the Kings Chamber, an argument was taking place:
“Sire!” Said Sir Commonsense. “This is not working! The people are still driving too fast! Perhaps, if we are so concerned about public safety, we should offer some form of incentive instead of punishment! Maybe a $100 tax break for drivers who receiveth not a ticket in the year, or perhaps government funded lower insurance rates for safe drivers! For, you see, the chances of getting caught speeding are too remote for many of the peasants to contemplate! They believe that the risk of running afoul of one of the Road Knights is simply too small to worry about!”
However, the King was too busy counting the mountains of doubloons that had arrived in his chamber.
“What we need,” said the King, “Is a few special Knights.”
“Ah, I see, Sire!” Said Sir Commonsense. “A few knights whose steeds are very visible and well marked. A knight you will see for miles. One, who by his very presence, will make every driver around him slow down, and thereby make driving much safer for all who are near him! A Master stroke, sire! The monies from your pole-sitting-artists could easily fund a few hundred of them!”
“Bugger that!” Exclaimed the King. “For how can we squeeze more money out of the little bastards if they see the Knight coming?”
Sir Commonsense visibly sagged.
“But surely the point of this is to protect and serve, My Leige? To make our roads safer? More knights on the road means less speeding and law-breaking in general, surely?”
“You’re missing the point, Sir Commonsense.” Said the King. “I want to put Knights out on the road that look just like the peasantry! For when the peasants do not know that a Knight is among them, they will speed, get caught, fined…and that memory and pain of the fine will act as a deterrent to stop them from speeding.”
“As opposed to the deterrent of seeing a bloody great police car in their rear view mirror?”
“That will stop them speeding, Sir Commonsense, but it will not allow us to ‘catch them in the act’, as it were, and punish them accordingly.”
“So, sire, what you’re saying is, rather than simply stop the crime from happening in the first place, you want to allow the peasantry to commit the crime, endanger themselves and others, so we can then swoop down and fine them?”
“Exactly!”
“So, Sire, in essence, your plan to stop speeding is to make sure the peasants speed, in the hope that punishing them for it, will stop them doing it?”
“I fail to see the problem you’re having grasping this simple concept, Commonsense.”
“Well, isn’t that a bit like burning down a populated building, to show the people in the building how dangerous fire is, to make sure they don’t accidentally set fire to the building they’re in…which is already on fire?”
“Exactly! Now, please leave, Sir Commonsense, I want to get into my new solid gold jacuzzi.”
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Get Out of My Head!!!!
For the past three days I've had a tune stuck in my head.
Not just any tune. Not a cute little ditty I can actually enjoy. I'm talking about hell's own national anthem.
Remember the very first Super Mario Bros. game on the original Nintendo? You know when you down into a dungeon in that game? Remember the music? DUBBA DUBBA DUBBA...DUBBA DUBBA DUBBA....DUBBA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA.
THAT! THAT is what's STUCK in my HEAD!
Considering I'm the kind of person who likes to share the pain...Enjoy!
Not just any tune. Not a cute little ditty I can actually enjoy. I'm talking about hell's own national anthem.
Remember the very first Super Mario Bros. game on the original Nintendo? You know when you down into a dungeon in that game? Remember the music? DUBBA DUBBA DUBBA...DUBBA DUBBA DUBBA....DUBBA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA.
THAT! THAT is what's STUCK in my HEAD!
Considering I'm the kind of person who likes to share the pain...Enjoy!
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Random Musings
Random musings from today:
We went grocery shopping, and as we walked down the meat aisle, I saw a guy sporting, quite simply, the most magnificent mullet I have ever seen…ever. Carefully gelled on top into an enormous quiff; the trademark short sides, and an impressive length (in cheeky half twist ringlets) down his back.
I attempted to point this out to Sunny but, typical woman, her attention in the grocery store is on stupid things, like groceries, instead of on the 'Noble Sport of Mullet Spotting'.
He spotted me, and I almost panicked, but managed to pull it together in time to pretend to be eyeing the teriyaki pork tenderloin over his shoulder.
I mean, what do you say to someone like that?
“Hey dude! Nice mullet!”
What kind of person has the kind of hairstyle, that even complimenting it, sounds like an insult?
I’ll leave it like this: If you have a mullet, you’re trying to have two hairstyles at once.
Don’t be greedy.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Also in the hair category, once we got to the checkout, we ended up queuing behind a black girl, who had one of those hairstyles that looks like they have to get up before they go to bed to prepare it. I mean, one of those really intricate hairstyles that wouldn’t look out of place in an art gallery.
Still reeling from my near miss with the mullet, I thought about what I’d say if she noticed me looking.
