Monday, September 1, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
HLS
HLS is an acronym I formed about 7 or 8 years ago when I foolishly fell in love with someone else whilst still in a relationship.
HEAVY LESBIAN SHIT.
Only lesbians can do HLS.
a) because they're lesbians
b) because they're heavy
c) when that happens it is usually shit.
So here's a few warning signs for HLS....
HLS is kind of like the lesbian equivalent of avian influenza. It floats about, you don't know quite how it will happen but when it does, it's DEADLY.
Ok, so things to avoid:
1) Avoid straight women you have a crush on.
a) they will never put out
b) when they do it will be terrible.
2) look out for women who aren't over their x.
a) if they casually mention what their x was like in bed, RUN FOR THE HILLS. I'm not talking snowy mountains, I'm talking tora fucking bora. Don't come back. Stock ammunitions. Join Al Queda. Killing infidels is much funner than living in the shadow of your lovers, dumb arse x girlfriend.
3) Watch out for the other acronym, AVO.
I once interviewed a young lesbian who wanted to be my roommate. She was quite pleasant until she said, me and my ex have AVOS out on each other. At first I thought, isn't that playful.... they're having an avocado fight. But then I realised. HLS. Yeah sure you can move in..... but have the front room because I want to be killed last when you EX comes round with a goddamn machete and threatens to kill you if a) you don't confess your undying love for her and b) you don't return the goddamn burnt copies of L word series 5.
4) Confessions of love in week one.
Premature confessions of lesbian love are like premature ejaculations of the straight world. You're going to end up with egg on your face. Lesbians have an awful habit of confessing love early. Avoid all talk of love until at least month 3. Any earlier than that......you know what it is..... HLS.
5) Girls who are just coming out.
Any bona fide lady from lesbos doesn't have time to jiimy the closet open for prospective lesbians. Throw 'em to the sharks I say.... and when they've been eaten ... they'll dry off, repair and finally realise they're on a one way road to lesbos. Forget rescuing them or showing them the path. They have to find it on their own and when they have you'll be there, ready and waiting.
6) Bisexuals.
Far be it for me to be biphobic. I'm not and here's why.
My ex girlfriend got married to a lovely boy. At the wedding her uncle said to me and how do you know Susie and I replied, "I use to go down on her." No HLS there Uncle Grahame.
So there are my pointers for HLS.
If the stats are right only one in ten are from lesbos.
That doesn't give us alot of time to get it right.
But if you're aware of HLS, you're likely to being a happier and healthier lesbot all round.
Don't be alarmed, just be alert.
HEAVY LESBIAN SHIT.
Only lesbians can do HLS.
a) because they're lesbians
b) because they're heavy
c) when that happens it is usually shit.
So here's a few warning signs for HLS....
HLS is kind of like the lesbian equivalent of avian influenza. It floats about, you don't know quite how it will happen but when it does, it's DEADLY.
Ok, so things to avoid:
1) Avoid straight women you have a crush on.
a) they will never put out
b) when they do it will be terrible.
2) look out for women who aren't over their x.
a) if they casually mention what their x was like in bed, RUN FOR THE HILLS. I'm not talking snowy mountains, I'm talking tora fucking bora. Don't come back. Stock ammunitions. Join Al Queda. Killing infidels is much funner than living in the shadow of your lovers, dumb arse x girlfriend.
3) Watch out for the other acronym, AVO.
I once interviewed a young lesbian who wanted to be my roommate. She was quite pleasant until she said, me and my ex have AVOS out on each other. At first I thought, isn't that playful.... they're having an avocado fight. But then I realised. HLS. Yeah sure you can move in..... but have the front room because I want to be killed last when you EX comes round with a goddamn machete and threatens to kill you if a) you don't confess your undying love for her and b) you don't return the goddamn burnt copies of L word series 5.
4) Confessions of love in week one.
Premature confessions of lesbian love are like premature ejaculations of the straight world. You're going to end up with egg on your face. Lesbians have an awful habit of confessing love early. Avoid all talk of love until at least month 3. Any earlier than that......you know what it is..... HLS.
