I don't know what SBS were thinking when they named their new television show what they did, but I think they were thinking the wrong thing. The show is 'RAN: Remote Area Nurse', and it's named after an acronym. As if we didn't have enough acronyms already, with idiots LOLing and LMFAOing left, right, and centre.
I work in the transcription department of an Australian media monitoring company, and we have to deal with hundreds of the fuckers. FTA, STD, NAFTA, DFAT, DHA and DHS all get a look in fairly regularly, and there are many, many others.
By far the worst are the acronyms that have other acronyms in them. Here's one for your perusal and abuse:
AUSFTA
What is this horrid, unpronounceable thing? What can I do with an AUSFTA, I hear you cry? What kind of food does it eat?
In fact, an AUSFTA is an Australian/ US Free Trade Agreement, the US standing for United States of America.
The dreadful possibility arises that soon, we will be dealing with acronyms that have other acronyms in them that have other acronyms in them, and so on, and so on, and so on. Soon, we will have an acronym that is infinitely deep, and then where will we be?
But perhaps this is where the person who invented the acronym wanted us to be. Perhaps he or she foresaw a time, not far in the future, where every word that people said, wrote or typed were just references to other words that people said, wrote, or typed, and words had lost all actual meaning.
Acronyms can be fun. Once I wrote an editorial for a magazine in which I embedded several swear words in the text by using acronyms. Jim Treacher once had a poem to a left-wing poetry site with several, er, colourful acronyms in it. But there are too many of the bastards! We have to stop expressing ourselves through acronyms. People, do this for the sake of the english language: ring up your mother, and swear at her. Your mother may not like it, but at least she'll fucking understand it.
Over-and-fucking-out.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Friday, January 06, 2006
Edward
Gleaming in the sunshine, and screaming it's little heart out, this Post came into the world, not knowing what to expect. I named it Edward, and decided to keep it.
Edward the Post turned out to be a troublesome child. He kept on making sudden diversions into the world of politics, and swerving this way and that to make snarky comments about other bloggers; but I gradually I managed to nurse him into full life and teach him some practical lessons about the world.
The day inevitably came when I knew I had to let Edward go. He had become a fine, fully-grown Post, mature and knowledgeable in the ways of the world, and ready to find his way onto a blog.
"Perhaps, in time, Edward, my son, you will even come to be linked on other people's blogs." I said tearfully.
"Oh, father, will I?" said Edward, his eyes shining with expectation.
I grasped his hands meaningfully in mine and bid him farewell. Moments later, he walked through the door and left my house forever.
He wrote to me from time to time, telling me how he was going. One day, I received a most startling letter from him:
"Dear father," he began, "I want to thank you so much for publishing me! I have met a most wonderful Post! Her name is Cecilia, and she tells me that one day she aims to be published in a magazine! I wish to marry her!"
I wrote back to Edward then, replying that as he was a Post of His Own, he was free to do anything he liked; but that I would want to meet this Cecilia before I bestowed my blessing upon their union.
We arranged to meet two days after in a cafe on Collins Street.
"Oh, father, you'll love her!" said Edward over the phone. "She's everything a Post could ask for!"
As I sat in the cafe toying with my coffee and nervously fingering my watch, I wondered what she would be like. If truth be told, my relationship with Edward had been a little strained lately - perhaps I had asked too much of him as a Post. Perhaps, if I had bought him up with a little more discipline, he would have become a well-known and respected political Post. Maybe he could have been linked on other sites - Legless In Perpetuum, for instance. Or Metal City. Or maybe - one day - even on Tim Blair. Needing something to calm my nerves, I ordered another coffee.
There was a shout from across the streets; I looked up. It was Edward, smiling and waving. My heart leapt. He was my Post, after all; and I loved him for it. I grinned and began to wave back.
And then, in a moment, everything changed. Banging its bells, a tram rushed by, crushing Edward to the ground.
I rushed from the cafe to the streets to where my Post lay. Tears were streaming from my eyes. He was still alive!
"Edward!" I shouted. "Edward, my Boy, My Post - are you alright?"
He could hardly speak. Wordlessly, he took my hand in his and gazed up at me.
"Father, father," he said. "If only you could have m..."
He never finished what he was saying. All I could think, as I looked down at the pitiful wreck of my Little Post, was - how wonderful he could have been, if ... if ... but what use were all these questions now?
"Oh, Edward, Edward," I wept. "How sorry I am!"
And that is how Edward the Post came to an End.
Edward the Post turned out to be a troublesome child. He kept on making sudden diversions into the world of politics, and swerving this way and that to make snarky comments about other bloggers; but I gradually I managed to nurse him into full life and teach him some practical lessons about the world.
The day inevitably came when I knew I had to let Edward go. He had become a fine, fully-grown Post, mature and knowledgeable in the ways of the world, and ready to find his way onto a blog.
"Perhaps, in time, Edward, my son, you will even come to be linked on other people's blogs." I said tearfully.
"Oh, father, will I?" said Edward, his eyes shining with expectation.
I grasped his hands meaningfully in mine and bid him farewell. Moments later, he walked through the door and left my house forever.
He wrote to me from time to time, telling me how he was going. One day, I received a most startling letter from him:
"Dear father," he began, "I want to thank you so much for publishing me! I have met a most wonderful Post! Her name is Cecilia, and she tells me that one day she aims to be published in a magazine! I wish to marry her!"
