You don't speak Japanese.
You have no Japanese friends.
You don't even like Sushi.
So when did it occur to you that it would be a good idea to get this tattooed onto your body...
FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!!!
Your tattoo is lame.
You are not Japanese.
You don't speak Japanese.
You have no Japanese friends.
You don't even like Sushi.
So when did it occur to you that it would be a good idea to get this tattooed onto your body...
FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!!!
You don't speak Japanese.
You have no Japanese friends.
You don't even like Sushi.
So when did it occur to you that it would be a good idea to get this tattooed onto your body...
FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!!!
Communicating is lame.
Words are my enemy.
Actually wait, words aren't my enemy, people are my enemy. People and the way they use words are my enemy.
Words are actually quite useful and my possible career is centred around them and the way I use them so I should probably be nice to words.
So let's just stick with me hating the people who use them. It's always the people's fault.
Lately I find myself cringing at a few terms that are being thrown around a little too freely for my liking...
"Thanking you!" - My job involves lots of times a day where I am giving someone something, because of this there is a direct impact on how many times I am thanked. A simple 'cheers' or 'ta' or just a plain old 'thanks' is more than sufficient but some people insist on murdering this age old exchange. Why do these people feel the need to tell me that they are thanking me while they thank me? If you just said 'thank you' in the first place I'm well aware of what you are doing, there is no need for you to tell me " I am thanking you"! It's not like I look at you and say "Serving you!" when I hand you your beer do I? There is no need for either of us to provide a running commentary of our actions while we do them.
It's normally coming from a middle aged man and he always does it with a dorky smile on his face and it's hard to hate him for it. I still manage.
While I'm tearing apart gracious people - I also hate it when some say "Thankyou kindly". Aren't you already being kind when you thank me? Or were all those other thankyous just hollow? Or are you just trying to make yourself sound better by asserting that you are kinder than other thankers? What's your story! Huh!? If you must exaggerate your appreciation, just say 'thankyou very much'.
"Deets" - short and slang for 'details'. As in - "I'll send you some deets on tomorrow night" or "What are the deets for this project?"
What was wrong with the word details? It was only a mere two syllables? I think I hate it most because it's always being used by extremely white guys who just can't fit it into a sentence casually enough for me to not notice it. It just screams "I'M TRYING TO SOUND CHILLAXED"
"Chillaxed" - bleeeeugh.
"Flick you an email" - I have no idea why this one annoys me so much but I just hate how unnecessary it is. Why can't you just send the email like everyone else? There is no flicking involved at any stage of email sending. Thinking, writing, reading, typing, attaching, drafting, proofreading, cutting, copying, pasting and linking are all perfectly acceptable present participles (Yeah - take that every english teacher I've ever had!) that could be used in the process of emailing, but 'flicking' never arises! At a stretch the only time could be when you press the send button, you could possible move your cursor over 'SEND', hold the mouse still with one hand, and then flick the mouse button with the other one - but I just tried it and it really hurt.
"Naysayers" - Who exactly are these naysayers, where can I find someone who refuses something by saying 'nay'. THEY DON'T EXIST SO STOP USING THAT TERM!
"Hubby" - if you ever use this abbreviation in any way, shape or form. I am TOTALLY unfriending you on Facebook.
Sometimes people create and change words for good, like "Maccas", "Octomom" and "Oprah rich". But the other people who abuse them and coin terms like "Brangelina" should chillax before saying thanking you or I will flick them and their hubby an email saying NAY!
Actually wait, words aren't my enemy, people are my enemy. People and the way they use words are my enemy.
Words are actually quite useful and my possible career is centred around them and the way I use them so I should probably be nice to words.
So let's just stick with me hating the people who use them. It's always the people's fault.
Lately I find myself cringing at a few terms that are being thrown around a little too freely for my liking...
"Thanking you!" - My job involves lots of times a day where I am giving someone something, because of this there is a direct impact on how many times I am thanked. A simple 'cheers' or 'ta' or just a plain old 'thanks' is more than sufficient but some people insist on murdering this age old exchange. Why do these people feel the need to tell me that they are thanking me while they thank me? If you just said 'thank you' in the first place I'm well aware of what you are doing, there is no need for you to tell me " I am thanking you"! It's not like I look at you and say "Serving you!" when I hand you your beer do I? There is no need for either of us to provide a running commentary of our actions while we do them.
It's normally coming from a middle aged man and he always does it with a dorky smile on his face and it's hard to hate him for it. I still manage.
While I'm tearing apart gracious people - I also hate it when some say "Thankyou kindly". Aren't you already being kind when you thank me? Or were all those other thankyous just hollow? Or are you just trying to make yourself sound better by asserting that you are kinder than other thankers? What's your story! Huh!? If you must exaggerate your appreciation, just say 'thankyou very much'.
"Deets" - short and slang for 'details'. As in - "I'll send you some deets on tomorrow night" or "What are the deets for this project?"
What was wrong with the word details? It was only a mere two syllables? I think I hate it most because it's always being used by extremely white guys who just can't fit it into a sentence casually enough for me to not notice it. It just screams "I'M TRYING TO SOUND CHILLAXED"
"Chillaxed" - bleeeeugh.
"Flick you an email" - I have no idea why this one annoys me so much but I just hate how unnecessary it is. Why can't you just send the email like everyone else? There is no flicking involved at any stage of email sending. Thinking, writing, reading, typing, attaching, drafting, proofreading, cutting, copying, pasting and linking are all perfectly acceptable present participles (Yeah - take that every english teacher I've ever had!) that could be used in the process of emailing, but 'flicking' never arises! At a stretch the only time could be when you press the send button, you could possible move your cursor over 'SEND', hold the mouse still with one hand, and then flick the mouse button with the other one - but I just tried it and it really hurt.
"Naysayers" - Who exactly are these naysayers, where can I find someone who refuses something by saying 'nay'. THEY DON'T EXIST SO STOP USING THAT TERM!
"Hubby" - if you ever use this abbreviation in any way, shape or form. I am TOTALLY unfriending you on Facebook.
Sometimes people create and change words for good, like "Maccas", "Octomom" and "Oprah rich". But the other people who abuse them and coin terms like "Brangelina" should chillax before saying thanking you or I will flick them and their hubby an email saying NAY!
Exercise is lame.
I completely and utterly SUCK at estimating.
Ages, distances, weights, heights, but most importantly.... times.
So when it comes to "Finding Thirty" I'm hopeless. If go for a run - ok well I use the term 'run' loosely - I'll run about 100m out of my driveway (or is it 10m?) and then it will be time to have a quick walk to recover from that strain, and then repeat that pattern until I can't go anymore.
I figure this journey to a sweaty, tired and bored destination of exhaustion would take me AT LEAST 30 minutes. But then when I drag my arse back inside and realise it's the same episode of Neighbours playing as when I left, I'm just plain embarassed. I can't even run around my suburb for as long as it takes Karl and Susan to make a cup of tea for Toadie and explain to him that he needs to get out of Erinsborough because the writers are running out of storylines that explain why he gets such hot love interests while he too closely resembles his namesake.
And running around the neighbourhood just isn't as glamourous as the Lorna Jane commercials make it out to be. My outfit rarely consists of anything that remotely matches or is of a sports brand at all. I don't have any windswept hills around my place where the sun shines perfectly behind me while my ponytail swings in perfect unison with my arms. There's no conveniently placed concrete steps for me to run up with a even more conveniently placed water fountain at the top. I rarely see any tanned, toned and painfully good looking guys jogging in the opposite direction shooting me a flirty glance as we cross paths suggesting a future romance.
In fact, the reality is I'm wearing some daggy shorts that once formed my highschool uniform and a baggy tshirt that was bought only because I found myself needing one last item from the '3 for $10' table at JayJays. My sneakers are from the Mart of K and bear the name of Australia's own D-list hero- Guy Leach. Running down my street is no easy feat, it's a gauntlet of avoiding reversing cars and old Italian Nonnas weeding their nature strips while they secretly curse you because you don't. My once perfect ponytail has slipped out of it's band and now the back hangs out giving me an essence of mullet and I'm almost stacking it every few steps trying to keep my dam earphones in my ears because I can't make out where the 'L' and 'R' are anymore. The only source of water on my route is from a fountain at the oval which you've always been told 'someone probably pissed in it'. Seriously - who actually pisses in a water fountain? I'm no guy, but I'm pretty sure that angle is a little uncomfortable, either way I'll be buggered if I'm drinking out of it.
Struggling home I'll be trying not to let anyone see my red and sweaty face, let alone a male of the tanned/toned/hot variety.
So as I collapse on the couch and the credits of Neighbours rolls down the screen, I curse my unfitness and swear never to leave the house again and to listen to Olivia Newton John and just get a Wii Fit.
Ages, distances, weights, heights, but most importantly.... times.
So when it comes to "Finding Thirty" I'm hopeless. If go for a run - ok well I use the term 'run' loosely - I'll run about 100m out of my driveway (or is it 10m?) and then it will be time to have a quick walk to recover from that strain, and then repeat that pattern until I can't go anymore.
I figure this journey to a sweaty, tired and bored destination of exhaustion would take me AT LEAST 30 minutes. But then when I drag my arse back inside and realise it's the same episode of Neighbours playing as when I left, I'm just plain embarassed. I can't even run around my suburb for as long as it takes Karl and Susan to make a cup of tea for Toadie and explain to him that he needs to get out of Erinsborough because the writers are running out of storylines that explain why he gets such hot love interests while he too closely resembles his namesake.
And running around the neighbourhood just isn't as glamourous as the Lorna Jane commercials make it out to be. My outfit rarely consists of anything that remotely matches or is of a sports brand at all. I don't have any windswept hills around my place where the sun shines perfectly behind me while my ponytail swings in perfect unison with my arms. There's no conveniently placed concrete steps for me to run up with a even more conveniently placed water fountain at the top. I rarely see any tanned, toned and painfully good looking guys jogging in the opposite direction shooting me a flirty glance as we cross paths suggesting a future romance.
In fact, the reality is I'm wearing some daggy shorts that once formed my highschool uniform and a baggy tshirt that was bought only because I found myself needing one last item from the '3 for $10' table at JayJays. My sneakers are from the Mart of K and bear the name of Australia's own D-list hero- Guy Leach. Running down my street is no easy feat, it's a gauntlet of avoiding reversing cars and old Italian Nonnas weeding their nature strips while they secretly curse you because you don't. My once perfect ponytail has slipped out of it's band and now the back hangs out giving me an essence of mullet and I'm almost stacking it every few steps trying to keep my dam earphones in my ears because I can't make out where the 'L' and 'R' are anymore. The only source of water on my route is from a fountain at the oval which you've always been told 'someone probably pissed in it'. Seriously - who actually pisses in a water fountain? I'm no guy, but I'm pretty sure that angle is a little uncomfortable, either way I'll be buggered if I'm drinking out of it.
Struggling home I'll be trying not to let anyone see my red and sweaty face, let alone a male of the tanned/toned/hot variety.
So as I collapse on the couch and the credits of Neighbours rolls down the screen, I curse my unfitness and swear never to leave the house again and to listen to Olivia Newton John and just get a Wii Fit.
Ikea is lame.
Dear Ikea,
First of all you know I don't mean that title right? I just have this thing going on with all my blogs and I'm gonna stick with it. You know I love you.
It's just that lately I don't think you're contributing to this relationship between us as much as I am. It's just take, take, take from you.
I think you know I've recently moved house and I think you're just taking advantage of that fact. First it was the conveniently timed new catalogue in the letterbox of my old place and THEN the letterbox of the new one. It's not fair to stalk me like that. We needed time apart and you're just targeting me while I'm vulnerable.
You knew that the day I had to leave the world's most amazing cheese slicer behind with my old housemate that I'd be running straight back into your arms for another. But instead of just a cheese slicer, I left your flat-packed world armed with things I never even knew I couldn't live without. Colourful bendy straws are an everyday necessity now, do you know what that plastic is doing to the planet!? I guess I could make up with it by watering the garden with all the excess water I have after making salad, because I now have the dryest lettuce on the street thanks to that salad spinner you wouldn't let me walk past.