5) Girls who are just coming out.
Any bona fide lady from lesbos doesn't have time to jiimy the closet open for prospective lesbians. Throw 'em to the sharks I say.... and when they've been eaten ... they'll dry off, repair and finally realise they're on a one way road to lesbos. Forget rescuing them or showing them the path. They have to find it on their own and when they have you'll be there, ready and waiting.
6) Bisexuals.
Far be it for me to be biphobic. I'm not and here's why.
My ex girlfriend got married to a lovely boy. At the wedding her uncle said to me and how do you know Susie and I replied, "I use to go down on her." No HLS there Uncle Grahame.
So there are my pointers for HLS.
If the stats are right only one in ten are from lesbos.
That doesn't give us alot of time to get it right.
But if you're aware of HLS, you're likely to being a happier and healthier lesbot all round.
Don't be alarmed, just be alert.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Lost in Vegas Part 3
“Whoever you are--I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
Blanche DuBois
A Streetcar Named Desire
I managed to get lost on my way to work today. This might be forgiveable if I lived in the outerburbs, but I live in the inner city and my office is little more than a 10 minute drive. In the past, (ok, so this may have happened previously, on just a couple of occasions-who is counting?), I’ve blamed it on the early stages of alzheimers and linked it back to my obsession with personal hygiene. I mean, frankly, who knows how much aluminium is in deodorant these days? Plus, I lived in Rome for a year, and not even a scientist could quantify the long term damage sustained to my frontal lobe from drinking water transferred through lead pipes laid in the 5 century BC.
Anyway, after pulling over and unsuccessfully trying to find my trusty 1981 edition of the refedex, I asked a passing jogger for directions. After removing his earphones, he launched into a 4 minute spiel on the 3 best routes to my destination, all the while using his hands to make sharp, pointy angles, (I assumed this was to assist me just in case english wasn’t my first language or I was, say, deaf).
He then asked me what accent I have, explaining that I sounded South African, (this is also not the first time this has happened). I told him, with a blank face, that I actually have a speech impediment and have never left Ipswich which is where I was born.
Clearly, this was a lie but it’s a great line post-Pauline.
Blanche DuBois
A Streetcar Named Desire
I managed to get lost on my way to work today. This might be forgiveable if I lived in the outerburbs, but I live in the inner city and my office is little more than a 10 minute drive. In the past, (ok, so this may have happened previously, on just a couple of occasions-who is counting?), I’ve blamed it on the early stages of alzheimers and linked it back to my obsession with personal hygiene. I mean, frankly, who knows how much aluminium is in deodorant these days? Plus, I lived in Rome for a year, and not even a scientist could quantify the long term damage sustained to my frontal lobe from drinking water transferred through lead pipes laid in the 5 century BC.
Anyway, after pulling over and unsuccessfully trying to find my trusty 1981 edition of the refedex, I asked a passing jogger for directions. After removing his earphones, he launched into a 4 minute spiel on the 3 best routes to my destination, all the while using his hands to make sharp, pointy angles, (I assumed this was to assist me just in case english wasn’t my first language or I was, say, deaf).
He then asked me what accent I have, explaining that I sounded South African, (this is also not the first time this has happened). I told him, with a blank face, that I actually have a speech impediment and have never left Ipswich which is where I was born.
Clearly, this was a lie but it’s a great line post-Pauline.
The 101 on How to Incorporate Yourself
Can’t get away from anything these days? Forget therapy - it’s a very slow journey from rock bottom. Cut corners and create the new you today! Incorporate yourself.
Self Esteem Problems? Re-brand yourself.
Hire a PR company with a funky one-word name to re-brand you. The young marketing exec with asymmetrical hair will make you play word association as they create the 'new you'. Words like 'innovative', 'cutting edge', 'underground' and 'synergy' will be thrown around. Do not feel disheartened when they create a 'new you' that is almost the complete opposite of who you really are. After all, successful marketing is all about selling 'ideas' not products. This makes an outright lie not only completely acceptable but entirely logical. The fantastic thing about the re-branding concept is that you don’t need to change. It is up to the PR company to perpetuate this ‘idea’ of the ‘underground ‘ and ‘innovative’ new you’ whilst the ‘old you’ can adhere to your bad habits like smoking in your bedroom.