I wrote back to Edward then, replying that as he was a Post of His Own, he was free to do anything he liked; but that I would want to meet this Cecilia before I bestowed my blessing upon their union.
We arranged to meet two days after in a cafe on Collins Street.
"Oh, father, you'll love her!" said Edward over the phone. "She's everything a Post could ask for!"
As I sat in the cafe toying with my coffee and nervously fingering my watch, I wondered what she would be like. If truth be told, my relationship with Edward had been a little strained lately - perhaps I had asked too much of him as a Post. Perhaps, if I had bought him up with a little more discipline, he would have become a well-known and respected political Post. Maybe he could have been linked on other sites - Legless In Perpetuum, for instance. Or Metal City. Or maybe - one day - even on Tim Blair. Needing something to calm my nerves, I ordered another coffee.
There was a shout from across the streets; I looked up. It was Edward, smiling and waving. My heart leapt. He was my Post, after all; and I loved him for it. I grinned and began to wave back.
And then, in a moment, everything changed. Banging its bells, a tram rushed by, crushing Edward to the ground.
I rushed from the cafe to the streets to where my Post lay. Tears were streaming from my eyes. He was still alive!
"Edward!" I shouted. "Edward, my Boy, My Post - are you alright?"
He could hardly speak. Wordlessly, he took my hand in his and gazed up at me.
"Father, father," he said. "If only you could have m..."
He never finished what he was saying. All I could think, as I looked down at the pitiful wreck of my Little Post, was - how wonderful he could have been, if ... if ... but what use were all these questions now?
"Oh, Edward, Edward," I wept. "How sorry I am!"
And that is how Edward the Post came to an End.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Cooking With Tim
As you all know, not only am I a blogger extraordinaire, but I can do lots and lots of other things as well: like cook, for instance. No, really! Recently, I had a go at this.
It's been described variously as 'Minced Purple People Eater', 'Dramatization of a meal - not actual photo.' and 'radioactive'.
The recipe, which you can find here, had some weird ingredients. '1 Cup Boiled Water, Chilled', for instance. What on earth did they mean by that? I called up Mum. She suggested in a tired, quiet voice that they probably meant water. I hung up the phone, perplexed. Just to be on the safe side, I boiled a jug of water and then put it in the fridge in the morning.
To get ready for the meal, I made three visits to the supermarket, and then one more, just for good measure. In my defence, I'd just come back from Newcastle the day before; I didn't have any food at all.
The central ingredient of the soup is beetroot. Never having bought beetroots before, I wasn't sure what to expect. I was a little afraid that the Coburg Woolworth's wouldn't stock beetroot. I had visions of myself paying exhorbitant prices for imported Arabic beetroots in a small deli on Sydney Road.
I needn't have worried. Actually, the beetroots came in bunches of four, two more than I needed for this recipe. They also came with leaves. I wasn't sure what to do with the leaves, so I called up Mum.
'You put them in a salad' she said. 'What are you doing with the beetroots?'
'Boiling them,' I said.
'Well, you'll be able to tell the beetroots are done when the leaves pull off easily.'
Having received that handy tip, I put a pot of water (of the unchilled variety) on the stove and waited until it was boiling before putting two of the beetroots in. The leaves were very long, reaching almost halfway to the ceiling, and they drooped, so that they kept on falling in the flames and catching alight, and I had to keep rearranging them. The water turned a strange purple colour. Occasionally, I'd pull at the leaves experimentally, but they didn't come off.
The recipe also called for boiled egg whites to be mashed up with scallions or chives. I didn't have either, so I substituted some garlic. When this was done - and it looked like the beetroots were almost ready to be grated - I took out a big bowl and filled it with four cups of buttermilk, and the chilled boiled water. I was surprised there was so much of it. I mixed this up with the egg yolk, and sour cream, diced cucumbers, garlic, salt, and finally, grated beetroot. It looks more pink than purple, I said to myself, but kept on mixing.
Actually, it was quite delicious. When I was done, I came back into the kitchen, took the bowl of soup, and poured the remainder into two medium-sized cooking pans, and put them in the fridge. It was gradually dawning on me that I had cooked more beetroot soup than I had bargained for. I suspected I would be eating beetroot soup for several days, perhaps forever.
I left the plates in the sink and went into the living room.
***
Two days later when I walked into the kitchen, ants were swarming all over the purple-stained plates, and the amount of soup in the fridge had not diminished considerably. After some moments thinking, I took the pans in the fridge out the back and poured them into the compost. That night, I think I had bacon and mushrooms for dinner.
Beetroot soup is alright for a change, but I suspect if I had been forced to eat any more of it, my skin would have developed an odd purple glow, and people would have thought I was a Martian ...
UPDATE! - As you can see, I also did a little blogging on the side while cooking. I'm not exactly the most attentive chef.
UPDATE ON THE UPDATE! - Anyone want two betroots (unboiled)?
It's been described variously as 'Minced Purple People Eater', 'Dramatization of a meal - not actual photo.' and 'radioactive'.
The recipe, which you can find here, had some weird ingredients. '1 Cup Boiled Water, Chilled', for instance. What on earth did they mean by that? I called up Mum. She suggested in a tired, quiet voice that they probably meant water. I hung up the phone, perplexed. Just to be on the safe side, I boiled a jug of water and then put it in the fridge in the morning.
To get ready for the meal, I made three visits to the supermarket, and then one more, just for good measure. In my defence, I'd just come back from Newcastle the day before; I didn't have any food at all.