I thought that it’s pretty common for black girls to have those kind of hairstyles, and then I thought ‘Is that racial profiling?’
Is saying something like ‘I like your hair! I’ve noticed a lot of black people have hair like that.’ Wrong?
Can a compliment be construed as racist? Is saying ‘Black girls have nice hair’ racist because you’re essentially clumping all black females into one group, with pre-conceived notions about said group, even if that said notion is a positive one?
Then I realized that I didn’t care, and tried to convince sunny to buy me a candy bar.
She said no.
(but she did buy me a Jumbo-Jack on the way home, so it worked out well for all parties …except for maybe the nice-hair girl, I don’t know how it worked out for her).
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Later, we stopped by Dollar General for Cat-litter. I saw a few things of note.
First was the toy chainsaw (ages 4-6). That took a few minutes to sink in. A toy chainsaw. A… TOY… chainsaw. Hmm, do you really want a toddler to make a mental connection between playtime and incredibly dangerous power-tools?
“Hey, little Timmy, wanna play ‘Chainsaw Massacre?’”
“I can’t, my chainsaw’s out of batteries.”
“That’s ok, my Dad’s got one in the basement.”
“Cool! I get to be the victim!”
People say videogames are dangerous. Giving a 4 year old a replica chainsaw, and telling them to ‘go play’ isn’t.
The next thing I noticed was the sheer number of name-brand rip-offs. From the “Star-Battles Laser Sword” (Read Star Wars Lightsaber), to the “Turtle Hero” plastic Sai. (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, anyone?)
Those things where everywhere. It made me wonder, in a country that has more lawyers per square mile than actual people…how do they get away with this?
Oh, and parents, buying your child the name brand rip-off, is absolutely guaranteed to get them beaten up by their friends. Don’t do it.
Oh, and there where no hairstyles of note in dollar general.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Finally, something my step-son Frank pointed out to me. Around where we live there are lots of tricked out cars. 40 inch chrome rims, custom paint jobs and body vinyls, spoilers, bodykits and hydraulics.
Most of them are seen broken down on the side of the road.
Let me get this straight. You can afford about $800 for rims, a few grand for a carbon fiber hood…but you can’t actually get the thing to run?
Get your priorities right.
Oh, and although I have almost no way to prove this, I bet the people who own these tricked out curb-ornaments, all have very bad hair.
Maybe even a few mullets.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Oh, You Mofo! That's Proper Whack, Dudes!
I think everyone remembers the ‘cool’ teacher at school.
He was the one who turned up for the school trip in the jeans that were so blue they were blinding. He’d pick a band out of the Top 10 at random, and mention them in every single class, using badly out of date slang:
“Hey Groovy Cats! Have you heard the new (generic band) CD? It’s totally bad and radical! It’s got a groovy beat!”
(I’ve even heard one describe something as (shudder) ‘Totally Tubular!’)
He was the teacher who tried to fit in. He was always trying to ‘get down with the kids’…and always managed to get it completely wrong. He was always 6 months late on every ‘new’ saying, trend or style.
He thought everyone loved him, and everyone did…but only because he was so much fun to laugh at. He thought he was a comedian, but everyone else knew he was a clown.
I got thinking about this thanks to a show on HGTV that Sunny was watching yesterday. I don’t know the name of the show, but the premise is that a few people with simply gigantic egos come into your house, tell you your stuff’s crap, make you sell it, and then use the money to redecorate your house. They then suck each other off about how great a job they did…while the shell-shocked home owners silently start working out how much it’s going to cost them to put their mess right.
Anyway, one of the hosts was doing his best to ‘get down with the kids’:
“Hey, dudes!”
Steeeeeyuurike ONE!
“Hey! Is that a Nintendo Playstation?”
Steeeeeeyurike TWO!
Ok, anyone who hasn’t lived under a rock for the past 5 years know that Sony made the Playstation, but fair enough, if you’re not a gamer, I can understand the mistake.
(As a side note, one thing that really pisses me off is the people who use the word ‘Playstation’ as a generic term for console…and if you correct them, they wave their hands and say “Oh, it’s the same thing!”…Yeah, I’ll remind you of that when I compliment you on your ‘Ford Viper’, your ‘Dodge Mustang’, or call your Rolex a Casio).
Anyway, the kid looked at him like he’d grown an extra head:
“Uh, it’s a Gamecube.”
Now, the pillock could have retained just a little bit of his ‘street cred’ (another word used only by these people while ‘gettin’ down with the kids’) By either:
However, these people aren’t just trying to fool everyone into thinking they’re ‘down with the kids’, they’re trying to fool themselves. So he went for hidden option ‘d’:
He swings!
“Oh, the new stuff, huh?”
…and misses. Strike three! Tough luck pal, game over, go hit the showers.