Problem Parents? Move them Offshore.
Your parents can no longer hassle you about your appearance if you move them offshore. Once they’re at least ten thousand kilometres from your current residence you can cease all contact with them apart from a token call once a year. This geographical distance will also allow you to avoid any bogus notion that you are responsible for your parents in their old age.
Dead-wood flatmate? Restructure and downsize your household.
An internal audit of household expenses can always come in handy when you’re trying to get rid of dead wood in the household. Use a bit of ‘creative corporate’ accounting with the phone bill and convince your flatmate that they have been underestimating their share of the phone bill for two years. As the leaseholder, it’s simply not going to work with them on your books. Use other flatmate in your method of systematic intimidation. Bombard the dead wood with bogus figures and paperwork about their refusal to admit that they have been ripping the company (your household) off. Simply explain that you want to restructure and downsize the household to make it more financially viable.
These handy hints will not only help you get away from anything, but get away with anything. The new incorporated you will make the shareholders (your friends) in the company (you) believe that you’re no longer at rock bottom. Thanks to your PR company, geographical logistics and some colourful accounting, you’ve not only dispensed with unprofitable relationships in your life, you now come across as a responsible, ethical, dynamic and creative human being – whilst deep down, beneath that corporate veneer you’ve worked so hard to attain, you actually remain your dysfunctional, emotionally stunted and uninspired self.
Self Esteem Problems? Re-brand yourself.
Hire a PR company with a funky one-word name to re-brand you. The young marketing exec with asymmetrical hair will make you play word association as they create the 'new you'. Words like 'innovative', 'cutting edge', 'underground' and 'synergy' will be thrown around. Do not feel disheartened when they create a 'new you' that is almost the complete opposite of who you really are. After all, successful marketing is all about selling 'ideas' not products. This makes an outright lie not only completely acceptable but entirely logical. The fantastic thing about the re-branding concept is that you don’t need to change. It is up to the PR company to perpetuate this ‘idea’ of the ‘underground ‘ and ‘innovative’ new you’ whilst the ‘old you’ can adhere to your bad habits like smoking in your bedroom.
Problem Parents? Move them Offshore.
Your parents can no longer hassle you about your appearance if you move them offshore. Once they’re at least ten thousand kilometres from your current residence you can cease all contact with them apart from a token call once a year. This geographical distance will also allow you to avoid any bogus notion that you are responsible for your parents in their old age.
Dead-wood flatmate? Restructure and downsize your household.
An internal audit of household expenses can always come in handy when you’re trying to get rid of dead wood in the household. Use a bit of ‘creative corporate’ accounting with the phone bill and convince your flatmate that they have been underestimating their share of the phone bill for two years. As the leaseholder, it’s simply not going to work with them on your books. Use other flatmate in your method of systematic intimidation. Bombard the dead wood with bogus figures and paperwork about their refusal to admit that they have been ripping the company (your household) off. Simply explain that you want to restructure and downsize the household to make it more financially viable.
These handy hints will not only help you get away from anything, but get away with anything. The new incorporated you will make the shareholders (your friends) in the company (you) believe that you’re no longer at rock bottom. Thanks to your PR company, geographical logistics and some colourful accounting, you’ve not only dispensed with unprofitable relationships in your life, you now come across as a responsible, ethical, dynamic and creative human being – whilst deep down, beneath that corporate veneer you’ve worked so hard to attain, you actually remain your dysfunctional, emotionally stunted and uninspired self.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
The Email You Wish You Hadn't Sent
Clicking on 'send' when you know you shouldn't have is like dying in a plane crash. There's nothing you can do. You're going down and you're going to crash and burn. Similar to the 5 stages of grief, you will experience the following emotions:
1. Cringe (what the F**K have I done)
2. Denial (check sent box 150 times)
3. Twitch (I really am a dickhead)
4. Panic (panic)
5. Plan (sign up for the witness protection program)
I have no other advice for this situation. There is nothing I can say or do to help you. It is like trying to counsel a dead person back to life. You can't. Instead I shall outline the types of email you wish you hadn't sent:
1. The Thumping Keyboard. Someone has pissed you off and you let them know. Like the American government, you're an armchair bomber firing off an email faster than a patriot missile
2. The Overtheline Flirt. You forget you're in a relationship. Is it betrayal? You counsel yourself out of the fact that you're having an affair because there are no bodily fluids involved.