I hate that you lull me into such a false sense of ability too. I look at your perfectly boxed up furniture and you make me lie to myself and think 'yes, I can build that Expedit Shelving Unit' but you know what Ikea?! YOU KNOW WHAT?! I can't!! And I hate you for it. I hate you for the allen keys, and I hate you for the stupid stick man that smiles mockingly at me from the pages of your wordless instruction booklets, and I hate you for the stupid bits of wood that pop out of one end when I'm trying to hammer in the other end with a shoe.
How do you do it Ikea? How do you make me want to have a colour co-ordinated, 'birch' themed bedroom? How do you make me want to bleach all my clothes white just so they won't clash with my perfectly organised wardrobe accessories? How do you make me feel inadequate because I don't have a spicerack? Are you putting mind-control drugs into your $1 hotdogs? Because while that is geniusely evil and a cleverly marketable plan, it's just not fair.
One day I'll work out how to resist all your carefully laid out traps. I'll be able to walk straight past your 3 pack of scissors for $4, I'll ignore those stackable cane baskets that I have nothing to put in, I'll avoid the home organisation section where I always stand contemplating if I need that mini ironing board even though I can't remember the last time I used an iron. I'll hold my breath in the scented candle displays and I'll repeat my mantra - "I do not need a lantern floor lamp, I do not need a lantern floor lamp." And once I've mastered the ability to do all this, I'll be able to head straight to what I really need....
Novelty ice - cube trays.
First of all you know I don't mean that title right? I just have this thing going on with all my blogs and I'm gonna stick with it. You know I love you.
It's just that lately I don't think you're contributing to this relationship between us as much as I am. It's just take, take, take from you.
I think you know I've recently moved house and I think you're just taking advantage of that fact. First it was the conveniently timed new catalogue in the letterbox of my old place and THEN the letterbox of the new one. It's not fair to stalk me like that. We needed time apart and you're just targeting me while I'm vulnerable.
You knew that the day I had to leave the world's most amazing cheese slicer behind with my old housemate that I'd be running straight back into your arms for another. But instead of just a cheese slicer, I left your flat-packed world armed with things I never even knew I couldn't live without. Colourful bendy straws are an everyday necessity now, do you know what that plastic is doing to the planet!? I guess I could make up with it by watering the garden with all the excess water I have after making salad, because I now have the dryest lettuce on the street thanks to that salad spinner you wouldn't let me walk past.
I hate that you lull me into such a false sense of ability too. I look at your perfectly boxed up furniture and you make me lie to myself and think 'yes, I can build that Expedit Shelving Unit' but you know what Ikea?! YOU KNOW WHAT?! I can't!! And I hate you for it. I hate you for the allen keys, and I hate you for the stupid stick man that smiles mockingly at me from the pages of your wordless instruction booklets, and I hate you for the stupid bits of wood that pop out of one end when I'm trying to hammer in the other end with a shoe.
How do you do it Ikea? How do you make me want to have a colour co-ordinated, 'birch' themed bedroom? How do you make me want to bleach all my clothes white just so they won't clash with my perfectly organised wardrobe accessories? How do you make me feel inadequate because I don't have a spicerack? Are you putting mind-control drugs into your $1 hotdogs? Because while that is geniusely evil and a cleverly marketable plan, it's just not fair.
One day I'll work out how to resist all your carefully laid out traps. I'll be able to walk straight past your 3 pack of scissors for $4, I'll ignore those stackable cane baskets that I have nothing to put in, I'll avoid the home organisation section where I always stand contemplating if I need that mini ironing board even though I can't remember the last time I used an iron. I'll hold my breath in the scented candle displays and I'll repeat my mantra - "I do not need a lantern floor lamp, I do not need a lantern floor lamp." And once I've mastered the ability to do all this, I'll be able to head straight to what I really need....
Novelty ice - cube trays.
Team sports can be lame.
There comes a time in every Australians life when they will join a netball team. For a lot of girls this is at the tender age of around 6 when your Mum enrols you in the local 'nettaball' competition. The court is half the size, the goal posts stand a looming 150cm high and the umpire's job is to ''make sure everyone gets a turn''. It's all happy families on a Saturday morning and when the games over you give three cheers for the other team and everyone wanders over to McDonalds for a Happy Meal, just like the ads. It doesn't matter who won, as long as you tried your best.
Some will play for a couple of years through primary school and others continue on. Either way, it generally all ends up the same way. You haven't played for years and then someone from your workplace\uni\group of friends thinks its a brilliant idea to get a team together for the local 'social' competition at the rec centre down the road. Sounds fun doesn't it? We'll all have a laugh playing and then go to the pub after the game and feel less guilty because we did some exercise.
But it's not always like that is it?
Your team is there for fun and a bit of physical exertion, but why is that the other teams aren't?
I recently joined a netball team and it turns out we're probably the shittest team around. Half the team is apparently in that small minority of girls who've never played before and the other are lacking some serious hand-eye coordination and other motor skills that should have probably been mastered by age 3. Like staying upright.
Either way we give it a good shot and obviously it's not our fault we haven't won a game. It's clearly the competition.
In my long netballing history I've been able to group every player into one of the following categories:
The girl who takes it too seriously:
Apparently she didn't get the newsletter about it being a SOCIAL competition, she's the one with game plans and who gets far too upset when someone steps or misses a goal. Never ever tell her 'it's just a game' because she will slap you, or she'll try to scratch your eyes out but it won't hurt because she's one of few that actually remember to cut their nails before the game. She's pretty good herself, but only in comparison to her sucky teammates. She didn't quite have the talent to progress anywhere decent in the sport so she remains in this small time competition to be a massive pleated-skirt-wearing fish in a small tracksuit-pant filled pond.
The surprisingly fast and nimble fat chick:
She's a doozy this one. When you put on your bib and look over and realise your on the fat chick you think 'sweet I can run cirlces round this bitch' and then when that whistles goes and BAM! she's half way down the court with the ball and your still trying to figure out which line you're meant to be standing on. She's also got a great centre of gravity, so in any contest contact is always going to be called against you.
The last-minute replacement girl:
She can always be identified by her teammates calling her by her position instead of her name. No one really knows her and she's normally a timid little thing that just runs up and down silently wishing no one will throw the ball to her. They never do.
The useless one:
She can't catch, she always throws it to the other team, she steps, she's always offside, she contacts, she obstructs, she is just horrible at the game. As soon as this girl gets the ball the whole team basically gives up and assumes she will stuff up. Eventually she will do something useful and the whole team will congratulate her and talk to her as if she was a child who just learnt how to use the toilet. "Awww good catch Debbieeeeeee!! Good for you!!"
The one wearing gloves:
She's just had her nails done and refuses to cut them in order to play. She looks ridiculous but at one stage in the game you'll notice that she never drops the ball and for a second - you will consider buying some yourself.
The fucking annoying tall one:
She's always a shooter and there's just nothing you can do to stop her getting the ball. She just stands under the ring and her team lob it straight to her and she scores. She frustrates the hell out of the other team but the shorter girls take solace in the fact she'd look weird with a really short boyfriend.
The nice one who always claps:
Doesn't matter if her team is losing by 30 goals she will always clap after someone scores. The crowds over it, the teams are over it, the umpire's over it and everyone's just waiting for the time to run out so it can be over and done with, but she still claps anyway. This is the girl who will always initiate the "Three cheers for the other team" and if she's extra nice she'll do the "Three cheers for the umpire."
And then there's the umpires, they are a real special breed. God only knows why anyone would willingly accept this job, it's not like the pay is any good. They come in their own categories:
The one who insists on teaching while umpiring:
Not content with simply calling 'contact' they will walk on court take the ball and re-enact the play and show those involved exactly what they did and how they should do it in future. No one cares.
The older woman who can't let go:
She was a star in her day, but now her knees aren't so good and she can't bare to leave the world of bloomers and ankle straps behind. She always wears a uniform and has one of those whistles that wraps around your fingers and dam her- she picks up EVERYTHING. Nothing gets past her and she blows that whistle like her life depended on it. Not content with simply calling out the foul, she insists on accompanying it with the hand signals and exact description. She's firm. Firm but fair.
The male umpire:
I hate these dudes. They are either sad souls who always wanted to play netball but couldn't when they were younger because it was a girls sport, so they took up umpiring to get into the scene and take their bitter revenge out on those playing. He likes to pick on anyone who is good or argues with his calls. Or... they are lonely, lonely men who are so entirely desperate they can't get a girl so resort to umpiring in some strange attempt to control women, again some sort of sick revenge thing that Freud would probably have a field day on.
The bitchy umpire:
This is often the girl who takes the game too seriously as well. She umpires in her spare time between games because she is often on more than one team. She's probably doing it so she can take notes on your teams tactics before she plays you in the next round. She runs backwards like AFL umpires do even though it's completely unnecessary because the court is only 30m long. She probably already hates you from a previous game when you played her and laughed at her. She exacts revenge by making you do toss ups so you look like an idiot. Don't piss her off.
Netball is an entirely different world to the everyday one we live in. There are hardcore players and parents taking their childs participation far too seriously. It can get really ugly very quickly. Be warned that the minute you step on that court you will take the form of one of the above. Unless you're on my team, we're all awesome.
Happy Woman is NOT lame.
Turns out Mum's not the only one who likes my work and I'm getting published!
My cynical and sarcastic counterparts over at the satirical Happy Woman Magazine decided they despise chick flicks as much as I do and asked to publish my work.
To save you exerting too much energy by clicking the link, here's a copy...
My cynical and sarcastic counterparts over at the satirical Happy Woman Magazine decided they despise chick flicks as much as I do and asked to publish my work.
To save you exerting too much energy by clicking the link, here's a copy...
LIFE’S LESSONS FROM CHICK FLICKS
If only life was like the movies, we could sort all life’s problems in ninety minutes and live happily ever after.
Hollywood leads us to believe that a great hairstyle and a kooky best friend is all you need to succeed in life and love. But what else can rom coms teach us? Perhaps we can learn from the mistakes and triumphs of our silver screen counterparts and follow their lead.
Let’s see how the films messages hold up in real life...
-Makeovers take eighty seconds of montage and change you for life.
You can become an entirely new person with the help of a flamboyant hairdresser. You will need to learn how to avoid fake tan streaks for the rest of your life and learn to talk again after veneers hide the previously rotting &\ missing teeth you once had but your self confidence will triple despite years of humiliation due to your unfortunate genes. It will only take two sessions in a gym to give you legs like a gazelle and abs of steel, but a very cute instructor with an accent will make this a humorous and easy experience.
-Ugly Ducklings will always end up with Prince Charming
It doesn’t matter if his previous partner was a 6 foot Amazonion goddess with rich parents, your cute little double chin and strange jewellery collection will win him over in the end. You will grow old together and the fact you are highly unsuitable for each other will never be a problem.
-Your wedding day will be a disaster but your husband to be will save the day with nice vows.
You will be married at your in-laws country property in the shadows of a huge mansion. They are guaranteed to be loaded and you will have perfect weather for the garden ceremony. Under no circumstance will you have any ugly flowergirls and all your relatives are superb dressers with fantastic table manners. Everything will run smoothly until your husbands ex shows up and ruins the wedding, this won’t matter because he will say something utterly romantic like “You complete me” or something equally as cliché and a Taylor Swift song will play and you will be happy. Something comedic will happen to the ex as you drive away like a bird pooing on her head or your drunk cousin feeling her up.
-You will break up with ‘the one’ at least once before getting married.
This will always involve something that wasn’t even his fault or was ‘before he realised you were meant to spend your lives together’. Often this involves you being the centre of a joke or dare between him and his best friend. You will inevitably split because ‘your trust is broken’. Fear not, single lady, he will perform one act of romantic chivalry and you will be unable to resist him. You may become so angry with him that you yell and fight him until he looks at you a little crazed and then kisses you passionately. Give into this, it will reignite your passion for him and amazing sex will follow.
-The quirky best friend will also find love
She sat through your tears, twirling her little pigtails thoughtfully listening to you complain about how he wronged you, and then when you gush about how amazing he is she will make the popcorn and tell you to ‘dish’ even though no one has used that word since 1988. But don’t worry about her, while you’ve been selfishly focused on yourself, she has been eyeing off that guy from the first scene who designed your wedding cake. They will hook up at your wedding, probably in a bathroom somewhere, you will discover them and they will giggle and wink at you as you smile thoughtfully and return to your wedded bliss.