The central ingredient of the soup is beetroot. Never having bought beetroots before, I wasn't sure what to expect. I was a little afraid that the Coburg Woolworth's wouldn't stock beetroot. I had visions of myself paying exhorbitant prices for imported Arabic beetroots in a small deli on Sydney Road.
I needn't have worried. Actually, the beetroots came in bunches of four, two more than I needed for this recipe. They also came with leaves. I wasn't sure what to do with the leaves, so I called up Mum.
'You put them in a salad' she said. 'What are you doing with the beetroots?'
'Boiling them,' I said.
'Well, you'll be able to tell the beetroots are done when the leaves pull off easily.'
Having received that handy tip, I put a pot of water (of the unchilled variety) on the stove and waited until it was boiling before putting two of the beetroots in. The leaves were very long, reaching almost halfway to the ceiling, and they drooped, so that they kept on falling in the flames and catching alight, and I had to keep rearranging them. The water turned a strange purple colour. Occasionally, I'd pull at the leaves experimentally, but they didn't come off.
The recipe also called for boiled egg whites to be mashed up with scallions or chives. I didn't have either, so I substituted some garlic. When this was done - and it looked like the beetroots were almost ready to be grated - I took out a big bowl and filled it with four cups of buttermilk, and the chilled boiled water. I was surprised there was so much of it. I mixed this up with the egg yolk, and sour cream, diced cucumbers, garlic, salt, and finally, grated beetroot. It looks more pink than purple, I said to myself, but kept on mixing.
Actually, it was quite delicious. When I was done, I came back into the kitchen, took the bowl of soup, and poured the remainder into two medium-sized cooking pans, and put them in the fridge. It was gradually dawning on me that I had cooked more beetroot soup than I had bargained for. I suspected I would be eating beetroot soup for several days, perhaps forever.
I left the plates in the sink and went into the living room.
***
Two days later when I walked into the kitchen, ants were swarming all over the purple-stained plates, and the amount of soup in the fridge had not diminished considerably. After some moments thinking, I took the pans in the fridge out the back and poured them into the compost. That night, I think I had bacon and mushrooms for dinner.
Beetroot soup is alright for a change, but I suspect if I had been forced to eat any more of it, my skin would have developed an odd purple glow, and people would have thought I was a Martian ...
UPDATE! - As you can see, I also did a little blogging on the side while cooking. I'm not exactly the most attentive chef.
UPDATE ON THE UPDATE! - Anyone want two betroots (unboiled)?
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Expand Your Vocabulary
(Post partially inspired by a conversation with Red)
In this post, I propose to help you expand your vocabulary by giving definitions for long or unusual words. Do not worry if you know the word, but thought it had a different definition. We all make these silly little mistakes from time to time.
Feel free to propose your own, alternative definitions in comments!
In this post, I propose to help you expand your vocabulary by giving definitions for long or unusual words. Do not worry if you know the word, but thought it had a different definition. We all make these silly little mistakes from time to time.
Antipodes (Noun) 1) A small species of sea-worm, related to nematodes. It is said that former Labor Prime Minister Gough Whitlam bred antipodes as a child. Antithesis (Noun) 1) A musical instrument, part zither, and part trumpet. It was popular in enlightenment times, but used most recently in several Mr Bungle songs. Bradpitt (Noun) 1) The Bradpitt is a famous hole in the ground in America, second in size only to the Grand Canyon. "That man's about as deep as the Brad Pitt" "Yes, and about as empty." - Mark Twain. Chiropractor (Noun) 1) A new type of Italian coffee. 2) Farm machinery Cunnamulla (Noun) 1) An ilicit bedroom act. Flocculent (Verb, Pers. Noun) 1) Stick. "Birds of a feather flocculent together." - Colloq. 2. Well-known Hollywood actor - Calista Flocculent. Jenniferaniston (Noun) 1) Country south of Afghanistan. Johannesburg (Noun) 1) Salami sandwich of which Johann Sebastian Bach was very fond. It is said that every morning, he would rise from bed, and compose a prelude. Then he would call to his wife for a sandwich. After having completed the sandwich, he would compose the fugue, and then go back to bed. In time, the sandwich acquired the name 'Johannes Burger', or 'Johannesburg.' Liposuction (Noun) 1) New and exciting form of oral sex, pioneered in Amsterdam. Lunatic (Noun) 1) Type of insect which lives on the moon. It feeds on animal blood, and is almost extinct. It is closely related to other insects, including the Emetic, Heretic, and Atlantic. Mod Con (Noun, Pers. Noun) 1) Member of the Australian Greens 2) Bob Brown. Pseudoephedrine (Pers. Noun) 1) A famous Greek poet, known to everyone as 'Ephedrine'. 'Ephedrine' was suspected of not being his real name, and so everyone took to calling him 'Pseudoephedrine'. Ephedrine thought they were probably right. He wasn't sure about it either way, but decided to go along with them, just to be safe. Quern (Noun) 1) Gathering of homosexuals (from the French) Quark (Onomat.) 1) Noise made by a drunken duck. Reesewitherspoon (Noun) 1) Type of cutlery. Stagflation (Verb) 1) Resuscitating a male reindeer. Strophe (Noun) 1) A fight amongst sailors. Telephony (Noun) 1) Person who lies about something on national television 2) A politician. 3) Bob Brown. Xenophobia (Noun) 1) Fear of Warrior Princesses invading your country 2) Fear of Pauline Hanson. 3) Fear of words beginning with unusual letters. |
Feel free to propose your own, alternative definitions in comments!