Ok, so let’s recount:
Ok, I’ll admit that this is pretty much geek knowledge, and if you’re not part of the gamer community, you probably either don’t know or don’t care about who made which console or what came out first.
My point isn’t that this guy doesn’t know about consoles. My point is that this guy is trying to pass himself off as a gamer to a kid, when he probably has never held a controller in his entire life.
Above all, my point is:
If you don’t know about something, don’t pretend you do in order to fit in or to act cool. You’re being a poser, and the one thing all posers have in common, whether you’re alleged field of expertise is games, music or cars, is that the real thing can spot you a mile away.
For example, I know precisely dick about cars. I know where to put the gas, where to top up the oil, washer and radiator fluid, but that’s it. My stepsons know pretty much everything there is to know about cars, so in a car based conversation, I keep quiet. If asked my opinion on something, I say “I don’t know, I don’t really know anything about cars.”
The result is, my stepsons think “Oh, Paul doesn’t really know anything about cars.”
On the other hand I could say: “Uh, yeah! Carburetors, you need some of those. Oh, and you need to have a gap in your spark plugs. How many RPM’s does your car have? Mine’s got lots!”
The result of that would be: “Hmm, Paul knows absolutely nothing about cars, but he’s trying to pretend he does. What a complete dick.”
Posers! Just say “I don’t know.”
He was the one who turned up for the school trip in the jeans that were so blue they were blinding. He’d pick a band out of the Top 10 at random, and mention them in every single class, using badly out of date slang:
“Hey Groovy Cats! Have you heard the new (generic band) CD? It’s totally bad and radical! It’s got a groovy beat!”
(I’ve even heard one describe something as (shudder) ‘Totally Tubular!’)
He was the teacher who tried to fit in. He was always trying to ‘get down with the kids’…and always managed to get it completely wrong. He was always 6 months late on every ‘new’ saying, trend or style.
He thought everyone loved him, and everyone did…but only because he was so much fun to laugh at. He thought he was a comedian, but everyone else knew he was a clown.
I got thinking about this thanks to a show on HGTV that Sunny was watching yesterday. I don’t know the name of the show, but the premise is that a few people with simply gigantic egos come into your house, tell you your stuff’s crap, make you sell it, and then use the money to redecorate your house. They then suck each other off about how great a job they did…while the shell-shocked home owners silently start working out how much it’s going to cost them to put their mess right.
Anyway, one of the hosts was doing his best to ‘get down with the kids’:
“Hey, dudes!”
Steeeeeyuurike ONE!
“Hey! Is that a Nintendo Playstation?”
Steeeeeeyurike TWO!
Ok, anyone who hasn’t lived under a rock for the past 5 years know that Sony made the Playstation, but fair enough, if you’re not a gamer, I can understand the mistake.
(As a side note, one thing that really pisses me off is the people who use the word ‘Playstation’ as a generic term for console…and if you correct them, they wave their hands and say “Oh, it’s the same thing!”…Yeah, I’ll remind you of that when I compliment you on your ‘Ford Viper’, your ‘Dodge Mustang’, or call your Rolex a Casio).
Anyway, the kid looked at him like he’d grown an extra head:
“Uh, it’s a Gamecube.”
Now, the pillock could have retained just a little bit of his ‘street cred’ (another word used only by these people while ‘gettin’ down with the kids’) By either:
- Keeping quiet
- Saying something along the lines of “Oh, my mistake.”
- Admitting defeat, and admitting he doesn’t know the difference.
However, these people aren’t just trying to fool everyone into thinking they’re ‘down with the kids’, they’re trying to fool themselves. So he went for hidden option ‘d’:
- Make a wild stab in the dark, in the hope of maintaining the illusion
He swings!
“Oh, the new stuff, huh?”
…and misses. Strike three! Tough luck pal, game over, go hit the showers.
Ok, so let’s recount:
- He calls the Nintendo Gamecube and Nintendo Playstation
- He then attempts to mask his mistake by calling the Gamecube ‘New stuff’. Hate to tell him this, but what he’s calling ‘new stuff’, is a whole generation old. Oh, and the Gamecube came out at roughly the same time as the new Playstation.
Ok, I’ll admit that this is pretty much geek knowledge, and if you’re not part of the gamer community, you probably either don’t know or don’t care about who made which console or what came out first.
My point isn’t that this guy doesn’t know about consoles. My point is that this guy is trying to pass himself off as a gamer to a kid, when he probably has never held a controller in his entire life.
Above all, my point is:
If you don’t know about something, don’t pretend you do in order to fit in or to act cool. You’re being a poser, and the one thing all posers have in common, whether you’re alleged field of expertise is games, music or cars, is that the real thing can spot you a mile away.