Of course it would be nice if we could all live in a movie, we would all have super cute male pets who we will at one stage confess that they are ‘the only man in our life’. But life isn’t scripted and we must take the ups and downs as they come. We can still learn a lot from movies, maybe not romantic comedies, but horror films teach us that we should never answer the phone or run up stairs to get away from murderers.
Everyone except me is lame
There's a guy in a couple of my uni classes that I'd like to punch in the head.
Unfortunately I lost out genetically when it came to being able to inflict any pain due to my small, weak wrists, so I had to settle with just seething silently from the other side of the room every time he opened his mouth.
His first crime against me was simply getting dressed that morning. We're at uni, there's no need for you to bring out your best Man2Man wear on a weekday morning. Your stupid, shiny, square-toed dress shoes are not appropriate for the class room, they just make you a target for ridicule. Save it for The Shed on a Saturday night, I'm sure there's a girl with a cowl neck top just waiting to make out with you up against the corrugated walls of the dance floor to the sweet soundtrack of Airbag playing a Good Charlotte cover.
Secondly he's one of the knobs who likes to ask inane questions to prove he is smarter than the teacher. He's that guy that points out a spelling mistake on the powerpoint. Yes, we are aware that 'togethe' was meant to be 'together', the tutor is a journalist with over ten years experience and corrects hundreds of articles a week, it was clearly a small error that hurt nobody, there's no need to raise your hand, stop the whole class and ask her if she realised her mistake.
Thirdly I just know he's going to grow up and work some place where he weilds a small amount of power in a stupidly titled position like 'assistant directing communications pathways manager' and makes sure everyone knows it. No one will know exactly what it is that he does but he likes to remind everyone to 'report back to me on that' or other sentences that use the term 'feedback'. But it's ok because one day he'll make an innapropriate sexual joke about what a female employee did on the weekend and she'll kick him in the balls so karma will turn out in my favour.
There's a whole bunch of people at uni that I wouldn't miss if I never came into contact with them again..
There's that girl who needs to shut the hell up before the start of a lecture. She's the one talking really loudly to other people about what she did on the weekend. She uses the term "boyf" in a sentence and when she quotes herself talking to him she's all like "And then I was like 'baaabe you were meant to get me Midori and pineapple juice not lemonade!' and he totally went back and got it for me and I got so drunk, was so hilar!"
And you just know she uses "LOL" in every single one of her text messages, even if there was no joke to laugh out loud at in the first place.
Unfortunately I lost out genetically when it came to being able to inflict any pain due to my small, weak wrists, so I had to settle with just seething silently from the other side of the room every time he opened his mouth.
His first crime against me was simply getting dressed that morning. We're at uni, there's no need for you to bring out your best Man2Man wear on a weekday morning. Your stupid, shiny, square-toed dress shoes are not appropriate for the class room, they just make you a target for ridicule. Save it for The Shed on a Saturday night, I'm sure there's a girl with a cowl neck top just waiting to make out with you up against the corrugated walls of the dance floor to the sweet soundtrack of Airbag playing a Good Charlotte cover.
Secondly he's one of the knobs who likes to ask inane questions to prove he is smarter than the teacher. He's that guy that points out a spelling mistake on the powerpoint. Yes, we are aware that 'togethe' was meant to be 'together', the tutor is a journalist with over ten years experience and corrects hundreds of articles a week, it was clearly a small error that hurt nobody, there's no need to raise your hand, stop the whole class and ask her if she realised her mistake.
Thirdly I just know he's going to grow up and work some place where he weilds a small amount of power in a stupidly titled position like 'assistant directing communications pathways manager' and makes sure everyone knows it. No one will know exactly what it is that he does but he likes to remind everyone to 'report back to me on that' or other sentences that use the term 'feedback'. But it's ok because one day he'll make an innapropriate sexual joke about what a female employee did on the weekend and she'll kick him in the balls so karma will turn out in my favour.
There's a whole bunch of people at uni that I wouldn't miss if I never came into contact with them again..
There's that girl who needs to shut the hell up before the start of a lecture. She's the one talking really loudly to other people about what she did on the weekend. She uses the term "boyf" in a sentence and when she quotes herself talking to him she's all like "And then I was like 'baaabe you were meant to get me Midori and pineapple juice not lemonade!' and he totally went back and got it for me and I got so drunk, was so hilar!"
And you just know she uses "LOL" in every single one of her text messages, even if there was no joke to laugh out loud at in the first place.
She's also the girl that sits in front of you in the tutorial with her laptop open and you can see her desktop wallpaper is a massive photo of her and one of her friends dressed as slutty sailors or raunchy mechanics, doesn't matter as long as she can get her boobs out and her bum showing.
There's that girl who loves the sound of her own voice when she's debating something in class. But in reality she never really says anything that means something because all her sentences begin with "Well personally I think that it depends on the situation..." and then she says something completely inane and pointless but thinks she sounds very diplomatic and poignant. This girl is also always dressed like a grandma in ugly brown cardigans and ballet slipppers, she thinks it's 'alternative', I think she looks like she'd smell like mothballs and gravy.
There's that girl who loves the sound of her own voice when she's debating something in class. But in reality she never really says anything that means something because all her sentences begin with "Well personally I think that it depends on the situation..." and then she says something completely inane and pointless but thinks she sounds very diplomatic and poignant. This girl is also always dressed like a grandma in ugly brown cardigans and ballet slipppers, she thinks it's 'alternative', I think she looks like she'd smell like mothballs and gravy.
There's always that one guy who shakes his leg too much like a nervous Chihuahua. He never realises he's doing it but he sits there bouncing his leg up and down making your entire desk shake and you just want to reach over and slap him, but you don't because you keep thinking 'no he'll stop soon, he's gotta stop soon.' BUT HE NEVER DOES! And then before you know it you've missed all the information about your next assignment because you too busy restraining yourself and silently willing him to die.
There's that annoying guy that needs constant reassurance on his work even though he's on a HD and not going anywhere(and he knows it). He's guaranteed scramble up and ask the lecturer ten questions after class even though they just finished the class with 'any questions?'
Uni is full of infuriating, useless and just plain dumb people. Sometimes it annoys me, other times I just take it as reassurance that it'll be easier to get a job when I know what my competition is like...
Song lyrics are lame.
I'm having major issues.
I'm having issues with the fact that someone, somewhere, right now is penning another song with shitty lyrics that will make it into the public sphere and rape my ears.
I can't help but notice the ridiculously repetitive themes that are shitting all over songs these days.
Initiate list....
"Falling"
No wonder I had to pay four hundred and eighteen fucking dollars on a Medicare levy surcharge in my tax return this year. Dickhead musicians everywhere are breaking collarbones and skinning their knees over pretty girls. Seriously, when is the last time you actually fell over? Mind-altering substances aside, we all gained the ability to remain vertical after the age of about one. Assuming you didn’t give up your V plates before the tender of age of 15, we can assume most of you have had 14 years of practicing the age-old art of standing independent of anyone\thing when you are around the opposite sex. So why the fuck do you lose all that as soon as your latest crush cheats on you\dumps you\walks by? STAND THE HELL UP and tell her she’s the one\a major mole\ your masturbation material.
"Fly away, spread your wings, etc."
Dear Nelly Furtado,
You are not a bird, whilst your physical appearance may have dumber beings fooled, I am not. You are human, you do not have wings and you cannot fly independently of your private jet where you and Timbaland get all promiscuous and eat men. So if you could stop this nonsense about flying I would appreciate it, unfortunately is too late to undo the damage so I hold you personally responsible for the following people and their confusion with their own abilities to fly away ...Lenny Kravitz, Seal, Frank Sinatra, RHCP, R. Kelly, Foo Fighters. (Yes I understand some are chronologically impossible, but I just really don't like Miss Furtado)
“Breathe, Take my breath away, etc.”
I’d be interested in the statistics that show any correlation between artists that make it to commercial radio and those that have asthma, it would probably be up in the 0.87 region, because apparently every one with a top ten single is having severe respiratory problems.
Taylor Swift, Mario and Faith Hill are all struggling to breath without you, yes you! And Aerosmith like to watch you while you sleep and breathe, that’s not creepy at all. Even LiLo may need to invest in some Ventolin after her shithouse song. Again, just as the case was with standing upright, we all learnt to inhale and exhale from day one, why the problem now? Breathing is not a pretty thing, morning breath, bad breath, garlic breath, sausage roll breath, Weet-Bix breath and coffee breath are all realities, no one has that icy, minty breath like on those ‘no smint, no kiss’ ads where your breath freezes shit. IT JUST DOESN’T HAPPEN! So if songs could just avoid that particular bodily function from now on I’d appreciate that.
“Bounce”
To quote obviously one of the most influential musical geniuses in recent history, nay, all history – “You gotta get up to get down.”
Yes, Aaron Carter was possibly the first to provide this ground-breaking advice in his 2001 smash hit ‘Bounce’. Who knew throughout the years many, many artists would look to him for inspiration as they penned their own songs dealing with the ever complicated art of moving up and down. Many tried, many failed but some succeeded in effectively convincing audiences worldwide to perform the increasingly popular dance move.
• Chingy decided to focus on the posterior of his fans and encourage his ‘hos’ to ‘bounce dat ass’
• Sarah Connor encouraged you to leave her premises via the act of ‘bouncing out that door’ Ms Connor apparently just ain’t gone see you no more.
• System of a Down, ever the musical terrorists, liked to mix things up and encouraged you to ‘bounce’ in a different order, turning their backs to the traditional ‘bouncing up and down’ they said no to conformity and decided to instead ‘bounce down and up’, no doubt throwing seasoned bouncers into panicked mayhem with the swapping of familiar actions.
• T-Pain clearly likes his women to be vertically challenged when they bounce as he instructs his “shawtys” to keep “bouncing up and down dat pole” while he plays the ever gentleman and gets them “a drank from da bar”. What a nice guy!
• Ever the eloquent lyrical gangster, Timbaland has taken it one step further and not only demanded his girl to come here and bounce (over 17 times in one song) he has also specified just how he likes it done... ‘like your ass has the hiccups’
“100% complete and utter clichés....”
I mean come on Nickelback!! I couldn’t avoid your latest song “If Today Was Your Last Day” and it read\sang, word for word, exactly like those books that you find at the counter of Dymocks. You know those ones that are about the eighth of the size of a novel and have a hard cover and have a stupid title like ‘Mothers and Daughters Forever” and you’re meant to give it to your mum on Mothers day. They are normally the ones you read when you’re buying a normal book and you’re standing at the counter waiting to pay but the retard serving you can’t find the barcode so you politely flick through it in order to avoid eye contact while they sweat over the decision to call the manager or not. They always involve some hideous floral pattern and aren’t void of a cherub looking angel decorating the cover and are always ‘compiled’ by someone named Margeret or Ruth.
Well anyway, Nickelback suck and check out their latest ‘hit’
My best friend gave me the best advice
He said each day's a gift and not a given right
Leave no stone unturned, leave your fears behind
And try to take the path less travelled by
That first step you take is the longest stride
If today was your last day
and tomorrow was too late
Could you say goodbye to yesterday?
Would you live each moment like your last?
Leave old pictures in the past
Donate every dime you have?
If today was your last day
Against the grain should be a way of life
What's worth the prize is always worth the fight
Every second counts 'cause there's no second try
So live like you'll never live it twice
Don't take the free ride in your own life
If today was your last day
and tomorrow was too late
Could you say goodbye to yesterday?
Would you live each moment like your last?
Leave old pictures in the past
Donate every dime you have?
Would you call old friends you never see?
Reminisce of memories
Would you forgive your enemies?
Would you find that one you're dreamin' of?
Swear up and down to God above
That you finally fall in love
If today was your last day
If today was your last day
Would you make your mark by mending a broken heart?