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Inspirational Verse
This is a poem for Harry. It's called An Ode in 27 stanzas to the fiscal structure of post-1950s Western Society With Reference to the Works of J. K. Gailbraith, an unassuming little title for an unassuming little poem. Here's an excerpt ...
Oh Post 1950s economy,
Why is it that you fill me with such bonhomie?
Yes, you truly are my mon ami,
Oh Post 1950s economy.
I haven't written much, but I'm rather proud of it so far. It's quite good, isn't it?
Oh Post 1950s economy,
Why is it that you fill me with such bonhomie?
Yes, you truly are my mon ami,
Oh Post 1950s economy.
I haven't written much, but I'm rather proud of it so far. It's quite good, isn't it?
Giving Your Child An Inspirational Name
They fuck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
It's a good thing that C.S. Lewis, the writer of The Chronicles of Narnia, is never referred to by his full name, because his full name is Clive Staples Lewis. The Clive I can understand, barely: but Staples? The only reason for a fellow having a middle name like that is because he had a relative, an Uncle or Aunty, for instance, with that as a last name. Aunty Staples, anyone?
That's tradition for you. A means by which the misery of one generation can be perpetuated by inflicting it on the next. Thus the cycle of pain continues over the ages.
Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf;
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
(Thanks to Vague for alerting us to this crucial matter)
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
It's a good thing that C.S. Lewis, the writer of The Chronicles of Narnia, is never referred to by his full name, because his full name is Clive Staples Lewis. The Clive I can understand, barely: but Staples? The only reason for a fellow having a middle name like that is because he had a relative, an Uncle or Aunty, for instance, with that as a last name. Aunty Staples, anyone?
That's tradition for you. A means by which the misery of one generation can be perpetuated by inflicting it on the next. Thus the cycle of pain continues over the ages.
Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf;
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
(Thanks to Vague for alerting us to this crucial matter)
2005 - (Re Reading Lists)
Every year, the critics come out with reading lists, reviewing books that have been published that year. I don't see the point. Books have been around for some two thousand years, meaning that the most interesting books are hardly ever the most recent ones. And our favourite books are usually the ones that we can read and reread; meaning that we are almost never able to tell others whether a book is good after reading it for the first time. And sometimes, the books that we read are poorly written versions of a future book that may never be written.
In that spirit, I offer my own reading list for 2005 ...
Recycled
A Thurber Carnival
Essays by a great American cartoonists and cartoons by a great American essayist, in the one volume. I bought this edition in a Melbourne secondhand store - I'm not sure which one. It took me some four weeks to finish this book, not because it was big, but because I had other things on my mind at the time. Worth it, if nothing else, for the comic, 'The Bloodhound and the Bug'.
Republished
Modern Manners
This is one of the funniest books I have ever read. As a matter of fact, almost all of the books by P. J. O'Rourke fit that description. 'Modern Manners' is an etiquette textbook for the late 20th century - less of a parody of old values than of 'modern' people who have no values. The book is expertly designed, set out in columns, with pictures, tables, quizzes, and educational footnotes. A pity the cover is so awful.
Reread
The Pushcart War
This book begins with an introduction by 'Lyman Cumberly, author of The Large Object Theory of History' and the first chapter begins with one of the main characters being pitched head first into a pickle barrel. And if that doesn't explain to you why I love this book, nothing will.
Not So Much Reread as Relooked
Monster Land
A picture book by Hans Arnold; there is a ludicrous amount of detail in every picture. The cover is a lurid orange, while the pictures inside are black and white. The monsters are a perverse combination of man, woman, machine, and animal: quaint, picture-book style fairies and goblins on the verge of changing into something much more fearsome.
In that spirit, I offer my own reading list for 2005 ...
Recycled
A Thurber Carnival
Essays by a great American cartoonists and cartoons by a great American essayist, in the one volume. I bought this edition in a Melbourne secondhand store - I'm not sure which one. It took me some four weeks to finish this book, not because it was big, but because I had other things on my mind at the time. Worth it, if nothing else, for the comic, 'The Bloodhound and the Bug'.
Republished
Modern Manners
This is one of the funniest books I have ever read. As a matter of fact, almost all of the books by P. J. O'Rourke fit that description. 'Modern Manners' is an etiquette textbook for the late 20th century - less of a parody of old values than of 'modern' people who have no values. The book is expertly designed, set out in columns, with pictures, tables, quizzes, and educational footnotes. A pity the cover is so awful.
Reread
The Pushcart War
This book begins with an introduction by 'Lyman Cumberly, author of The Large Object Theory of History' and the first chapter begins with one of the main characters being pitched head first into a pickle barrel. And if that doesn't explain to you why I love this book, nothing will.
Not So Much Reread as Relooked
Monster Land
A picture book by Hans Arnold; there is a ludicrous amount of detail in every picture. The cover is a lurid orange, while the pictures inside are black and white. The monsters are a perverse combination of man, woman, machine, and animal: quaint, picture-book style fairies and goblins on the verge of changing into something much more fearsome.
What's That Sound?
That sound is the old year softly slipping away and being replaced by the new. Actually, it's a bit hard to hear, because a lot of people are also blowing off fireworks at the same time. Then again, I live near Sydney Road, so that could just be the usual drive-by shooting. It's good to be back in Melbourne.