For example, I know precisely dick about cars. I know where to put the gas, where to top up the oil, washer and radiator fluid, but that’s it. My stepsons know pretty much everything there is to know about cars, so in a car based conversation, I keep quiet. If asked my opinion on something, I say “I don’t know, I don’t really know anything about cars.”
The result is, my stepsons think “Oh, Paul doesn’t really know anything about cars.”
On the other hand I could say: “Uh, yeah! Carburetors, you need some of those. Oh, and you need to have a gap in your spark plugs. How many RPM’s does your car have? Mine’s got lots!”
The result of that would be: “Hmm, Paul knows absolutely nothing about cars, but he’s trying to pretend he does. What a complete dick.”
Posers! Just say “I don’t know.”
Friday, February 03, 2006
Men Vs Women
Sunny and I were talking last night, and through that conversation, I think I’ve finally figured out why men and women fight so much. That’s right; I have stumbled upon the Holy Grail.
I am one step closer to understanding women.
(Shame that there’s still a few million steps to go.)
Ok, it all starts with what every person on the planet knows:
Men are Simple. Women are Complicated.
When a man says something, he says what he means. There’s no ‘in between the lines’ stuff there. Basically, what man says, man means.
Women on the other hand, tend to not say what they mean. They want us to read between the lines, and here’s the kicker…they think that we already KNOW this.
Women are diplomatic. Your speech is a lot more sophisticated than ours. Women say yes, mean no, and vice versa.
Let’s give an example:
John calls Jane from work:
“Hey, sweetie, some of the boys are going out for a drink after work, do you mind if I go along?” John asks.
“Well, if you want to.” Says Jane.
“Are you sure?” Asks John. “I don’t have to go out tonight if you don’t want me to.”
“No, it’s fine. You go out and have a good time.”
“Ok sweetie, see you later.”
It seems simple enough, doesn’t it? Now let’s look at it from both perspectives.
John’s Perspective
John has called home to ask permission to go out. Jane agrees. John tries to be nice, and to make absolutely sure that she doesn’t mind, he asks again and says he’s more than happy to just come home if she wants him to. Again, Jane says it’s fine.
John thinks: “I’ve asked her if it’s ok and made doubly sure she doesn’t mind. Therefore, I can go out, and not have to worry about being in trouble.”
Male = Face value.
Jane’s Perspective
John called and asked permission to go out. Jane didn’t EXPRESSLY agree, but said “Well, if you want to.” which John should have seen as a reluctant agreement and therefore understood that she didn’t want him to go.
Jane doesn’t want to be the ‘bad guy’, so has agreed, but with an obvious hint to the contrary. In this case ‘If you want to’ actually means, ‘You can go out if you want to, but I don’t want you to.’
In Jane’s eyes, there is no possible way that John did not understand this, but John pressed the issue anyway, and selfishly ignored the obvious indication that she wants him to come home.
Next, John employs a trick of his own, where he pretends, rather craftily, to completely miss what she really meant. He asks her if she’s sure. To Jane, what John is really saying is: “I know you don’t want me to go, but if you want me to come home, you’re going to have to explicitly forbid me to go out…which makes you the controlling and selfish one, meaning I won’t be the bad guy for wanting to go out, but you’ll be the bad guy for stopping me.”
Jane is buggered if she’s going to give him the satisfaction of telling him no, so she says that it’s fine and leaves it to his own conscience…meaning he’s going to be in a world of shit when he finally gets home.
Basically, men say what they mean, so we assume that women say what they mean as well. Women are a lot more sophisticated, and assume that men talk in the same way that they do.
To men, conversation is a straight road. To women, it’s an intricate dance.
In short, men take everything we hear at face value, because everything we say is exactly what they means. Women take almost nothing we say at face value, because a woman’s first instinct is to think: “Ok, he SAID he was doing this…but what does that really MEAN?”
The problem comes along because both sexes judge every conversation on their own terms, most of the time not knowing that there’s any other way to take it. Basically, we both think we’re right.
This also applies to the way we deal with problems.
For example, a woman comes home and complains about the way her boss treats her, or how stressful her job is.
Now, what women tend to want in this situation is sympathy and support. They want us to listen and give comments such as: “God, that boss of yours is a bastard!”, “What a prick!” and “I don’t know how you put up with it!”
This is exactly the kind of thing a woman would say, but our minds just don’t work like that.
We see it as this: You have a problem, you’re telling us about this problem, therefore you want us to help you solve it. So instead of “What a prick!”, which is what you want to hear, you get: “If I were you, I would go see your Union rep and lodge a formal complaint about the way he’s treating you. My mate Bill had a similar problem and what he did was…”
Basically, our minds work differently, and 99% of the time, it puts us men in a big fat no-win situation. For example:
Your wife goes to work, and notices that one of her co-workers has received a huge bunch of flowers. She gets pissed because you NEVER do anything like that for her any more.