You know it's never too late to shoot for the stars
Regardless of who you are
So do whatever it takes
'Cause you can't rewind a moment in this life
Let nothin' stand in your way
Cause the hands of time are never on your side
Just to highlight the horrible quotes derived straight from some shit book like “Life is a Verb” or something, I’ve bolded the obvious plagiarism. Note that out of the 271 words, only 72 words were NOT included, and I was being generous allowing for the chorus to be repeated and even deleting the extra verse to save you the horror.
I’m not saying I don’t like songs, I actually enjoy some of them, well one of them (I mean the chorus is kind of catchy, Aaron Carter really knows how to get da party started) but can’t they take their millions of dollars and pay someone with talent to use words that haven’t already been used and abused by others?
Otherwise just keep your songs instrumental and stick to the ‘yeah’s’ and ‘baby’s’. Please.
I'm having issues with the fact that someone, somewhere, right now is penning another song with shitty lyrics that will make it into the public sphere and rape my ears.
I can't help but notice the ridiculously repetitive themes that are shitting all over songs these days.
Initiate list....
"Falling"
No wonder I had to pay four hundred and eighteen fucking dollars on a Medicare levy surcharge in my tax return this year. Dickhead musicians everywhere are breaking collarbones and skinning their knees over pretty girls. Seriously, when is the last time you actually fell over? Mind-altering substances aside, we all gained the ability to remain vertical after the age of about one. Assuming you didn’t give up your V plates before the tender of age of 15, we can assume most of you have had 14 years of practicing the age-old art of standing independent of anyone\thing when you are around the opposite sex. So why the fuck do you lose all that as soon as your latest crush cheats on you\dumps you\walks by? STAND THE HELL UP and tell her she’s the one\a major mole\ your masturbation material.
"Fly away, spread your wings, etc."
Dear Nelly Furtado,
You are not a bird, whilst your physical appearance may have dumber beings fooled, I am not. You are human, you do not have wings and you cannot fly independently of your private jet where you and Timbaland get all promiscuous and eat men. So if you could stop this nonsense about flying I would appreciate it, unfortunately is too late to undo the damage so I hold you personally responsible for the following people and their confusion with their own abilities to fly away ...Lenny Kravitz, Seal, Frank Sinatra, RHCP, R. Kelly, Foo Fighters. (Yes I understand some are chronologically impossible, but I just really don't like Miss Furtado)
“Breathe, Take my breath away, etc.”
I’d be interested in the statistics that show any correlation between artists that make it to commercial radio and those that have asthma, it would probably be up in the 0.87 region, because apparently every one with a top ten single is having severe respiratory problems.
Taylor Swift, Mario and Faith Hill are all struggling to breath without you, yes you! And Aerosmith like to watch you while you sleep and breathe, that’s not creepy at all. Even LiLo may need to invest in some Ventolin after her shithouse song. Again, just as the case was with standing upright, we all learnt to inhale and exhale from day one, why the problem now? Breathing is not a pretty thing, morning breath, bad breath, garlic breath, sausage roll breath, Weet-Bix breath and coffee breath are all realities, no one has that icy, minty breath like on those ‘no smint, no kiss’ ads where your breath freezes shit. IT JUST DOESN’T HAPPEN! So if songs could just avoid that particular bodily function from now on I’d appreciate that.
“Bounce”
To quote obviously one of the most influential musical geniuses in recent history, nay, all history – “You gotta get up to get down.”
Yes, Aaron Carter was possibly the first to provide this ground-breaking advice in his 2001 smash hit ‘Bounce’. Who knew throughout the years many, many artists would look to him for inspiration as they penned their own songs dealing with the ever complicated art of moving up and down. Many tried, many failed but some succeeded in effectively convincing audiences worldwide to perform the increasingly popular dance move.
• Chingy decided to focus on the posterior of his fans and encourage his ‘hos’ to ‘bounce dat ass’
• Sarah Connor encouraged you to leave her premises via the act of ‘bouncing out that door’ Ms Connor apparently just ain’t gone see you no more.
• System of a Down, ever the musical terrorists, liked to mix things up and encouraged you to ‘bounce’ in a different order, turning their backs to the traditional ‘bouncing up and down’ they said no to conformity and decided to instead ‘bounce down and up’, no doubt throwing seasoned bouncers into panicked mayhem with the swapping of familiar actions.
• T-Pain clearly likes his women to be vertically challenged when they bounce as he instructs his “shawtys” to keep “bouncing up and down dat pole” while he plays the ever gentleman and gets them “a drank from da bar”. What a nice guy!
• Ever the eloquent lyrical gangster, Timbaland has taken it one step further and not only demanded his girl to come here and bounce (over 17 times in one song) he has also specified just how he likes it done... ‘like your ass has the hiccups’
“100% complete and utter clichés....”
I mean come on Nickelback!! I couldn’t avoid your latest song “If Today Was Your Last Day” and it read\sang, word for word, exactly like those books that you find at the counter of Dymocks. You know those ones that are about the eighth of the size of a novel and have a hard cover and have a stupid title like ‘Mothers and Daughters Forever” and you’re meant to give it to your mum on Mothers day. They are normally the ones you read when you’re buying a normal book and you’re standing at the counter waiting to pay but the retard serving you can’t find the barcode so you politely flick through it in order to avoid eye contact while they sweat over the decision to call the manager or not. They always involve some hideous floral pattern and aren’t void of a cherub looking angel decorating the cover and are always ‘compiled’ by someone named Margeret or Ruth.
Well anyway, Nickelback suck and check out their latest ‘hit’
My best friend gave me the best advice
He said each day's a gift and not a given right
Leave no stone unturned, leave your fears behind
And try to take the path less travelled by
That first step you take is the longest stride
If today was your last day
and tomorrow was too late
Could you say goodbye to yesterday?
Would you live each moment like your last?
Leave old pictures in the past
Donate every dime you have?
If today was your last day
Against the grain should be a way of life
What's worth the prize is always worth the fight
Every second counts 'cause there's no second try
So live like you'll never live it twice
Don't take the free ride in your own life
If today was your last day
and tomorrow was too late
Could you say goodbye to yesterday?
Would you live each moment like your last?
Leave old pictures in the past
Donate every dime you have?
Would you call old friends you never see?
Reminisce of memories
Would you forgive your enemies?
Would you find that one you're dreamin' of?
Swear up and down to God above
That you finally fall in love
If today was your last day
If today was your last day
Would you make your mark by mending a broken heart?
You know it's never too late to shoot for the stars
Regardless of who you are
So do whatever it takes
'Cause you can't rewind a moment in this life
Let nothin' stand in your way
Cause the hands of time are never on your side
Just to highlight the horrible quotes derived straight from some shit book like “Life is a Verb” or something, I’ve bolded the obvious plagiarism. Note that out of the 271 words, only 72 words were NOT included, and I was being generous allowing for the chorus to be repeated and even deleting the extra verse to save you the horror.
I’m not saying I don’t like songs, I actually enjoy some of them, well one of them (I mean the chorus is kind of catchy, Aaron Carter really knows how to get da party started) but can’t they take their millions of dollars and pay someone with talent to use words that haven’t already been used and abused by others?
Otherwise just keep your songs instrumental and stick to the ‘yeah’s’ and ‘baby’s’. Please.
Being polite is lame
''Dearest God, if you make this person go away I'll start to believe in you."
I find myself repeating this prayer over and over again too often.
I inherited a lovely trait from my mum that means no matter where I go, I attract anyone in the vicinity who is crazy or lonely or needs to talk about something. Anyone with an issue/ mental disorder/ imaginary friend feels that I am somehow their kindred spirit and would like to have a chat.
This is incorrect.
If you've read my other blogs you'll know about the nutjobs at The Rosemount, but I'm not talking about them. I get that when I'm at work I am a provider of alcohol and this attracts all types and that's my own fault for choosing that job. I'm talking about when I'm off work in my everyday life, minding my own business and some freak decides to bail me up and discuss his latest case of gangrene on his big toe, (this really did happen once).
The other day I was waiting for my takeaway dinner in Mount Lawley so I wandered over to Planet Books to kill some time. There I was quietly flicking through some novel when a guy walks up besides me, holds a book right up to the side of my face and presses the button on it that emits a farting sound. Now I resisted the urge to write my whole rant about the author who wrote a book about farts, so I'll stick to this weird guy. Apparently old mate had discovered this book, complete with sound, and needed to share it with someone immediately, and with my curse, I was in the vicinity.
And this is what pisses me off... Why did I feel the need to be polite? This guy committed a heap of social faux pas in the first 4 seconds of interaction and he hadn't even opened his mouth yet, including...
I attempted the same nose-air tactic , but this time I added in the half-turning-my-back-on-him manoeuvre hoping to discourage him from anything further. Again I failed and apparently urged him to continue. This time he kind of half slapped me on the back like we were old chums and asked if I had a lotto ticket for the $90 million. What?
For about five minutes I kept up this polite bullshit and suffered through stifled conversation, the whole time trying to pretend I was reading a book and slowly shuffle away. Throughout this ordeal he continued to follow me around the store, press the fart button and laugh away each time, clearly never tiring of the sound effects. He talked so fast about crap that little white flecks started building up in the corner of his mouth and then when he laughed they would be projected all over the shelf in front of him, thank god I wasn't facing him. Eventually I didn't want to discuss his new backpack anymore or the Nova 937 stickers he found and decided enough is enough. I told him I had to go get my dinner and to have a good night. What I really wanted to do though, was scream "IF MY SPRING ROLLS ARE SOGGY BECAUSE I GOT STUCK TALKING TO YOU, MAY YOU GO BLIND AND DEAF AND NEVER ENJOY A NOVELTY CHILDRENS BOOK EVER AGAIN!" and then genuinely fart in his face and see how funny he thought it was then.
What pissed me off is that everyone else around me fell victim to the whole 'feel sorry for the weirdo because he's lonely and be polite' thing too, I desperately wished someone would step in to my rescue and say 'listen mate, she doesn't care about your friend Timbo and his new shoes, so fuck off.' But no one did, they just gave me that polite crap straight back, they all did that annoying half smile, half shrug with a tilted head that said 'awww, sucks to be you, but there's nothing I can do sorry?' - MY ARSE THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO!! YELL FIRE! ASK ME THE TIME! TELL ME MY FLY IS UNDONE - ANYTHING!! JUST GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF THIS!
So as I walked\ran to my dinner I vowed never to be polite again..
I swore to myself I would be a rude bitch from then on.
And then on my way home in the car, some guy let me in at the traffic lights and I gave him a courtesy wave. Dammit!
I find myself repeating this prayer over and over again too often.
I inherited a lovely trait from my mum that means no matter where I go, I attract anyone in the vicinity who is crazy or lonely or needs to talk about something. Anyone with an issue/ mental disorder/ imaginary friend feels that I am somehow their kindred spirit and would like to have a chat.
This is incorrect.
If you've read my other blogs you'll know about the nutjobs at The Rosemount, but I'm not talking about them. I get that when I'm at work I am a provider of alcohol and this attracts all types and that's my own fault for choosing that job. I'm talking about when I'm off work in my everyday life, minding my own business and some freak decides to bail me up and discuss his latest case of gangrene on his big toe, (this really did happen once).
The other day I was waiting for my takeaway dinner in Mount Lawley so I wandered over to Planet Books to kill some time. There I was quietly flicking through some novel when a guy walks up besides me, holds a book right up to the side of my face and presses the button on it that emits a farting sound. Now I resisted the urge to write my whole rant about the author who wrote a book about farts, so I'll stick to this weird guy. Apparently old mate had discovered this book, complete with sound, and needed to share it with someone immediately, and with my curse, I was in the vicinity.
And this is what pisses me off... Why did I feel the need to be polite? This guy committed a heap of social faux pas in the first 4 seconds of interaction and he hadn't even opened his mouth yet, including...
- Invading personal space
- Interrupting my 'silent reading' time
- Discussing bodily functions
- Obviously not showering for 6+ days.
I attempted the same nose-air tactic , but this time I added in the half-turning-my-back-on-him manoeuvre hoping to discourage him from anything further. Again I failed and apparently urged him to continue. This time he kind of half slapped me on the back like we were old chums and asked if I had a lotto ticket for the $90 million. What?