Happy New Year everybody. Why is it a New Year now, anyway? And at what point does it become an Old Year? It can't stay the New Year for long - I think you'd agree that, by the time 11 months are up, it's pretty old.
Just who is it that decides upon these conventional definitions of New Years and Old Years? I'd like to give them a good talking too.
UPDATE! 'Talking too'? I'd like to give myself a good talking to too!
Happy New Year everybody. Why is it a New Year now, anyway? And at what point does it become an Old Year? It can't stay the New Year for long - I think you'd agree that, by the time 11 months are up, it's pretty old.
Just who is it that decides upon these conventional definitions of New Years and Old Years? I'd like to give them a good talking too.
UPDATE! 'Talking too'? I'd like to give myself a good talking to too!
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Yeah, I'm Bored
TEXT MESSAGE
FROM: Tim Train
TO: Lachlan Train
Whats your opinion on einsteins theory of relativity?
TEXT MESSAGE
FROM: Lachlan Train
TO: Tim Train
Its about as debatable as rock v scissors.
The poor fool. Little does he know that the 'rock vs scissors' argument has long been discredited in the fields of theoretical and quantum physics ...
FROM: Tim Train
TO: Lachlan Train
Whats your opinion on einsteins theory of relativity?
TEXT MESSAGE
FROM: Lachlan Train
TO: Tim Train
Its about as debatable as rock v scissors.
The poor fool. Little does he know that the 'rock vs scissors' argument has long been discredited in the fields of theoretical and quantum physics ...
Prelude to a Trip
Start the morning early. Set your alarm for five and leap out of bed five minutes before it is set to go off. Blearily whip on your only clean t-shirt, only to discover that it is actually your only clean pair of trousers (it's the fact that there's nowhere to put your head that gives it away.) Frantically frisk through your clothes for a t-shirt (travelling half-naked is not recommended unless there are several other nudists on your trip). When you have put on the only remaining almost-not-dirty t-shirt in your collection, leap from your room with the grace of a gazelle. Don't forget to open the door when you do this; otherwise you may have a head-on collision with a solid object.
You are now ready for action: spring towards the nearest cupboard, and make yourself a bowl of cereal!!! Don't worry if there is no milk. This is not the sort of day to be worrying about minor things like that. The cereal's probably gone off, anyway. Dump the cereal in the nearest bin or receptacle, and head for your room again to pack.
The theory about packing clothes is simple.
Make sure you pack: one pair of socks, one pair of pants and underpants, and one shirt. Keep on packing until it looks like you have enough, or alternatively, you run out of clean clothes - probably the latter.
Being simple, this theory is even more simple to forget. Be creative with your clothes - for instance, throw in odd numbers of socks instead of the usual pair. (And if your socks are anything like mine, they will be very odd, indeed.) Furthermore, be ready to challenge conventional terminology. Who decided to call them a 'pair' of trousers? Considering what's happened to the legs of your trousers, this seems rather unrealistic. Spare 'Singlets', on the other hand, can be separated into two or more separate items of clothing, thereby making them 'Doublets' or 'Triplets'.
And 'underpants' - every sane person knows that 'underpants', so called, can be put to many uses, including:
- Novelty head-wear!
- Excellent substitute handkerchiefs!
- A cunningly disguised t-shirt!
Especially after a few drinks.
After you have crammed all these clothes into your bag with desperate efficiency, discover that you have several hours left until your train leaves.
It is at this point that you descend into a dreamlike state and feel as if you are sitting down, objectively observing somebody as they move about the room, performing everyday tasks:
The Subject moved from the kitchen to the loungeroom. He sat down for several seconds. He then sprang up again. He repeated this motion several times over. He then began to walk from one end of the room to the other, swinging his hands in front of his body. He tilted his head forward and then nodded it several times before returning to the couch and sitting down. He sat down for several seconds ...
Don't worry, you're not going mad. All the adrenaline has simply gone to your head, and is causing you to have mild hallucinations.
By the time you return to yourself, you will realise that you are running late for what is possibly the last tram. Gather up your books and bags and items and rush from the house, not remembering to close all the windows and lock and double bolt the door and close the gate behind you. You will be surprised how quick you can run while carrying several large and heavy bags.
It is at this point that you realise that you have forgotten to pack something Very Small but Extremely Important, and it is imperative that you return to the house, open the gate, double unlock the double bolts on your door, and rush into your room to retrieve whatever item it is that you have left there before rushing from the house to discover that you have just missed the tram.
Sit around impatiently before catching the next tram. When you finally arrive at the train station, realise that the train has not even arrived yet, and that you are standing at the end of a rather long queue of very fat people, and that you will probably be the last to find your seat.
***
I could go on and dwell on the train journey: but I find that it is probably best to focus on the positive things in life, and not the negative. It is probably wise to repress all the memories of the squealing children and the fat old man who sits next to you and, every minute, makes compulsive noises out of the side of his mouth, that smell oddly like farting (is THAT why his wife never looks in his direction)?
What matters is that you are on your way, and that, at some point between twelve hours and eternity, you will finally arrive at your destination, if nothing goes wrong. Congratulations!
You are now ready for action: spring towards the nearest cupboard, and make yourself a bowl of cereal!!! Don't worry if there is no milk. This is not the sort of day to be worrying about minor things like that. The cereal's probably gone off, anyway. Dump the cereal in the nearest bin or receptacle, and head for your room again to pack.
The theory about packing clothes is simple.