3. The Dreaded FWD: You open a fwd message from person A which was written to them by person B. You as person C reply to the FWDed email which is sent to Person B, not Person A and now Person B knows that Person A is fwding you (person C) their (person B) emails. The equation is as follows: A (fwd) + C = B rooted.
1. Cringe (what the F**K have I done)
2. Denial (check sent box 150 times)
3. Twitch (I really am a dickhead)
4. Panic (panic)
5. Plan (sign up for the witness protection program)
I have no other advice for this situation. There is nothing I can say or do to help you. It is like trying to counsel a dead person back to life. You can't. Instead I shall outline the types of email you wish you hadn't sent:
1. The Thumping Keyboard. Someone has pissed you off and you let them know. Like the American government, you're an armchair bomber firing off an email faster than a patriot missile
2. The Overtheline Flirt. You forget you're in a relationship. Is it betrayal? You counsel yourself out of the fact that you're having an affair because there are no bodily fluids involved.
3. The Dreaded FWD: You open a fwd message from person A which was written to them by person B. You as person C reply to the FWDed email which is sent to Person B, not Person A and now Person B knows that Person A is fwding you (person C) their (person B) emails. The equation is as follows: A (fwd) + C = B rooted.
Retail Therapy
Making a purchase these days feels like a one night stand gone wrong.
I think I'm out the door with the goods and suddenly they want my contact details.
Forget about feeling well spent and moving on.
They claim it's an innocent request but somehow I get this eerie feeling that giving over my personal information is going to come back and haunt me.
Recently, after purchasing my backpack, a customer sales representative sat behind his iMac and asked for my address and phone number. "It's just in case you have any problems with the purchase," he claimed.
I shot back, "So I guess the fact that you know where I live means you'll also know when and if I have a problem with my backpack."
Interesting logic.
When I protested he looked at me as if I was the Unabomber.
Paranoid.
"People who live in caves in the forest planning to overthrow the government don't buy $100 backpacks " I muttered. "They have hessian sacks."
After my meek protest I gave him my address and he proceeded to type my life into the system."It's just for our records," he spluttered.
Bullshit.
If we're talking records, I want to be on the B side.
It was time to play my famous 'data collection switcheroo.
"Before I buy this backpack, I'd just like to know, how long you've been working here and if you've slept with any of your co-workers? It's just for my records."
A few weeks later I started getting love letters in my mailbox.
Snappy catalogues, schlocky offers, VIP cards. The customer sales marketing machine was 'building a relationship' on shaky foundations.
It's over now.
I've had some time to heal but still, there are days when I'm even wary buying a redskin. Will 'they' want my address in case I have red bits stuck in my teeth for days afterwards? My shrink tells me not to worry about who 'they' are. I fired her and wrote a letter of my own.
Dear customer service representative of shonky backpack outlet,
This 'relationship' isn't working out for me. It's obvious to me that we want different things. If this was a casual arrangement perhaps we could negotiate but you're far too demanding. Don't contact me.
I need to move on.
x
I think I'm out the door with the goods and suddenly they want my contact details.
Forget about feeling well spent and moving on.
They claim it's an innocent request but somehow I get this eerie feeling that giving over my personal information is going to come back and haunt me.
Recently, after purchasing my backpack, a customer sales representative sat behind his iMac and asked for my address and phone number. "It's just in case you have any problems with the purchase," he claimed.