Eventually, this leads to an argument.
Here comes the no-win situation. Basic male thinking says: “She’s mad because I don’t buy her flowers. I’ll buy her some flowers, and it’ll solve the problem.”
Unfortunately, female brains don’t work like that. Buying her flowers because she mentioned them, and you argued about it, doesn’t count. The whole point of flowers is that you are doing something nice for her just for the sake of it. If she has to ask, what’s the point?
So, not buying flowers gets you in trouble, because she mentioned it, and you completely ignored her. Buying flowers also gets you in trouble, because she had to ask, and giving her flowers just gets another argument started, because you just don’t understand.
In closing, ladies, just understand that your man is, by your standards, an incredibly simple creature. We’re not good at reading between the lines. If he calls asking if he can go to the bar with his buddies, and you don’t want him to, just tell him no.
“No, I want you to come home and spend sometime with me.” We can understand. Saying “Go right ahead.” While meaning “No.” won’t work.
I am one step closer to understanding women.
(Shame that there’s still a few million steps to go.)
Ok, it all starts with what every person on the planet knows:
Men are Simple. Women are Complicated.
When a man says something, he says what he means. There’s no ‘in between the lines’ stuff there. Basically, what man says, man means.
Women on the other hand, tend to not say what they mean. They want us to read between the lines, and here’s the kicker…they think that we already KNOW this.
Women are diplomatic. Your speech is a lot more sophisticated than ours. Women say yes, mean no, and vice versa.
Let’s give an example:
John calls Jane from work:
“Hey, sweetie, some of the boys are going out for a drink after work, do you mind if I go along?” John asks.
“Well, if you want to.” Says Jane.
“Are you sure?” Asks John. “I don’t have to go out tonight if you don’t want me to.”
“No, it’s fine. You go out and have a good time.”
“Ok sweetie, see you later.”
It seems simple enough, doesn’t it? Now let’s look at it from both perspectives.
John’s Perspective
John has called home to ask permission to go out. Jane agrees. John tries to be nice, and to make absolutely sure that she doesn’t mind, he asks again and says he’s more than happy to just come home if she wants him to. Again, Jane says it’s fine.
John thinks: “I’ve asked her if it’s ok and made doubly sure she doesn’t mind. Therefore, I can go out, and not have to worry about being in trouble.”
Male = Face value.
Jane’s Perspective
John called and asked permission to go out. Jane didn’t EXPRESSLY agree, but said “Well, if you want to.” which John should have seen as a reluctant agreement and therefore understood that she didn’t want him to go.
Jane doesn’t want to be the ‘bad guy’, so has agreed, but with an obvious hint to the contrary. In this case ‘If you want to’ actually means, ‘You can go out if you want to, but I don’t want you to.’
In Jane’s eyes, there is no possible way that John did not understand this, but John pressed the issue anyway, and selfishly ignored the obvious indication that she wants him to come home.
Next, John employs a trick of his own, where he pretends, rather craftily, to completely miss what she really meant. He asks her if she’s sure. To Jane, what John is really saying is: “I know you don’t want me to go, but if you want me to come home, you’re going to have to explicitly forbid me to go out…which makes you the controlling and selfish one, meaning I won’t be the bad guy for wanting to go out, but you’ll be the bad guy for stopping me.”
Jane is buggered if she’s going to give him the satisfaction of telling him no, so she says that it’s fine and leaves it to his own conscience…meaning he’s going to be in a world of shit when he finally gets home.
Basically, men say what they mean, so we assume that women say what they mean as well. Women are a lot more sophisticated, and assume that men talk in the same way that they do.
To men, conversation is a straight road. To women, it’s an intricate dance.
In short, men take everything we hear at face value, because everything we say is exactly what they means. Women take almost nothing we say at face value, because a woman’s first instinct is to think: “Ok, he SAID he was doing this…but what does that really MEAN?”
The problem comes along because both sexes judge every conversation on their own terms, most of the time not knowing that there’s any other way to take it. Basically, we both think we’re right.
This also applies to the way we deal with problems.
For example, a woman comes home and complains about the way her boss treats her, or how stressful her job is.
Now, what women tend to want in this situation is sympathy and support. They want us to listen and give comments such as: “God, that boss of yours is a bastard!”, “What a prick!” and “I don’t know how you put up with it!”
This is exactly the kind of thing a woman would say, but our minds just don’t work like that.