Make sure you pack: one pair of socks, one pair of pants and underpants, and one shirt. Keep on packing until it looks like you have enough, or alternatively, you run out of clean clothes - probably the latter.
Being simple, this theory is even more simple to forget. Be creative with your clothes - for instance, throw in odd numbers of socks instead of the usual pair. (And if your socks are anything like mine, they will be very odd, indeed.) Furthermore, be ready to challenge conventional terminology. Who decided to call them a 'pair' of trousers? Considering what's happened to the legs of your trousers, this seems rather unrealistic. Spare 'Singlets', on the other hand, can be separated into two or more separate items of clothing, thereby making them 'Doublets' or 'Triplets'.
And 'underpants' - every sane person knows that 'underpants', so called, can be put to many uses, including:
- Novelty head-wear!
- Excellent substitute handkerchiefs!
- A cunningly disguised t-shirt!
Especially after a few drinks.
After you have crammed all these clothes into your bag with desperate efficiency, discover that you have several hours left until your train leaves.
It is at this point that you descend into a dreamlike state and feel as if you are sitting down, objectively observing somebody as they move about the room, performing everyday tasks:
The Subject moved from the kitchen to the loungeroom. He sat down for several seconds. He then sprang up again. He repeated this motion several times over. He then began to walk from one end of the room to the other, swinging his hands in front of his body. He tilted his head forward and then nodded it several times before returning to the couch and sitting down. He sat down for several seconds ...
Don't worry, you're not going mad. All the adrenaline has simply gone to your head, and is causing you to have mild hallucinations.
By the time you return to yourself, you will realise that you are running late for what is possibly the last tram. Gather up your books and bags and items and rush from the house, not remembering to close all the windows and lock and double bolt the door and close the gate behind you. You will be surprised how quick you can run while carrying several large and heavy bags.
It is at this point that you realise that you have forgotten to pack something Very Small but Extremely Important, and it is imperative that you return to the house, open the gate, double unlock the double bolts on your door, and rush into your room to retrieve whatever item it is that you have left there before rushing from the house to discover that you have just missed the tram.
Sit around impatiently before catching the next tram. When you finally arrive at the train station, realise that the train has not even arrived yet, and that you are standing at the end of a rather long queue of very fat people, and that you will probably be the last to find your seat.
***
I could go on and dwell on the train journey: but I find that it is probably best to focus on the positive things in life, and not the negative. It is probably wise to repress all the memories of the squealing children and the fat old man who sits next to you and, every minute, makes compulsive noises out of the side of his mouth, that smell oddly like farting (is THAT why his wife never looks in his direction)?
What matters is that you are on your way, and that, at some point between twelve hours and eternity, you will finally arrive at your destination, if nothing goes wrong. Congratulations!
Saturday, December 24, 2005
What the Hell
I'm in Raymond Terrace. Just outside of Newcastle. The weather here is fucking hot. I want to go home!
Just saw the name of a shop:
LETS COMMUNICATE
No apostrophe. Arrrrrgh!
I think I'll spend the day boozing it up with my brother and his girlfriend. Also, might get my father an eel for Christmas. Just to be difficult.
Things to do in the next couple of days:
- Turn up unannounced on the door of my other brother in Sydney with a big cabbage for his Christmas present.
- Eat ridiculous amounts of Christmas food.
- Take a photograph of the downstairs part of my parents house, and send it to them as a postcard.
- Get the fuck out of here.
Merry Christmas eve. Merry Christmas, even! Later!
Just saw the name of a shop:
LETS COMMUNICATE
No apostrophe. Arrrrrgh!
I think I'll spend the day boozing it up with my brother and his girlfriend. Also, might get my father an eel for Christmas. Just to be difficult.
Things to do in the next couple of days:
- Turn up unannounced on the door of my other brother in Sydney with a big cabbage for his Christmas present.
- Eat ridiculous amounts of Christmas food.
- Take a photograph of the downstairs part of my parents house, and send it to them as a postcard.
- Get the fuck out of here.
Merry Christmas eve. Merry Christmas, even! Later!
Thursday, December 22, 2005
The First 'First Day of Christmas'
It took a while for anon to get the famous carol, 'The First Day of Christmas', right ...
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...
A fully-equipped diesel-powered tractor
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...
Two atomic power-generator, complete with plutonium and uranium resources
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...
Three killer robots
Three ransom notes
Three french hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
And you certainly don't want to know what happened on days four through twelve ...
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...
Three french hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
And you certainly don't want to know what happened on days four through twelve ...
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Many Crappy Returns
Racism kind of sucks. Think how much nicer the world would be if, instead of calling one another 'you black arsehole!' and 'that white cunt!' we simply settled for calling one another 'Arsehole! and 'Cunt!' That's right, the world would be a much better place. You should go out and swear to your neighbour right now, you really should.
Swearing: bringing misanthropes from all over the world together.
Swearing: bringing misanthropes from all over the world together.
Seasons Bleatings
Some people like Christmas and some people dislike Christmas. Me, I dislike liking Christmas but I also dislike disliking Christmas. Also, I like Christmas. There's very little logic in this, but then, this is not a logical time of year.