I shot back, "So I guess the fact that you know where I live means you'll also know when and if I have a problem with my backpack."
Interesting logic.
When I protested he looked at me as if I was the Unabomber.
Paranoid.
"People who live in caves in the forest planning to overthrow the government don't buy $100 backpacks " I muttered. "They have hessian sacks."
After my meek protest I gave him my address and he proceeded to type my life into the system."It's just for our records," he spluttered.
Bullshit.
If we're talking records, I want to be on the B side.
It was time to play my famous 'data collection switcheroo.
"Before I buy this backpack, I'd just like to know, how long you've been working here and if you've slept with any of your co-workers? It's just for my records."
A few weeks later I started getting love letters in my mailbox.
Snappy catalogues, schlocky offers, VIP cards. The customer sales marketing machine was 'building a relationship' on shaky foundations.
It's over now.
I've had some time to heal but still, there are days when I'm even wary buying a redskin. Will 'they' want my address in case I have red bits stuck in my teeth for days afterwards? My shrink tells me not to worry about who 'they' are. I fired her and wrote a letter of my own.
Dear customer service representative of shonky backpack outlet,
This 'relationship' isn't working out for me. It's obvious to me that we want different things. If this was a casual arrangement perhaps we could negotiate but you're far too demanding. Don't contact me.
I need to move on.
x
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Jewish Bird Woman-Bad dating experience 1439#
I recently got rejected for a former-paraplegic. A heterosexual, 38 year old former-paraplegic at that and one whom is also currently in a long term relationship with her male partner. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am all for people who have sustained back injuries. Have nothing against them. I am also a keen supporter of heterosexuals and their breeding rights, (let’s keep those babies/tax dollars coming). But I must admit to being a tad perplexed by this final outcome, (which, for the record, has nothing to do with physical ability, ones proneness to accidents or sexual orientation etc) See, I generally hate dating as a rule but yet greeted the prospect of entering into a relationship with this person with no judgement and limp, but opened arms, (and let me tell you, there was a lot to judge). Which leads me to the subject of birds. ‘Why?’ you may ask. Because this person had upwards of 50 as pets. Some domestic, some native. And rats. 2 to be precise that had also laid claim to her underwear drawer as their permanent residential address.
The story began when a mutual friend decided to set us up. Apparently, despite having not met this girl in person, she thought we would be ‘perfect for each other’ and that ‘we were to thank her in our wedding speech’. No pressure. We conversed on Facebook for some weeks, acquainting ourselves with the other, and this naturally led to a coffee date. One wet Friday afternoon we met at a city landmark which is also (aptly enough) in the shape of an animal native to Australia, the goanna. She was fashionably late and requested that I sit on the goanna and wait for her. I paced nervously, reciting all the subject topics that were off limits, (avian influenza, my dislike of hippies, avian influenza, birds, my dislike of natural fibres, avian influenza, birds). When she finally arrived we awkwardly kissed each other hello and decided to go to a vegan café for a chai tea. Alarm bells were sounding in the distance but were duly ignored.
Our conversation flowed easily and soon she was confessing her desire to build a house, (like a house for humans) within an aviary. Apparently, ‘that would make it easier to care for the birds’. Whilst I commended her romantic idea of living at one with nature, I pointed out the health and safety issues which could possibly arise if she was to follow through with the plan, (without mentioning the very real threat of the impending avian influenza pandemic). She quickly shut me up by stating that she was normally covered in bird shit so it really isn’t an issue. Other chai confession included she was Jewish and from a South African heritage, (which received a tick from me), had recently ended an 8 month affair with a heterosexual former-paraplegic who is currently celebrating her 10 year anniversary with her long-term boyfriend, (which I also turned into a tick after several minutes of raised eyebrows and mental calculation), had attended a prestigious private school, (half tick awarded out of pity) and prefers to dry her washing on the lawn, (.3333 of a tick for being environmentally aware and creative with the drying process). After 2 hours I had become the master of spin and mentally turned every single quirk/oddity into an endearing quality.