We see it as this: You have a problem, you’re telling us about this problem, therefore you want us to help you solve it. So instead of “What a prick!”, which is what you want to hear, you get: “If I were you, I would go see your Union rep and lodge a formal complaint about the way he’s treating you. My mate Bill had a similar problem and what he did was…”
Basically, our minds work differently, and 99% of the time, it puts us men in a big fat no-win situation. For example:
Your wife goes to work, and notices that one of her co-workers has received a huge bunch of flowers. She gets pissed because you NEVER do anything like that for her any more.
Eventually, this leads to an argument.
Here comes the no-win situation. Basic male thinking says: “She’s mad because I don’t buy her flowers. I’ll buy her some flowers, and it’ll solve the problem.”
Unfortunately, female brains don’t work like that. Buying her flowers because she mentioned them, and you argued about it, doesn’t count. The whole point of flowers is that you are doing something nice for her just for the sake of it. If she has to ask, what’s the point?
So, not buying flowers gets you in trouble, because she mentioned it, and you completely ignored her. Buying flowers also gets you in trouble, because she had to ask, and giving her flowers just gets another argument started, because you just don’t understand.
In closing, ladies, just understand that your man is, by your standards, an incredibly simple creature. We’re not good at reading between the lines. If he calls asking if he can go to the bar with his buddies, and you don’t want him to, just tell him no.
“No, I want you to come home and spend sometime with me.” We can understand. Saying “Go right ahead.” While meaning “No.” won’t work.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
A Little Bit Of Poo Came Out
Picture the scene. It’s 2am, and Frank and I are up playing a game on the Gamecube.
Did I mention the game is Resident Evil 4?
Let me explain this game. It’s a veritable buffet of fear. It has the whole spectrum from the creepy “It’s quiet…a little…too quiet.” To the “Oh my God, There’s THOUSANDS of them! They’re coming through the window, OH SHIT!! I’m out of shotgun ammo!” (There’s nothing like trying to hold back a tide of brainwashed zombie-like cultists with a peashooter of a handgun.)
It has blood and gore, from blowing the zombie like cultists’ heads off, to gigantic insects dissolving your face, to the psychotic ‘burlap sack over the head’ guys who enjoy chain sawing your head clean off.
One of my particular favorite scare moments was the time when Frank was walking through this exceedingly quiet, creepy hospital building. He walked through the deathly silent kitchen area. He stops at the door, raises his shotgun and does a sweep of the room…just in case there are any of those gigantic invisible insects that like to drop from the ceiling and eat your face.
“There’s nothing there.” I say, forgetting the game likes to lull you into a false sense of security. Every room so far has been clear. “Just go in there, you pussy!”
Frank takes a tentative step forward. He arrives in the middle of the room.
“See?” I say.
We both visibly relax.
“ARRRGHHLOOOOOOBLARRRRGGGAAAAAA!” The industrial oven door bursts open, and a knife wielding maniac, who just happens to be on fire, charges out…all waving arms and screaming (Which was amazing, after that scream, I was doing exactly the same thing…um, only I wasn’t on fire).
Pure adrenaline makes Frank’s hands move. His gun comes up and BLAMMO! Mr. On-fire-scary-psycho flies back as though he’s been hit in the chest with a bowling ball. Frank holds his gun on him in case he gets back up (In this game, MUCH stranger things have happened). The whole incident from door opening to gunshot took maybe a half second tops. Frank reacted on pure instinct, no time to think.
Oh, and we both managed to achieve a record breaking four feet off the floor…still in the crossed legs sitting position.
I haven’t even mentioned the set-piece battles, of which there are hundreds. You cross a bridge, when suddenly thousands of the zombie-cultists appear in both directions, trapping you. You run to the nearest cabin, and try and hold them off, all the time watching your ammo tick slowly down.
You have to cross a lake, and wouldn’t you just know it, there’s a 50 foot long sea-monster in there…and it snags your anchor line…meaning you’re getting towed around this lake a break-neck speed, trying to hurl harpoons at the thing while keep control of the boat. Oh, and then you get knocked in the water, and have to hammer the A button as fast as you possibly can to swim back to the boat…watching the sea monster getting closer and closer…while opening its gigantic mouth. (seriously, you could fit a medium sized apartment in there).
As you can imagine there was lots of:
“Ok, be careful, this looks bad…WHAT THE F**K!!!........RUN, RUN DAMN YOU! RUN LIKE THE WIND!!!”
“Right, I’d better reload, you never know when you’re going to get jum…KILL IT! KILL IT!!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAKE IT DEAD!”
“What’s the strange clicking noise?” “OH MY GOD, DODGE, DODGE!!!” “I’M TRYING, I’M TRYING!” “HOLY SHIT! LOOK AT THOSE TEETH!!!”