Lord knows there's a lot to complain about during Christmas, including:
Getting presents
Not getting presents
Giving presents
Not giving presents
Santa Claus
Jesus Christ
Santa Claus taking the Jesus Christ out of Christmas
Jesus Christ taking the Santa Claus out of Christmas
Consumerism
Seeing family
Not seeing family
Christmas television
Christmas films
Cecil B. de Mille films
Jimmy Stewart films
Black and white films
Charles Dickens
Oliver Twist
Ebenezer Scrooge
"A Christmas Carol"
Christmas carols
But then, come to think about it, there's also a lot to like, including:
All of the above
You don't like Christmas? The whole thing is basically a time when people get together, eat food, and get drunk. Sounds good to me. Also, mince pies are tasty. Don't like Christmas? Sucks to you. Merry Christmas, you bastards!
Lord knows there's a lot to complain about during Christmas, including:
Getting presents
Not getting presents
Giving presents
Not giving presents
Santa Claus
Jesus Christ
Santa Claus taking the Jesus Christ out of Christmas
Jesus Christ taking the Santa Claus out of Christmas
Consumerism
Seeing family
Not seeing family
Christmas television
Christmas films
Cecil B. de Mille films
Jimmy Stewart films
Black and white films
Charles Dickens
Oliver Twist
Ebenezer Scrooge
"A Christmas Carol"
Christmas carols
But then, come to think about it, there's also a lot to like, including:
All of the above
You don't like Christmas? The whole thing is basically a time when people get together, eat food, and get drunk. Sounds good to me. Also, mince pies are tasty. Don't like Christmas? Sucks to you. Merry Christmas, you bastards!
Ways To Amuse Yourself #4
You're at a nudist colony.
1) Organise a bike race!
2) Cheerfully discuss the objectification of the human form in western culture with any person that you come across!
3) Hold a barbecue and invite members of the Taliban along!
4) Look at all the naked women and picture them - IN CLOTHES! Phwoooar!!!
1) Organise a bike race!
2) Cheerfully discuss the objectification of the human form in western culture with any person that you come across!
3) Hold a barbecue and invite members of the Taliban along!
4) Look at all the naked women and picture them - IN CLOTHES! Phwoooar!!!
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Important Question
At the moment, I'm writing a love story about an Agorophobic and a Claustrophobic. What is the best way to describe a sex scene between the two?
Provide your answers, with supporting reasons, in comments.
Provide your answers, with supporting reasons, in comments.
Rate Myself
Rate My Students? Rate My Professor? What's the point of that? Such actions only lead to nastiness and crudeness. I think the nicest thing you could possibly do is rate yourself.
Here's my report card (by me).
Name: Tim Train
Intelligence:
10/10
Tim demonstrates exceptional ability in smartness, brightness, quick-wittedness, and possesses exceptionally high amounts of The Genius Factor (tm). He is an excellent student.
Niceness:
10/10
Tim is the nicest person you could possibly meet! He is brilliant in many fields of Niceness, including generosity, honesty, morality, and careingness.
Gosh, isn't he nice?
Attractiveness
10/10
It is without hesitation that I give Tim top marks in the attractiveness ratings. Well done, Tim - give yourself a big pat on the back!
General Comments
Tim is practically perfect in every way!
Rate yourself, in comments.
Here's my report card (by me).
Name: Tim Train
Intelligence:
10/10
Tim demonstrates exceptional ability in smartness, brightness, quick-wittedness, and possesses exceptionally high amounts of The Genius Factor (tm). He is an excellent student.
Niceness:
10/10
Tim is the nicest person you could possibly meet! He is brilliant in many fields of Niceness, including generosity, honesty, morality, and careingness.
Gosh, isn't he nice?
Attractiveness
10/10
It is without hesitation that I give Tim top marks in the attractiveness ratings. Well done, Tim - give yourself a big pat on the back!
General Comments
Tim is practically perfect in every way!
Rate yourself, in comments.
Gift Ideas for the Obsessive Psychopath In Your Life
So: you married an axe-murderer. You didn't know it at the time, but your husband/wife to be was in fact insane, sadistic serial-killer who should be locked up and put in jail for good. But you've learnt not to be judgemental. Sure, they might be evil, demented beings; but basically, they're nice people.
But there are always problems. Like, what are you going to buy them for Christmas? Here are some gift ideas...
Diary/Personal Planner
Your significant-other-twisted-psychopathic-half spends a lot of time stalking his or her victims and obsessing over the modus operandi. What better gift could you get for than a diary? Plus, these days, diaries come in many attractive colours, with inspirational slogans to help them get through the day!
Industrial-sized Fridge
It's not that you mind finding unusual human body parts in your fridge, so much - it's just that there's so little room left over to put in Christmas pudding, and other treats.
So, for Christmas, you couldn't go wrong by buying the psychopath in your life an industrial-sized fridge!
Meat Cleavers
As the old saying goes, 'The family that slays together, stays together.' So you could do far, far worse than buying a set of pre-sharpened meat cleavers, and joining your husband/wife in their naughty nightime antics. It could be just the thing for putting that zing back in your marriage!
Mushroom Kit
There are times when even you grow worried by their obsessions. Maybe all the psychopath-in-the family needs, really, is another hobby. Why don't you get them a mushroom kit, and let them pour all their obsessive-compulsive habits into a complicated, yet rewarding, task, like growing mushrooms?
I mean, sure, they'll always be evil, but at least let them be evil in a productive way.
But there are always problems. Like, what are you going to buy them for Christmas? Here are some gift ideas...
Diary/Personal Planner
Your significant-other-twisted-psychopathic-half spends a lot of time stalking his or her victims and obsessing over the modus operandi. What better gift could you get for than a diary? Plus, these days, diaries come in many attractive colours, with inspirational slogans to help them get through the day!