Pleased with my effort and buoyed by the prospect of meeting someone who was clearly weirder than me, we arranged to have dinner the following week. Chicken was not a menu option. Later that evening, at approx 8pm, whilst watching Weeds stoned, I decided that she possibly had partner potential and that I was willing to give a relationship a try, (after a year of creating chaos as a bachelorette throughout my country-like town of residence).
We messaged each over the next few days and I had romantic ideas about living with her and her 8 millions birds in the some idyllic location where I could dry our clothes on trees. A week went by and she had yet to respond to my dinner invitation. Clearly something was wrong.
The following week our mutual friend Facebooked me to say that, while this girl had liked me, ‘she was still not over the former-paraplegic’ and that we should ‘probably look elsewhere.’ I held it together for 5 nights before, after a traumatic evening, I drank too much and fell onto my stereo, nearly impaling my back on my record needle. I am sure this injury would have resulted in some sort of paralysis but something or someone saved me.
So here I am today, wiser, slightly more jaded but grateful I don’t have a record needle wedged up my spine or 50 million birds to deal with.
What ever happened to the drizabone?
Far be it for me to talk about the Olympics without chastising the Chinese but will we see the Aussie drizabone in this week's opening ceremony?
Whispering Jack use to wear one before he got old and fat for one more time. They always look to me like someone's skinned a horse or found a gigantic not to scale flake and ripped it's outer choc part to turn into a coat. I'd like to see the swimmers just wear their cossies in the opening ceremony and wear the drizabones in the pool. Imagine pulling the 1500m off in skinned horse? They'd be no talk of records...just survival. Kind of like the Duke of Edinburgh award where you have to tread water for an hour in a pair of trackies. And diving...diving is overrated. I don't see why the relays don't start with a bomb in the pool.
I think we need to introduce the aussie pool party into the Olympics.
Gotta start at the barbie chomping on a snag, turn up triple M, put some sunblock on, down a keg and then jump in the pool. swim half a lap, grab a pool pony at the 50 metre mark and get to the 100. At the 200 mark, pick up the 2 year old child at the bottom of the pool, perform CPR, and get them a gig on today/tonight at the same time. Hit 300 metres, and whinge that John Butler didn't make it into the top 5 of the hottest 100. Almost there, 400 metre mark, it's time for Marco Polo ( hang on..aren't the Paraolympics, next week? ) and cane it real hard to the finishing line, touch the end of the pool, and spew - the snag, the keg and the breezer.
Now that would add some real entertainment to Beijing 2008.
And all the while..Nikki fucking Webster....the pre pubescent Nikki ....is swinging ABOVE the pool.
Austrayans all let us rejoice.
Whispering Jack use to wear one before he got old and fat for one more time. They always look to me like someone's skinned a horse or found a gigantic not to scale flake and ripped it's outer choc part to turn into a coat. I'd like to see the swimmers just wear their cossies in the opening ceremony and wear the drizabones in the pool. Imagine pulling the 1500m off in skinned horse? They'd be no talk of records...just survival. Kind of like the Duke of Edinburgh award where you have to tread water for an hour in a pair of trackies. And diving...diving is overrated. I don't see why the relays don't start with a bomb in the pool.
I think we need to introduce the aussie pool party into the Olympics.
Gotta start at the barbie chomping on a snag, turn up triple M, put some sunblock on, down a keg and then jump in the pool. swim half a lap, grab a pool pony at the 50 metre mark and get to the 100. At the 200 mark, pick up the 2 year old child at the bottom of the pool, perform CPR, and get them a gig on today/tonight at the same time. Hit 300 metres, and whinge that John Butler didn't make it into the top 5 of the hottest 100. Almost there, 400 metre mark, it's time for Marco Polo ( hang on..aren't the Paraolympics, next week? ) and cane it real hard to the finishing line, touch the end of the pool, and spew - the snag, the keg and the breezer.
Now that would add some real entertainment to Beijing 2008.
And all the while..Nikki fucking Webster....the pre pubescent Nikki ....is swinging ABOVE the pool.
Austrayans all let us rejoice.
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