For about five minutes I kept up this polite bullshit and suffered through stifled conversation, the whole time trying to pretend I was reading a book and slowly shuffle away. Throughout this ordeal he continued to follow me around the store, press the fart button and laugh away each time, clearly never tiring of the sound effects. He talked so fast about crap that little white flecks started building up in the corner of his mouth and then when he laughed they would be projected all over the shelf in front of him, thank god I wasn't facing him. Eventually I didn't want to discuss his new backpack anymore or the Nova 937 stickers he found and decided enough is enough. I told him I had to go get my dinner and to have a good night. What I really wanted to do though, was scream "IF MY SPRING ROLLS ARE SOGGY BECAUSE I GOT STUCK TALKING TO YOU, MAY YOU GO BLIND AND DEAF AND NEVER ENJOY A NOVELTY CHILDRENS BOOK EVER AGAIN!" and then genuinely fart in his face and see how funny he thought it was then.
What pissed me off is that everyone else around me fell victim to the whole 'feel sorry for the weirdo because he's lonely and be polite' thing too, I desperately wished someone would step in to my rescue and say 'listen mate, she doesn't care about your friend Timbo and his new shoes, so fuck off.' But no one did, they just gave me that polite crap straight back, they all did that annoying half smile, half shrug with a tilted head that said 'awww, sucks to be you, but there's nothing I can do sorry?' - MY ARSE THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO!! YELL FIRE! ASK ME THE TIME! TELL ME MY FLY IS UNDONE - ANYTHING!! JUST GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF THIS!
So as I walked\ran to my dinner I vowed never to be polite again..
- I will tell my hairdresser, Natishaniqua, or some other made up name for a white kid, that she did a shit job and that she should take her blonde streaks and fake nails back to TAFE.
- I will be that annoying bitch that says 'ah no, I was first thankyou very much', at the Coles deli counter when someone steps in and gets a hot chook before I do, complete with a fake smile.
- I will tell a customer THAT I DON'T GIVE A FUCK when they tell me they are lactose intolerant\gluten free\allergic to salt BECAUSE YOU SHOULDN'T BE EATING AT A PUB THEN SHOULD YOU!!!
- I will punch the idiots in the computer lab at uni in the back of the head when I need a computer for study and they are looking at youtube videos of monkeys rooting goats.
- I will get road rage.
- I will throw the pint of water in the face of someone who has asked for it when they add 'it's for the band' - Oh, right, I'll get out the crystal then shall I?
I swore to myself I would be a rude bitch from then on.
And then on my way home in the car, some guy let me in at the traffic lights and I gave him a courtesy wave. Dammit!
The Brownes Every Woman Expo is Lame.
Dear Ladies of Perth,
You can stop searching now, because I have found it, your one stop shop for all things lavender. I know many of you have had sleepless nights wondering where to find the perfect mix of lavender and patchouli in a pillow spray, but fear not, because someone has done it for you. 'Simply Lavender' was just one of the many, many lame stalls on offer at the Brownes Every Woman Expo that visited Perth this weekend. Not to take anything away from Janette at the Simply Lavender stand, she was proud as punch, standing behind her trestle table in a sea of purple shit. Women were crowded around her wares tossing up between a Lavender Neck Wrap or a Lavender Fizzing Bath Bon Bon that, let's face it, would just end up shoved down the back of their bathroom cupboard giving the whole place that old lady smell.
Let me begin by saying I was there under strict protest, my dear old Ma dragged me there to support her friend who had a respectable stall selling wine. This was one of few.
Ever gone out to see a band and it's packed so you have a hard time finding a good spot to watch the show from? You're shuffling through the crowd and all of a sudden there is this magical spot just waiting for you to slot in nicely, it's got the best view and you can't believe no one else took it. But once you're standing there it all becomes clear... That smell creeps up into your nostrils and you do that "who farted?" look to your mates and they all shake their heads, then you realise everyone around you is laughing and you've just stood in a puddle of vomit and THAT'S WHY NO ONE WAS STANDING THERE!
What I'm getting at, is that feeling when you have to slink off because everyone is looking at you and they know you're embarrassed and you can't bloody well stay there now can you? Well I got that feeling yesterday, because Mum and I were watching some god awful fashion parade provided by the F-list celebrities at Channel 7 when I realised no one was around us, we both turned around and discovered we were positioned in front of a nice little stall called 'B.O.B Bags' sounds harmless doesn't it? Of course it would be harmless, if I wasn't standing with my mother, and realising at the same time that this store was dedicated to selling black, stylish, 100% cotton lining with a satin finish, fully washable, complete with secure toggle, discreet, BAG FOR YOUR DILDO! Yes, this store sold nothing but housing for your solo sex toy (up to 26cm long and 15cm wide! - FIFTEEN CENTIMETRES WIDE?!?!?!).
Apparently, there was a gap in the market for women who have coffee with their conservative mother-in-laws and are at risk of their children playing 'unicorns' with their Rabbit in front of Grandma. Because, dear god, we wouldn't want her to know that they were having sex! HOW THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU GOT YOUR GRAND KIDDIES NANNA?
So the embarrassment was short lived, but the hilarity of watching others wander up to the store and make a quick u-turn away as soon as they realised what it was, was priceless.
It turns out all women care about is wrinkles, half price shutters and our destiny according to our chakras determined by the self proclaimed goddess of wolves - Cindy. Old mate Cindy was not alone, there was an entire psychic fair going on at stall 485b. All I had to do was take a raffle ticket and wait for my number to be called. Don't bother waiting for each finely tuned clairvoyant to tap into your aura and make a deep connection with your past so they can get a clear reading. Just wait until Mystic Mandy gets back from her ciggie break, shouts 'NEXT' and you're on your way to enlightenment. Unfortunately I didn't have time to wait around with everyone else to be told I will travel somewhere, at some stage, sometime in the future, but it's on my to-do list, I will complete my 'symbolique journey'.
Whilst searching for the place to redeem our free yoghurt coupon, we stumbled across the teeny, tiny 'SheMoves' stall dedicated to teaching women how to pole-dance for fitness. A small tinny radio pumped out a Flo-Rida song, while two poor girls humped an aluminium erection. 20 or so women gathered around to watch and I'm pretty sure there was a communal feeling of utter perversion, the poor demonstrators nervous giggle just made me cringe and we moved on.
Lucky we did, because now I can finally stop whinging. All my life I have wondered why the hell I can't hire a goddam wishing well at an affordable price. It's always so expensive! But now, thanks to...you guessed it....'Affordable Wishing Well Hire' I can now invite my friends around to my house, encourage them to wish about crap, and collect their money from the bottom of my own hired well when they piss off. Brilliant!
Other experiences of my day included...
Women enjoy anything pink - One stall was actually called 'Pink Stuff', one called 'The Pink Book Club' and another called 'Positively Pink'. They all involved everyday stuff someone dyed pink to make it more attractive to the ladies. Great example of marketing research in practice right there.
Women are incontinent - A whole stall dedicated to 'Pelvic Floor Solutions'. I would have just called it 'Your local GP' no?
Women get excited about cleaning - One more fucking demonstration by some old guy who talks too much on how to make the most of your steam powered, dust seeking, dirt annihilating, grime pulverising, soap scum obliterating fucking mop and I'll stick it where other cleaners just can't get to!
Women shouldn't age....at all - 'Longevity Wellness Centre' - what the hell does that even mean? As well as the teeth whitenings, wrinkle zapping creams, orthotics and absolutley endless stalls filled with opportunites to 'Wake up your Makeup!' there is no excuse for any lady to look her age.
But when they age too much.... 'Mareena Purslowe and Associates' are there to help you. A funeral directors actually had the facilities to organise your funeral at this expo, is that not creepy? A lovely visit to the Convention Centre with your girlfriends to get free massages and cupcakes and there's pictures of coffins and price plans of floral arrangments next door.
Women like to accessorise...everything. - Not only can your Clitoriffic 4000 now have a B.O.B. bag but you can accessorise your kettle with a special cover so it doesn't get hot (?), your Nintendo DS with some stupid dangly charm thing, your car with floral mudflaps and your jewellery with extra jewels. ACESSORIES ON ACCESSORIES?! COME ON!
Women like being a shade of orange - on every corner was an opportunity for a fake tan, 'Fake Bake' for those who don't want authentic skin cancer, 'Technotan' if you would like to dance while you bronze, ' NuSkin' because the skin you already have is shithouse.
Women like potatoes - maybe if they were making wedges or something, but no, just information and photos of potatoes at the 'Western Potatoes' stand. I wanted wedges.
Women just want to get married. - No! I will NOT enter your competition to win a fucking engagement ring, just GIMME THE $5000!
So congratulations Brownes, your expo was crap, and I didn't even get my free yoghurt.
You can stop searching now, because I have found it, your one stop shop for all things lavender. I know many of you have had sleepless nights wondering where to find the perfect mix of lavender and patchouli in a pillow spray, but fear not, because someone has done it for you. 'Simply Lavender' was just one of the many, many lame stalls on offer at the Brownes Every Woman Expo that visited Perth this weekend. Not to take anything away from Janette at the Simply Lavender stand, she was proud as punch, standing behind her trestle table in a sea of purple shit. Women were crowded around her wares tossing up between a Lavender Neck Wrap or a Lavender Fizzing Bath Bon Bon that, let's face it, would just end up shoved down the back of their bathroom cupboard giving the whole place that old lady smell.
Let me begin by saying I was there under strict protest, my dear old Ma dragged me there to support her friend who had a respectable stall selling wine. This was one of few.
Ever gone out to see a band and it's packed so you have a hard time finding a good spot to watch the show from? You're shuffling through the crowd and all of a sudden there is this magical spot just waiting for you to slot in nicely, it's got the best view and you can't believe no one else took it. But once you're standing there it all becomes clear... That smell creeps up into your nostrils and you do that "who farted?" look to your mates and they all shake their heads, then you realise everyone around you is laughing and you've just stood in a puddle of vomit and THAT'S WHY NO ONE WAS STANDING THERE!
What I'm getting at, is that feeling when you have to slink off because everyone is looking at you and they know you're embarrassed and you can't bloody well stay there now can you? Well I got that feeling yesterday, because Mum and I were watching some god awful fashion parade provided by the F-list celebrities at Channel 7 when I realised no one was around us, we both turned around and discovered we were positioned in front of a nice little stall called 'B.O.B Bags' sounds harmless doesn't it? Of course it would be harmless, if I wasn't standing with my mother, and realising at the same time that this store was dedicated to selling black, stylish, 100% cotton lining with a satin finish, fully washable, complete with secure toggle, discreet, BAG FOR YOUR DILDO! Yes, this store sold nothing but housing for your solo sex toy (up to 26cm long and 15cm wide! - FIFTEEN CENTIMETRES WIDE?!?!?!).
Apparently, there was a gap in the market for women who have coffee with their conservative mother-in-laws and are at risk of their children playing 'unicorns' with their Rabbit in front of Grandma. Because, dear god, we wouldn't want her to know that they were having sex! HOW THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU GOT YOUR GRAND KIDDIES NANNA?
So the embarrassment was short lived, but the hilarity of watching others wander up to the store and make a quick u-turn away as soon as they realised what it was, was priceless.
It turns out all women care about is wrinkles, half price shutters and our destiny according to our chakras determined by the self proclaimed goddess of wolves - Cindy. Old mate Cindy was not alone, there was an entire psychic fair going on at stall 485b. All I had to do was take a raffle ticket and wait for my number to be called. Don't bother waiting for each finely tuned clairvoyant to tap into your aura and make a deep connection with your past so they can get a clear reading. Just wait until Mystic Mandy gets back from her ciggie break, shouts 'NEXT' and you're on your way to enlightenment. Unfortunately I didn't have time to wait around with everyone else to be told I will travel somewhere, at some stage, sometime in the future, but it's on my to-do list, I will complete my 'symbolique journey'.
Whilst searching for the place to redeem our free yoghurt coupon, we stumbled across the teeny, tiny 'SheMoves' stall dedicated to teaching women how to pole-dance for fitness. A small tinny radio pumped out a Flo-Rida song, while two poor girls humped an aluminium erection. 20 or so women gathered around to watch and I'm pretty sure there was a communal feeling of utter perversion, the poor demonstrators nervous giggle just made me cringe and we moved on.