Industrial-sized Fridge
It's not that you mind finding unusual human body parts in your fridge, so much - it's just that there's so little room left over to put in Christmas pudding, and other treats.
So, for Christmas, you couldn't go wrong by buying the psychopath in your life an industrial-sized fridge!
Meat Cleavers
As the old saying goes, 'The family that slays together, stays together.' So you could do far, far worse than buying a set of pre-sharpened meat cleavers, and joining your husband/wife in their naughty nightime antics. It could be just the thing for putting that zing back in your marriage!
Mushroom Kit
There are times when even you grow worried by their obsessions. Maybe all the psychopath-in-the family needs, really, is another hobby. Why don't you get them a mushroom kit, and let them pour all their obsessive-compulsive habits into a complicated, yet rewarding, task, like growing mushrooms?
I mean, sure, they'll always be evil, but at least let them be evil in a productive way.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Hellphones
Did I ever tell you about the phone system we have at work? It's very simple, really; all you need is an encyclopaedia and a PhD in advanced mathematics to work out how to use it.
Rule 1: If the phone starts ringing, DO NOT PICK IT UP.
Why? Well, first of all, you're going to have to work out if the phone call is for you. If the phone call is not for you, then the phone ring will be loud. If the phone call is for you, then the phone call will be soft. Thus the office phone system defies one of the most basic rules of acoustics - things that are closer will be louder than things that are further away.
Rule 2: If the phone call is for you, DO NOT PICK IT UP.
Why? Well, you're going to have to work out what sort of a phone call it is, first. If it's a phone call from outside, the light will be flashing green (or red). If the phone call is internal, then the light will be flashing red (or green). In time, you will be able to remember these rules for yourself: but not now.
Rule 3: Learn to properly answer the phone when it rings.
The proper way to answer the phone when it rings is to shout at it. Eventually, the phone will get the message and stop ringing.*
Rule 4: Wait until the call is re-routed through to the secretaries desk and the message comes through: 'T, phone call on line 1437565. T, phone call on line 1437565'.
After all, it's only the REALLY important phone callers that will bother going this far. It's about now that you'd better think of picking up the phone.
Rule 5: Panic.
Fear is an excellent stimulus.
Rule 6: Pick up the phone.
Although at this stage, you might be tempted to throw the phone at the wall, workplace aggression never solved anything. Calmly, quietly pick up the receiver. Now all you have to do is get on line one.
This is done by pressing the 'Call PU' then '1437565'. Or by pressing 'Park Rtrv' then '1437565'. One of the two, I'm not sure which.
Rule 7: Respond to the caller in a calm, intelligent, and professional matter.
Suggested ways to begin your phone call:
- 'Good afternoon, welcome to '...', this is T. speaking. I'm afraid I can't take your call at the moment, as my brain is currently out to lunch. If you care to call back later after I have gone home, it would be greatly appreciated.'
- 'Sorry, she's not here at the moment. Who? I don't know. You were the person calling for her.'
- 'Je suis desolet, mi no spreche di Espanol.'
This will make all the difference.
Rule 8: Make yourself a cup of coffee.
You'll need it. The boss will want to see you in his office, first thing in the morning ...
*There are people who say that phones are unintelligent and cannot understand you. These people are fools.
Rule 1: If the phone starts ringing, DO NOT PICK IT UP.
Why? Well, first of all, you're going to have to work out if the phone call is for you. If the phone call is not for you, then the phone ring will be loud. If the phone call is for you, then the phone call will be soft. Thus the office phone system defies one of the most basic rules of acoustics - things that are closer will be louder than things that are further away.
Rule 2: If the phone call is for you, DO NOT PICK IT UP.
Why? Well, you're going to have to work out what sort of a phone call it is, first. If it's a phone call from outside, the light will be flashing green (or red). If the phone call is internal, then the light will be flashing red (or green). In time, you will be able to remember these rules for yourself: but not now.
Rule 3: Learn to properly answer the phone when it rings.
The proper way to answer the phone when it rings is to shout at it. Eventually, the phone will get the message and stop ringing.*
Rule 4: Wait until the call is re-routed through to the secretaries desk and the message comes through: 'T, phone call on line 1437565. T, phone call on line 1437565'.
After all, it's only the REALLY important phone callers that will bother going this far. It's about now that you'd better think of picking up the phone.
Rule 5: Panic.
Fear is an excellent stimulus.
Rule 6: Pick up the phone.
Although at this stage, you might be tempted to throw the phone at the wall, workplace aggression never solved anything. Calmly, quietly pick up the receiver. Now all you have to do is get on line one.
This is done by pressing the 'Call PU' then '1437565'. Or by pressing 'Park Rtrv' then '1437565'. One of the two, I'm not sure which.
Rule 7: Respond to the caller in a calm, intelligent, and professional matter.
Suggested ways to begin your phone call:
- 'Good afternoon, welcome to '...', this is T. speaking. I'm afraid I can't take your call at the moment, as my brain is currently out to lunch. If you care to call back later after I have gone home, it would be greatly appreciated.'
- 'Sorry, she's not here at the moment. Who? I don't know. You were the person calling for her.'
- 'Je suis desolet, mi no spreche di Espanol.'
This will make all the difference.
Rule 8: Make yourself a cup of coffee.
You'll need it. The boss will want to see you in his office, first thing in the morning ...
*There are people who say that phones are unintelligent and cannot understand you. These people are fools.
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