“SHOOT IT!” “I’M TRYING! THE BULLETS ARE JUST BOUNCING OFF!”
There’s nothing like a game where running away while screaming like a little girl are viable, and sometimes necessary, options.
Above all, it was fun, there’s nothing quite so effective as something as simple as a game scaring the ever-living crap out of you, to get you laughing.
At one point, we were laughing so hard at something I just came out with, it instantly become my lifelong ambition to get on TV to say it. I think it sums up the game perfectly.
So let’s imagine I’m being interviewed in the street for a gaming TV show:
---------
Interviewer: “So what would you say your favourite game is?”
Me: “Hmm, that’s hard to say, but I’d have to say Resident Evil 4 is in my top 3 games of all time.”
I: “Why is that?”
M: “Well, the visuals are absolutely stunning, a perfect example of why the Gamecube SHOULD have been one of the top consoles. The control system is flawless, as is the in game camera. It’s perfectly balanced weapons and enemy wise, but I have to say the best thing is the atmosphere and the scares.”
I: “Is it really that scary?”
M: “Well, let’s put it this way. At one point I was riding in a mining car, Indiana Jones style, and all these badguys kept jumping into it. Suddenly I heard a chainsaw start up, and turned around just in time to see…Well, let’s just say…a little bit of poo came out.”
Did I mention the game is Resident Evil 4?
Let me explain this game. It’s a veritable buffet of fear. It has the whole spectrum from the creepy “It’s quiet…a little…too quiet.” To the “Oh my God, There’s THOUSANDS of them! They’re coming through the window, OH SHIT!! I’m out of shotgun ammo!” (There’s nothing like trying to hold back a tide of brainwashed zombie-like cultists with a peashooter of a handgun.)
It has blood and gore, from blowing the zombie like cultists’ heads off, to gigantic insects dissolving your face, to the psychotic ‘burlap sack over the head’ guys who enjoy chain sawing your head clean off.
One of my particular favorite scare moments was the time when Frank was walking through this exceedingly quiet, creepy hospital building. He walked through the deathly silent kitchen area. He stops at the door, raises his shotgun and does a sweep of the room…just in case there are any of those gigantic invisible insects that like to drop from the ceiling and eat your face.
“There’s nothing there.” I say, forgetting the game likes to lull you into a false sense of security. Every room so far has been clear. “Just go in there, you pussy!”
Frank takes a tentative step forward. He arrives in the middle of the room.
“See?” I say.
We both visibly relax.
“ARRRGHHLOOOOOOBLARRRRGGGAAAAAA!” The industrial oven door bursts open, and a knife wielding maniac, who just happens to be on fire, charges out…all waving arms and screaming (Which was amazing, after that scream, I was doing exactly the same thing…um, only I wasn’t on fire).
Pure adrenaline makes Frank’s hands move. His gun comes up and BLAMMO! Mr. On-fire-scary-psycho flies back as though he’s been hit in the chest with a bowling ball. Frank holds his gun on him in case he gets back up (In this game, MUCH stranger things have happened). The whole incident from door opening to gunshot took maybe a half second tops. Frank reacted on pure instinct, no time to think.
Oh, and we both managed to achieve a record breaking four feet off the floor…still in the crossed legs sitting position.
I haven’t even mentioned the set-piece battles, of which there are hundreds. You cross a bridge, when suddenly thousands of the zombie-cultists appear in both directions, trapping you. You run to the nearest cabin, and try and hold them off, all the time watching your ammo tick slowly down.
You have to cross a lake, and wouldn’t you just know it, there’s a 50 foot long sea-monster in there…and it snags your anchor line…meaning you’re getting towed around this lake a break-neck speed, trying to hurl harpoons at the thing while keep control of the boat. Oh, and then you get knocked in the water, and have to hammer the A button as fast as you possibly can to swim back to the boat…watching the sea monster getting closer and closer…while opening its gigantic mouth. (seriously, you could fit a medium sized apartment in there).
As you can imagine there was lots of:
“Ok, be careful, this looks bad…WHAT THE F**K!!!........RUN, RUN DAMN YOU! RUN LIKE THE WIND!!!”
“Right, I’d better reload, you never know when you’re going to get jum…KILL IT! KILL IT!!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAKE IT DEAD!”
“What’s the strange clicking noise?” “OH MY GOD, DODGE, DODGE!!!” “I’M TRYING, I’M TRYING!” “HOLY SHIT! LOOK AT THOSE TEETH!!!”
“SHOOT IT!” “I’M TRYING! THE BULLETS ARE JUST BOUNCING OFF!”
There’s nothing like a game where running away while screaming like a little girl are viable, and sometimes necessary, options.