Lucky we did, because now I can finally stop whinging. All my life I have wondered why the hell I can't hire a goddam wishing well at an affordable price. It's always so expensive! But now, thanks to...you guessed it....'Affordable Wishing Well Hire' I can now invite my friends around to my house, encourage them to wish about crap, and collect their money from the bottom of my own hired well when they piss off. Brilliant!
Other experiences of my day included...
- Watching live sperm swim around under a microscope and wondering who recently donated it at the 'Concept Fertility' stall. (Fertility is just a concept now?)
- Enjoying a good pun.... Don't want to leave your bag on the floor of a cafe or bar? Too good to hold it? That's OK, because thanks to the 'Pursenal Assistant' (Get it? PURSEenal? Gold!) you can buy a hook to hang it on. Yes a hook! But not just any hook, this one has heaps of crap superglued to it, like butterflies and diamantes and kittens. Great huh?
- Watching from a safe distance as a woman demonstrated her breast milk machine at 'Milk in a Minute'. I know breastfeeding is natural, but attaching your boob to a device that resembles a medievil torture contraption is not.
- Wondering who came up with 'Shower Gel in a Sponge'... were they too lazy to just open the bottle and squeeze?
- Reminiscing about butterfly clips from year seven and distinctly remembering they went out of fashion...for good. Apparently 'vintage' includes items from only 10 years ago and someone is making a living off selling nothing but a hair accessory from the 90's. If only I thought of it...
- Laughing (cruel, I know) at the ridiculously small changing room provided at 'A Cup Above', a lingerie stall dedicated to the cuddlier ladies of Perth and their enormous melons.
Women enjoy anything pink - One stall was actually called 'Pink Stuff', one called 'The Pink Book Club' and another called 'Positively Pink'. They all involved everyday stuff someone dyed pink to make it more attractive to the ladies. Great example of marketing research in practice right there.
Women are incontinent - A whole stall dedicated to 'Pelvic Floor Solutions'. I would have just called it 'Your local GP' no?
Women get excited about cleaning - One more fucking demonstration by some old guy who talks too much on how to make the most of your steam powered, dust seeking, dirt annihilating, grime pulverising, soap scum obliterating fucking mop and I'll stick it where other cleaners just can't get to!
Women shouldn't age....at all - 'Longevity Wellness Centre' - what the hell does that even mean? As well as the teeth whitenings, wrinkle zapping creams, orthotics and absolutley endless stalls filled with opportunites to 'Wake up your Makeup!' there is no excuse for any lady to look her age.
But when they age too much.... 'Mareena Purslowe and Associates' are there to help you. A funeral directors actually had the facilities to organise your funeral at this expo, is that not creepy? A lovely visit to the Convention Centre with your girlfriends to get free massages and cupcakes and there's pictures of coffins and price plans of floral arrangments next door.
Women like to accessorise...everything. - Not only can your Clitoriffic 4000 now have a B.O.B. bag but you can accessorise your kettle with a special cover so it doesn't get hot (?), your Nintendo DS with some stupid dangly charm thing, your car with floral mudflaps and your jewellery with extra jewels. ACESSORIES ON ACCESSORIES?! COME ON!
Women like being a shade of orange - on every corner was an opportunity for a fake tan, 'Fake Bake' for those who don't want authentic skin cancer, 'Technotan' if you would like to dance while you bronze, ' NuSkin' because the skin you already have is shithouse.
Women like potatoes - maybe if they were making wedges or something, but no, just information and photos of potatoes at the 'Western Potatoes' stand. I wanted wedges.
Women just want to get married. - No! I will NOT enter your competition to win a fucking engagement ring, just GIMME THE $5000!
So congratulations Brownes, your expo was crap, and I didn't even get my free yoghurt.
Junk email is lame.
Why does my Hotmail account assume I am male? I got all excited before when I opened my account and it said Inbox (7), I assumed seven of my nearest and dearest had written to me to express their love and admiration for me. But no, it was just seven strange scams\business\loney people all vying for my money\love\excess kilos of fat.
Then I go to thinking that if someone stumbled across my email account after I left it open they could deduct the following things about me purely based on my emails...
But if they kept looking they would come to my last email and then it would all make sense, despite all my shortcomings in the bedroom\personality\life in general, I am totally wanted, because "Lyuda 1" is seeking "a sincere sugar daddy" and she chose me. She likes dancing, breakfast and complaining about movies apparently, but most importantly she thinks she is in love with me and wants to escape "beautiful Ukraine" because I mean more than home.
My inquisitive stickybeak would then realise that I am also rich because I obviously have enough money to send Lyuda 1 the $5400 for her plane ticket to "wherever I am".
Then I go to thinking that if someone stumbled across my email account after I left it open they could deduct the following things about me purely based on my emails...
- I am male
- I am a fat male who needs the help of ACA1 weight loss pills
- I am a fat male with a teeny tiny wang that needs to be enlarged with some pills that I can easily get on a !##$__FR33 TrIaL__$##!
- I am a fat male who needs a larger manhood and also an extension on my warranty for a car that I may or may not have even bought.
- I am a fat male with a chode, a long warranty and am one of a select few eligible for a FREE NETWORK CABLE DISH!!OMG!!
- I am a fat male with no penis, a monster of a warranty, a fully sick radar and I also have a friend called Dr MaXman who likes to email me about his AS SEEN ON TELEVISION muscle building pills.
But if they kept looking they would come to my last email and then it would all make sense, despite all my shortcomings in the bedroom\personality\life in general, I am totally wanted, because "Lyuda 1" is seeking "a sincere sugar daddy" and she chose me. She likes dancing, breakfast and complaining about movies apparently, but most importantly she thinks she is in love with me and wants to escape "beautiful Ukraine" because I mean more than home.
My inquisitive stickybeak would then realise that I am also rich because I obviously have enough money to send Lyuda 1 the $5400 for her plane ticket to "wherever I am".
Crazy people can be fun, but mostly lame.
I already lame labeled the crazy people at Rosemount, but I feel I need to let you get to know them and understand the inner workings of North Perth's finest citizens.
I come into contact with these beings at least twice a week, sometimes they brighten my day, other times they force me to take a mental note of possible weapons that are on hand to immediately defend myself against them.
Apparently most of them are scared of the dark and they frequent the pub mostly in the day and early afternoon. Often this is when I am the only staff member there not holed up safely in the office, so it's a really personal experience.
I love a good list so here we go...
Let's start with my favourite-
SAMMY- Sam's not crazy, he's just such a character, according to history books he has been drinking at the pub for over forty years. He's a toothless old Italian dude who I'm pretty sure has had a stroke and the thickest accent ever. Sammy waddles into the pub in the afternoon and needs to sit down and rest halfway between the entrance and the bar, I'm not sure if he's tired or he just likes to have a stickybeak at what's going inside that day. Every staff member knows Sammy orders two stubbies of Hahn Light at a time, served with a cold middy glass. Sammy is the only Rosemount patron in history that gets table service. I've never actually seen him stand at the bar once. He basically sits in the chair all day and cries "Good on ya!" and "Bravo!" each time a staff member walks past with a "Hi Sam!". He never remembers anyone's name and describes each person by their hair colour and their build. Some of our plumper staff members have been slightly offended by Sam at some time or another. Conversation is limited with Sam as very few can understand a single word he's saying due to the stroke and the accent. One employee Timmy was a Sammy Whisperer and was strangely able to have in depth discussions with him somehow, Sammy would yabber on about something for ten minutes and Timmy would pipe up 'Oh yes I totally agree, the roadworks on Guildford Rd are terribly inconvenient.' What? Sammy doesn't even drive, sometimes I think Timmy was making it up.
JD - JD is probably one of the craziest people I've ever met. She actually kind of scares me. According to Rosemount legend she is the mother of that guy that murdered the Chinese student out near Scarborough last year. Anyway, not only does JD have a questionable past she's just plain nuts. Her outfits are a pretty good indicator. Often she likes to dress like a cross between Madonna circa 1980's, Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men, and a witch. She likes a good crucifix around her neck, often they look like she broke into a church, stole the massive wooden one and hung it around her neck with some cable ties. I can't be certain but I'm pretty sure she was wearing one that had the plaster still attached from where she pulled it off a wall. JD likes to have very loud phone conversations with someone I assume is her daughter that start off with "How are you my darling girl?" and quickly disintergrate into "YOU DID NOT COME FROM MY WOMB!" She also has a creepy attraction to one of our regular DJ's Charlie Bucket. He's always playing on a Sunday and JD likes to come down and dance away in front of his set up for hours only stopping to have a drink which she orders very specifically "a pint of water with ice and lemon and a straw thankyou." I can't remember the last time she actually bought a real drink, one bartender Bianca flat out refuses to serve her until she drinks something she has to pay for. Often she likes to sit next to Sam and yell at him about nothing in particular, sometimes he buys her a drink, I think it's just so she'll shutup.
PEDRO - Pedro is another orally challenged guy. Apparently I am one of a select few who can understand him, again due to a crazy accent and some missing teeth. No one is entirely sure what Pedro's deal is. He is this black Mexican dude who has the buffest arms I've seen on an old guy and this crazy mustache which makes him look like a seal. He arrives drunk to the pub and then proceeds to get blind drunk by throwing back white Sambuca shots as long as the staff will still serve him. He constantly encourages the staff to drink and I think he just wants a friend. He can often be seen being taken advantage of by young girls who just want a free drink. I can't count how many times he's been thrown out but for some reason we keep letting him back. His catch phrase is "Thankyou!" But he does it in a really sarcastic way followed by "WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? YEAH? WHAT?" I have no idea who he is thanking or what 'what' he is asking. He has a weird cloudy eye too which I can't help but stare at, he doesn't seem to notice. He's a builder of some sort and often disappears for weeks and comes back flush with cash and tipped me $200 and a bag of weed one time. I like Pedro.
PROSTITUE NANNA - As you can tell from her name PN is definitely a looper. She is the dearest old biddy you'll ever meet with a killer perm and the sweetest little twin sets you'll ever see. Something like this...
However, as she totters up to the bar you can sense something is not right, then she opens her mouth, AND NEVER CLOSES IT, this woman does not shut up. EVER. I actually walk away from her midsentence and return and she's still talking. God only knows about what, but it's complete dribble. She's obviously just a lonely, lonely old woman and will talk to anyone who has to listen.
Ok, Ok I hear you... but WHAT ABOUT THE PROSTITUTE BIT??? Well! Upon our first meeting I was of course the ever polite hospitality worker and engaged this woman in some idle chit chat, and then in the same breath she told me about her podiatrist, her old house in Mount Hawthorn, her jewellery... oh.... and that she likes to give gobby for some extra cash now and then. WHAAAAAT???? I have no idea how it came up but I clearly remember her cheekily grinning as she said something along the lines of 'not very often, it's not a big deal.' Not a big deal?! Nannas are meant to know recipes for awesome shortbread biscuits and sneak you chocolate before dinner when you visit, not the best corner in Northbridge to turn tricks on a Friday night. Try as I might, my artful conversation could not get her to talk about it again, probably because she never shutup enough about the Post Office for her to hear me say a word back.
For the record, Prostitute Nanna drinks Swan Draught, and she knocks it back too, she's four foot nothing and can hold her piss, impressive.
ROSCO - Rosco used to be a severe heroin addict, now he prefers the sweet taste of methadone. He likes to get doped up to the eyeballs at the chemist next door and then float into the pub for a steak. He appears to be allergic to eye contact and is constantly glazed over while he drinks Jameson. One time he told our yard guy Turin that he had magical powers. He was convinced that at any moment he can turn into a white lion. Turin asked him to demonstrate and Rosco said "What do you mean? I'm a white lion right now." Rosco also does the funniest walk I've ever seen, you know when your running and your about to stack it and you do those 4 or 5 retarded steps with your hands out because you know your about to faceplant, imagine walking like that ALL THE TIME.
GLASS OF CHARDONNAY GUY - fairly self explanatory this one, but this guy creeps the hell outta me, he comes in almost every weekday and orders one glass of chardonnay which he downs in one gulp and then returns to wherever he came from. He always has a bag of shopping with him from Coles next door and stops in at the pub on the way back. I like to imagine he lives with his crazy wife\mother at home that beats him up so he has to escape for a drink but has to be quick because she's timing him. He kind of looks like this...
But with glasses and less crucifix and less visible body hair. He also doesn't dress that well.
....these are just the regular ones whose names I am aware of or have named accordingly, there's plenty more who have only appeared once or twice...
I come into contact with these beings at least twice a week, sometimes they brighten my day, other times they force me to take a mental note of possible weapons that are on hand to immediately defend myself against them.
Apparently most of them are scared of the dark and they frequent the pub mostly in the day and early afternoon. Often this is when I am the only staff member there not holed up safely in the office, so it's a really personal experience.
I love a good list so here we go...
Let's start with my favourite-
SAMMY- Sam's not crazy, he's just such a character, according to history books he has been drinking at the pub for over forty years. He's a toothless old Italian dude who I'm pretty sure has had a stroke and the thickest accent ever. Sammy waddles into the pub in the afternoon and needs to sit down and rest halfway between the entrance and the bar, I'm not sure if he's tired or he just likes to have a stickybeak at what's going inside that day. Every staff member knows Sammy orders two stubbies of Hahn Light at a time, served with a cold middy glass. Sammy is the only Rosemount patron in history that gets table service. I've never actually seen him stand at the bar once. He basically sits in the chair all day and cries "Good on ya!" and "Bravo!" each time a staff member walks past with a "Hi Sam!". He never remembers anyone's name and describes each person by their hair colour and their build. Some of our plumper staff members have been slightly offended by Sam at some time or another. Conversation is limited with Sam as very few can understand a single word he's saying due to the stroke and the accent. One employee Timmy was a Sammy Whisperer and was strangely able to have in depth discussions with him somehow, Sammy would yabber on about something for ten minutes and Timmy would pipe up 'Oh yes I totally agree, the roadworks on Guildford Rd are terribly inconvenient.' What? Sammy doesn't even drive, sometimes I think Timmy was making it up.
JD - JD is probably one of the craziest people I've ever met. She actually kind of scares me. According to Rosemount legend she is the mother of that guy that murdered the Chinese student out near Scarborough last year. Anyway, not only does JD have a questionable past she's just plain nuts. Her outfits are a pretty good indicator. Often she likes to dress like a cross between Madonna circa 1980's, Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men, and a witch. She likes a good crucifix around her neck, often they look like she broke into a church, stole the massive wooden one and hung it around her neck with some cable ties. I can't be certain but I'm pretty sure she was wearing one that had the plaster still attached from where she pulled it off a wall. JD likes to have very loud phone conversations with someone I assume is her daughter that start off with "How are you my darling girl?" and quickly disintergrate into "YOU DID NOT COME FROM MY WOMB!" She also has a creepy attraction to one of our regular DJ's Charlie Bucket. He's always playing on a Sunday and JD likes to come down and dance away in front of his set up for hours only stopping to have a drink which she orders very specifically "a pint of water with ice and lemon and a straw thankyou." I can't remember the last time she actually bought a real drink, one bartender Bianca flat out refuses to serve her until she drinks something she has to pay for. Often she likes to sit next to Sam and yell at him about nothing in particular, sometimes he buys her a drink, I think it's just so she'll shutup.
PEDRO - Pedro is another orally challenged guy. Apparently I am one of a select few who can understand him, again due to a crazy accent and some missing teeth. No one is entirely sure what Pedro's deal is. He is this black Mexican dude who has the buffest arms I've seen on an old guy and this crazy mustache which makes him look like a seal. He arrives drunk to the pub and then proceeds to get blind drunk by throwing back white Sambuca shots as long as the staff will still serve him. He constantly encourages the staff to drink and I think he just wants a friend. He can often be seen being taken advantage of by young girls who just want a free drink. I can't count how many times he's been thrown out but for some reason we keep letting him back. His catch phrase is "Thankyou!" But he does it in a really sarcastic way followed by "WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? YEAH? WHAT?" I have no idea who he is thanking or what 'what' he is asking. He has a weird cloudy eye too which I can't help but stare at, he doesn't seem to notice. He's a builder of some sort and often disappears for weeks and comes back flush with cash and tipped me $200 and a bag of weed one time. I like Pedro.
PROSTITUE NANNA - As you can tell from her name PN is definitely a looper. She is the dearest old biddy you'll ever meet with a killer perm and the sweetest little twin sets you'll ever see. Something like this...
However, as she totters up to the bar you can sense something is not right, then she opens her mouth, AND NEVER CLOSES IT, this woman does not shut up. EVER. I actually walk away from her midsentence and return and she's still talking. God only knows about what, but it's complete dribble. She's obviously just a lonely, lonely old woman and will talk to anyone who has to listen.
Ok, Ok I hear you... but WHAT ABOUT THE PROSTITUTE BIT??? Well! Upon our first meeting I was of course the ever polite hospitality worker and engaged this woman in some idle chit chat, and then in the same breath she told me about her podiatrist, her old house in Mount Hawthorn, her jewellery... oh.... and that she likes to give gobby for some extra cash now and then. WHAAAAAT???? I have no idea how it came up but I clearly remember her cheekily grinning as she said something along the lines of 'not very often, it's not a big deal.' Not a big deal?! Nannas are meant to know recipes for awesome shortbread biscuits and sneak you chocolate before dinner when you visit, not the best corner in Northbridge to turn tricks on a Friday night. Try as I might, my artful conversation could not get her to talk about it again, probably because she never shutup enough about the Post Office for her to hear me say a word back.
For the record, Prostitute Nanna drinks Swan Draught, and she knocks it back too, she's four foot nothing and can hold her piss, impressive.
ROSCO - Rosco used to be a severe heroin addict, now he prefers the sweet taste of methadone. He likes to get doped up to the eyeballs at the chemist next door and then float into the pub for a steak. He appears to be allergic to eye contact and is constantly glazed over while he drinks Jameson. One time he told our yard guy Turin that he had magical powers. He was convinced that at any moment he can turn into a white lion. Turin asked him to demonstrate and Rosco said "What do you mean? I'm a white lion right now." Rosco also does the funniest walk I've ever seen, you know when your running and your about to stack it and you do those 4 or 5 retarded steps with your hands out because you know your about to faceplant, imagine walking like that ALL THE TIME.
GLASS OF CHARDONNAY GUY - fairly self explanatory this one, but this guy creeps the hell outta me, he comes in almost every weekday and orders one glass of chardonnay which he downs in one gulp and then returns to wherever he came from. He always has a bag of shopping with him from Coles next door and stops in at the pub on the way back. I like to imagine he lives with his crazy wife\mother at home that beats him up so he has to escape for a drink but has to be quick because she's timing him. He kind of looks like this...
But with glasses and less crucifix and less visible body hair. He also doesn't dress that well.....these are just the regular ones whose names I am aware of or have named accordingly, there's plenty more who have only appeared once or twice...
- One rainy day a guy curled up on one of our couches watching the MTV music videos with his hands down his pants. Upon completing his.....activities....he kicked a pint glass of water into the wall and calmly walked out of the pub never to be seen again.
- One crazy old lady who resembles an Aboriginal garden gnome came in and wouldn't leave me alone until I agreed to look at her passport so she could prove to me that she had been to Europe. I can now confirm she has been to France and Germany.
While she's never entered the premises Aussie Bike Lady can be heard from inside from miles away. She rides a bike with an Australian flag attached and yells patriotic\racist\indecipherable things at anyone and no one. I think her and Mad Dog would make a lovely, fit couple.- Rocko, I hate this guy. He's a complete creep, he's about 40 and wears a massive, fake gold chain and bleaches his hair blonde and tucks his shirt in to look younger, he has a fat girlfriend who is also insane, he told her that one of the other bartenders Jess and I were in love with him and that he was sleeping with both of us. She then proceeded to come into work when Jess and I were working and drill us for answers about each other, she cried once when telling me how much she loved him and that he really is a good guy even thought he stole $10,000 from her Dad and calls her from his bed when he's in it with a prostitute. I bet he has a thing for Nannas......
New jobs are lame.
As I mentioned I have a severe love\hate relationship with my job. In an effort to get over myself and to save the poor boyfriend from having to listen to me whine all the time, I decided to shutup and get a new one. My aim was to either find a new job or at least put my current one in perspective and hate it less sometimes. Let's just say if The Rosemount was a man that had knees and was able to get down on one of them and propose, I would immediately elope to Vegas and marry it with Elvis as my witness.
In an effort to conceal the identity of the venue that was my new job to all my many readers (Hi mum!) I will simply refer to the place as 'DrugDen' or DD. This place is quite popular and really is a good venue, I just like to rant so any material will do.
So I rock up all set to embrace my new opportunity, (in reality I think I was still hungover from the previous night so probably not a good start), I am met by the manager who appears to be very busy\stressed\upset\or just plain cold and am shown to the bar I will be working in that night. I'm told its the VIP bar and I'll be working with a guy named Oli. So I think sweet! VIP should be fun, its got the best view of the whole place and the act for the night and Oli is a cool name, how can he not be awesome?
This is how he can not be awesome.....
Let's start from the bottom....
In an effort to conceal the identity of the venue that was my new job to all my many readers (Hi mum!) I will simply refer to the place as 'DrugDen' or DD. This place is quite popular and really is a good venue, I just like to rant so any material will do.
So I rock up all set to embrace my new opportunity, (in reality I think I was still hungover from the previous night so probably not a good start), I am met by the manager who appears to be very busy\stressed\upset\or just plain cold and am shown to the bar I will be working in that night. I'm told its the VIP bar and I'll be working with a guy named Oli. So I think sweet! VIP should be fun, its got the best view of the whole place and the act for the night and Oli is a cool name, how can he not be awesome?
This is how he can not be awesome.....
Let's start from the bottom....
He's working in a bar, so you'd think sneakers? Right? Wrong. He's got some shinyarse snakeskin WHITE shoes with the pointiest toe I've ever seen and they are stupidly clean to bring into the depths of a club bar.
So then the pants...black pants? Old jeans? No, wrong. SKINTIGHT greyish designer fucking denim jeans that are almost too tight to get the barblade into his back pocket...
On top you'd be thinking Polo? DD Tshirt? At a stretch a black singlet? Good guesses but YOUR WRONG AGAIN!! This guy has a V-neck skintight Tshirt on, and not just your average V-neck... THE GUY HAS FUCKIN CLEAVAGE!!! CLEAVAGE!!!!! YOU HEAR ME!?!? This is seriously the deepest V I've ever seen, he might as well just cut the shirt in half. I'll give it to him he's got a very sculpted body and his pecs were just scary they were so big which contributed to the cleavage. And I'm pretty sure he shaves his chest..... and I wouldn't be surprised because then there was his head.....
So my immediate reaction was 'are you wearing makeup'? And then I met the glassy, a nice young chappie, who said to me 'hey is that guy wearing makeup?' So I'm pretty sure it's safe to say he was wearing makeup. Foundation of course, and a hint of guyliner. So then there's these eyebrows, they are waxed to within an inch of their life sitting up there on his lil forehead, screaming to be looked at. His hair probably had about 6 different products in it fighting to look the shiniest and resulting in a blinding flash that rendered me blind everytime I looked at it when it caught the light.
Overall he kinda looked like a bad mixture of something you would find on Fat Pizza, FashionTV, my nightmares and an illustration of what that Chk Chk Boom! girl was talking about....
...and this was before he even opened his mouth.
I really was wiling to give him a chance, I wasn't that evil and intolerant and small minded to write him off 100% just because of his looks. So we get chatting, and when i say WE get chatting, I mean HE got chatting, and HE DIDN'T STOP. I pretty much know his whole life story not that i wanted to nor did I ask. He's 27, he's a designer with his own business and employs 5 people and he just bought a house and has hired a stylist to do it up and blah blah blah. I'm pretty sure he was trying to say "I'm just plain fucking awesome, behold and bask in the sun that shines out of my arse."