Above all, it was fun, there’s nothing quite so effective as something as simple as a game scaring the ever-living crap out of you, to get you laughing.
At one point, we were laughing so hard at something I just came out with, it instantly become my lifelong ambition to get on TV to say it. I think it sums up the game perfectly.
So let’s imagine I’m being interviewed in the street for a gaming TV show:
---------
Interviewer: “So what would you say your favourite game is?”
Me: “Hmm, that’s hard to say, but I’d have to say Resident Evil 4 is in my top 3 games of all time.”
I: “Why is that?”
M: “Well, the visuals are absolutely stunning, a perfect example of why the Gamecube SHOULD have been one of the top consoles. The control system is flawless, as is the in game camera. It’s perfectly balanced weapons and enemy wise, but I have to say the best thing is the atmosphere and the scares.”
I: “Is it really that scary?”
M: “Well, let’s put it this way. At one point I was riding in a mining car, Indiana Jones style, and all these badguys kept jumping into it. Suddenly I heard a chainsaw start up, and turned around just in time to see…Well, let’s just say…a little bit of poo came out.”
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Wacky Web Wanderings. (Or 'More Search Terms')
Ok, this needs no introduction. Here are the latest search terms the Inter-freaks have used that have landed them here, in my hallowed corner of the Interweb:
japanese game show girls penises 100 –pee
Uhhh, you want to see Japanese Game Show Girls with penises? I particularly like the ‘–pee’ at the end. “Yeah, I wanna see pictures of Asian girls with dicks, but no peeing! That’s disgusting!”
Tits
Nice to see a guy who isn’t fussy. The sheer abundance of porn on the internet! The only media in the world where you can write “Show me pictures of one legged women having sex with goats that are on fire”, and it replies “Specify type of goat”. Any particular kind of porn? Nah, just tits please.
Strength for now, Strength for later
“Hey Jim, I saw this thing on the TV, where these guys give you a job, and you get to go around the world, shooting at people and stuff!”
“Hell yeah! Who are they?”
“I have no idea, but I know their slogan! Let’s look it up on one of those computer thingies they have in that building with the movies…you know, the library!”
32biz
Not only are these people dumb enough to believe they can make a million a week by working from home, not only do they not notice that the actual website changes every time the ad is on (despite the fact they assert that this is the ONE website you need to visit), they can’t tell the difference between the address bar and the search bar.
President Bush road kill grill south Carolina
YEEEEEEE HAW!
Study that TV Shows Ignore Reality
Looking for a quick paper for your Media Studies coursework, sir?
Maysan Curry Sauce
The absolute best available. If you find somewhere to buy it in the USA, please let me know
Studio Dink Cheesecake Sketches
Huh?
That’s all I have to say about that.
Self Defence Women His Balls
There are a lot of women out there who are just dying to perform a cock-ectomy. Under ‘self defence women’, I’ve also had ‘kicking balls’, ‘punching balls’, ‘stabbing balls’ and ‘stomping balls’
(Guys, you can uncross your legs now)
japanese game show girls penises 100 –pee
Uhhh, you want to see Japanese Game Show Girls with penises? I particularly like the ‘–pee’ at the end. “Yeah, I wanna see pictures of Asian girls with dicks, but no peeing! That’s disgusting!”
Tits
Nice to see a guy who isn’t fussy. The sheer abundance of porn on the internet! The only media in the world where you can write “Show me pictures of one legged women having sex with goats that are on fire”, and it replies “Specify type of goat”. Any particular kind of porn? Nah, just tits please.
Strength for now, Strength for later
“Hey Jim, I saw this thing on the TV, where these guys give you a job, and you get to go around the world, shooting at people and stuff!”
“Hell yeah! Who are they?”
“I have no idea, but I know their slogan! Let’s look it up on one of those computer thingies they have in that building with the movies…you know, the library!”
32biz
Not only are these people dumb enough to believe they can make a million a week by working from home, not only do they not notice that the actual website changes every time the ad is on (despite the fact they assert that this is the ONE website you need to visit), they can’t tell the difference between the address bar and the search bar.
President Bush road kill grill south Carolina
YEEEEEEE HAW!
Study that TV Shows Ignore Reality
Looking for a quick paper for your Media Studies coursework, sir?
Maysan Curry Sauce
The absolute best available. If you find somewhere to buy it in the USA, please let me know
Studio Dink Cheesecake Sketches
Huh?
That’s all I have to say about that.
Self Defence Women His Balls
There are a lot of women out there who are just dying to perform a cock-ectomy. Under ‘self defence women’, I’ve also had ‘kicking balls’, ‘punching balls’, ‘stabbing balls’ and ‘stomping balls’
(Guys, you can uncross your legs now)
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