At this stage, I hear you, I know the two burning questions that you are asking. Because they were screaming through my head the same time... so let me answer them, because they became bleedingly obvious eventually. I choose to do this in a 'Dear Dolly Doctor' kind of way, because even at this early stage of the night, I felt I needed the guidance of someone as wise and knowledgable as the Dolly Doctor to get me through....
QUESTION ONE
"Dear Beth,
I can't help but think, through your witty observations, that perhaps, this "Oli" fella might just love the cock? It appears he is a raging homosexual who loves nothing more than to get a purple headed womb warrior up his anus each night - is that a fair comment?
Yours sincerely,
Confused Reader(s) of LAME."
"Dear CR(s)OL
I too had this thought smashing into my brain screaming to be voiced, but I thought it was too obvious to even ask, OF COURSE this guy wants some man meat to keep him company at night. But then without prompt Oli answered this himself......... let me set the scene.....
Beth - Hey can you pass me the champagne?
Oli - Yeah the oldest chick I've fucked must of been 42.
Beth - What? I just want the champagne man.
Oli - I'ts true, older chicks are better in bed.
Beth - Fine I'll get it myself.
Oli - 17 year old chicks are hot but they don't know anything.
Beth - ....... (pouring champagne)
Oli - I've probably slept with a chick of every age from 17 to 30, haha probably 4 times each!
Beth -......(gagging into champagne bucket)
So CR(s)OL, does that answer you question? of course he loves to smoke the man pole, he just doesn't know it\ want to admit it."
QUESTION TWO
"Dear Beth,
this guy appears to talk himself up a bit in his business ventures, I can't help but wonder, if he is so successful -why does he feel the need to work in a nightclub?
Kind Regards
Doubly Confused Reader(s) of LAME."
"Dear DCR(s)OL,
You are so young and naive, its almost cute. I shortly wondered about this too. Why does a man with his own business and clearly enough money to pay all those prostitutes because he clearly can't attract normal women with his personality need to explore the deep dark recesses of a sweaty dingy stinky club on a Saturday night. Shouldn't he be out snorting coke out off the arse cheek of an 18 year old sexually confused boy? You know why I wondered this only shortly? I'll tell you why, because it took a very short time to realise that this creature, this mistake of God....... was full of shit.
So full of shit in fact that it spewed out of him onto every person who entered a 5 metre radius. He talked shit to the guys in the VIP area, the massive artists that have toured internationally a thousand times and earned millions of dollars but found themselves at a shitty nightclub in Perth with some fuckhead of a bartender in their ear about he's a DJ too and hung out with Armin van Buuren and collaborated with him on his last album.
He talked shit to the girls who were so fuckin high on crack they looked straight through him to the mirror and checked themselves out while he gushed about the parties he holds at his house and how they should come.
He talked shit to the glassie who brought us ice about how he goes to the gym twice a day.
He just constantly talked shit and so when I asked the same question as you I was a bit surprised at his answer.....
Beth - so Oli, why the fuck are you here?
Oli - for the social side of it.
ARE YOU FUCKING JOKING ME?!?!?!?! You're here so you can make friends? You think people WANT to talk to you? You MUST be desperate! Or as I like to think, full of shit. And here was my proof that he was full of shit.
At the start of the night we were given a $100 bar card each to either drink ourselves or buy drinks for who ever we wanted. So at about 3 am the main act is on but the bars are quiet so the previously mentioned manager comes in and says, does anyone want to finish now? You would THINK that a guy with a 100 bucks of free piss in his pocket, desperate to socialise and no real need for the money from wages would jump at the chance, would you not?? HE DECLINED!!!! So again. FULL OF SHIT!
I hope that answers your questions DCR(s)OL
Yours sincerely
Beth."
So readers, I can now sense your third question. Did I jump at the chance to finish at 3am and get the fuck out of there and away from Oli to the safety of bed. Of course I did, but Manager of DD changed her mind. As it was my first night and Oli's first night as well we both had to stay and help each other out and learn to close the bar up. LAME.
So I soldiered on through the whole night with Oli, thank God for our glassy who sensed my agony and kept me company as long as I promised to make him cocksucking cowboy shots which he strangely enjoyed a little too much.
So then the pants...black pants? Old jeans? No, wrong. SKINTIGHT greyish designer fucking denim jeans that are almost too tight to get the barblade into his back pocket...
On top you'd be thinking Polo? DD Tshirt? At a stretch a black singlet? Good guesses but YOUR WRONG AGAIN!! This guy has a V-neck skintight Tshirt on, and not just your average V-neck... THE GUY HAS FUCKIN CLEAVAGE!!! CLEAVAGE!!!!! YOU HEAR ME!?!? This is seriously the deepest V I've ever seen, he might as well just cut the shirt in half. I'll give it to him he's got a very sculpted body and his pecs were just scary they were so big which contributed to the cleavage. And I'm pretty sure he shaves his chest..... and I wouldn't be surprised because then there was his head.....
So my immediate reaction was 'are you wearing makeup'? And then I met the glassy, a nice young chappie, who said to me 'hey is that guy wearing makeup?' So I'm pretty sure it's safe to say he was wearing makeup. Foundation of course, and a hint of guyliner. So then there's these eyebrows, they are waxed to within an inch of their life sitting up there on his lil forehead, screaming to be looked at. His hair probably had about 6 different products in it fighting to look the shiniest and resulting in a blinding flash that rendered me blind everytime I looked at it when it caught the light.
Overall he kinda looked like a bad mixture of something you would find on Fat Pizza, FashionTV, my nightmares and an illustration of what that Chk Chk Boom! girl was talking about....
...and this was before he even opened his mouth.
I really was wiling to give him a chance, I wasn't that evil and intolerant and small minded to write him off 100% just because of his looks. So we get chatting, and when i say WE get chatting, I mean HE got chatting, and HE DIDN'T STOP. I pretty much know his whole life story not that i wanted to nor did I ask. He's 27, he's a designer with his own business and employs 5 people and he just bought a house and has hired a stylist to do it up and blah blah blah. I'm pretty sure he was trying to say "I'm just plain fucking awesome, behold and bask in the sun that shines out of my arse."
At this stage, I hear you, I know the two burning questions that you are asking. Because they were screaming through my head the same time... so let me answer them, because they became bleedingly obvious eventually. I choose to do this in a 'Dear Dolly Doctor' kind of way, because even at this early stage of the night, I felt I needed the guidance of someone as wise and knowledgable as the Dolly Doctor to get me through....
QUESTION ONE
"Dear Beth,
I can't help but think, through your witty observations, that perhaps, this "Oli" fella might just love the cock? It appears he is a raging homosexual who loves nothing more than to get a purple headed womb warrior up his anus each night - is that a fair comment?
Yours sincerely,
Confused Reader(s) of LAME."
"Dear CR(s)OL
I too had this thought smashing into my brain screaming to be voiced, but I thought it was too obvious to even ask, OF COURSE this guy wants some man meat to keep him company at night. But then without prompt Oli answered this himself......... let me set the scene.....
Beth - Hey can you pass me the champagne?
Oli - Yeah the oldest chick I've fucked must of been 42.
Beth - What? I just want the champagne man.
Oli - I'ts true, older chicks are better in bed.
Beth - Fine I'll get it myself.
Oli - 17 year old chicks are hot but they don't know anything.
Beth - ....... (pouring champagne)
Oli - I've probably slept with a chick of every age from 17 to 30, haha probably 4 times each!
Beth -......(gagging into champagne bucket)
So CR(s)OL, does that answer you question? of course he loves to smoke the man pole, he just doesn't know it\ want to admit it."
QUESTION TWO
"Dear Beth,
this guy appears to talk himself up a bit in his business ventures, I can't help but wonder, if he is so successful -why does he feel the need to work in a nightclub?
Kind Regards
Doubly Confused Reader(s) of LAME."
"Dear DCR(s)OL,
You are so young and naive, its almost cute. I shortly wondered about this too. Why does a man with his own business and clearly enough money to pay all those prostitutes because he clearly can't attract normal women with his personality need to explore the deep dark recesses of a sweaty dingy stinky club on a Saturday night. Shouldn't he be out snorting coke out off the arse cheek of an 18 year old sexually confused boy? You know why I wondered this only shortly? I'll tell you why, because it took a very short time to realise that this creature, this mistake of God....... was full of shit.
So full of shit in fact that it spewed out of him onto every person who entered a 5 metre radius. He talked shit to the guys in the VIP area, the massive artists that have toured internationally a thousand times and earned millions of dollars but found themselves at a shitty nightclub in Perth with some fuckhead of a bartender in their ear about he's a DJ too and hung out with Armin van Buuren and collaborated with him on his last album.
He talked shit to the girls who were so fuckin high on crack they looked straight through him to the mirror and checked themselves out while he gushed about the parties he holds at his house and how they should come.
He talked shit to the glassie who brought us ice about how he goes to the gym twice a day.
He just constantly talked shit and so when I asked the same question as you I was a bit surprised at his answer.....
Beth - so Oli, why the fuck are you here?
Oli - for the social side of it.
ARE YOU FUCKING JOKING ME?!?!?!?! You're here so you can make friends? You think people WANT to talk to you? You MUST be desperate! Or as I like to think, full of shit. And here was my proof that he was full of shit.
At the start of the night we were given a $100 bar card each to either drink ourselves or buy drinks for who ever we wanted. So at about 3 am the main act is on but the bars are quiet so the previously mentioned manager comes in and says, does anyone want to finish now? You would THINK that a guy with a 100 bucks of free piss in his pocket, desperate to socialise and no real need for the money from wages would jump at the chance, would you not?? HE DECLINED!!!! So again. FULL OF SHIT!
I hope that answers your questions DCR(s)OL
Yours sincerely
Beth."
So readers, I can now sense your third question. Did I jump at the chance to finish at 3am and get the fuck out of there and away from Oli to the safety of bed. Of course I did, but Manager of DD changed her mind. As it was my first night and Oli's first night as well we both had to stay and help each other out and learn to close the bar up. LAME.
So I soldiered on through the whole night with Oli, thank God for our glassy who sensed my agony and kept me company as long as I promised to make him cocksucking cowboy shots which he strangely enjoyed a little too much.
Of course it wasn't just Oli that made me resent the place, it was the whole goddam scene!!! While it's a pretty impressive club and I had a good view and was in VIP so it wasnt too loud. It was the PEOPLE!!
One strange thing was that there was all these really pretty girls who appeared to be wearing tops but no pants, but on second look I deducted that, THEY WERE WEARING SKIRTS!!! You know why I didnt realise this at first? Because these said skirts were actually hitched up around their hips while some guy with a stylish mullet had them in compromising positions up against the walls of the club. I AM NOT KIDDING HERE! I SAW IT FOUR TIMES!! Four different girls, all destroying their dignity in front of 700+ people.
Plus I don't know why they even need bartenders. NO ONE DRINKS!!! They should just put a water fountain at every corner because thats all I poured. There were just high people everywhere. No one had a personality because they were too busy chewing their faces off and stuffing Vicks up their noses.
Drugs can do strange things to people, they can also do exactly what drugs normally do, they make otherwise normal people turn into uninhibited, gurning monsters. I watched one guy pop at least three pills that I saw. He then proceeded to attempt to turn his head inside out by process of trying to swallow his own nose by lassooing it with his tongue and dragging it into his mouth. I served him water, water, water, Vodka Redbull, water, water, RedBull, water, water, water. He must have consumed 3 packets of Extra and I can't be sure but I think I saw him with a loveheart lollipop. I hope someone tags the shit out of him in a Facebook album and he can see exactly how much of a loser he looked like that night.
When your trapped in a tiny bar with Fabio's retarded second cousin and your surrounded by too many people on amphetamines and music only people on amphetamines can enjoy, you get over it pretty quickly. I was longing for my cosy little Rosemount, drunk people with personalities(good or otherwise) and a finishing time of around 1am insteand of 5am.
So that was my one and only shift at DD and it did exactly as intended. Rosemount has been rammed down my throat into perspective and I'm a happy kid again.
*Names have been changed to protect identity. Except Oli, that's his real name and if you see a man with impressive cleavage and eyebrows that rival Ronald McDonald please say hi from me and that I lied, YOUR SHOES ARE UGLY!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)