"So you don't think your brain needs cleaning?
Looked behind your stove lately?
See all that food trapped behind it?
ITS LIKE THAT WITH YOUR BRAIN!
EWW!
Hi, I'm Flan, I'm here to tell you about our new special on brain cleaning!
20% OFF IF YOU DRILL YOUR OWN SKULL HOLE!"
Etc.
Yes, the above is not only a nonsensical rant but also a deep and meaningful illustration of how much I hate certain radio adverts. I have been listening to alot of radio at the moment, for 8 hours a day in fact, and the above is the transcription of a radio ad enticing you to get your teeth done (to read the orignial ad, just replace the word "brain" with "teeth"). It is voiced by a woman who sounds like she is just about to fall victim to an anxiety attack. Now I realise Radio is a very different creature to televison, which has it's own stupid advertisments, and radio ads must act in a different way to compensate for the lack of visuals, but this doesn't mean I cannot hate it when it is poured into my ear twelve times a day and then pervert it for my own amusement.
Like the ad which starts off "Wow, thats a flash looking eftpos terminal! Where did you get it?" and then proceeds to list the things that you need to find it. People just don't talk like this.
But I think they should.
INTRODUCING: TALK LIKE A RADIO ADVERT DAY!
The fun and easy way to scary the strangers you meet, today!
Senario: you are at a busstop. Start talking like a radio advert!
You: "Man, I really wish I had a flash industrial sized ice maker"
Stranger: "Who are you and why are you talking to me?"
You: "Really? You got an ice maker supreme for only $89.99 including GST?"
Stranger: "No, what the fuck? I didn't say..."
Y: "A special slushie attachment as well? I must get one! Can you give me a lift?"
S: "We're standing at a bus stop!"
Y: "Of course I want you to take me to Ice Shop Bussiness Suplier 199 Tinakori Road! Or you could take me to my house where we could shop online at dubdubdubdotICESUPREMEdotcom... together..."
At this point, I suspect that the stranger will either run away or tazer you. I take no responsibility for either or any other occurance which results in hilarious pain, but I would like you to email me with the results. If you are still able.
Anyway...
After you get used to the tedium of washing clothes for 8 hours a day at $12 an hour your mind starts doing some very strange things. One of those strange things are the figures of rapidly moving bodies I see out of the corner of my eyes. The other is a tendancy to talk, whisle and sing to myself. I walk through the store when I am bored either whisling "Time is on my side" to see who has seen the movie "Fallen" lately, or muttering under my breath about how I am a chicken. Sometimes I dance. But on the plus side, I have come up with a new idea for a song and for a short story! Huzzah! The creative channels are be comming unglued along with the rest of my sanity!
Me having to pack up my room and clean it ready to move without actually have a place to move to yet doesn't help matters. My last week in this flat is next week.
In other News: I have joined a dating website, cause nothing else is working. The coworker I like still makes the end of the day worth it, though. Lingering eye contact, a swift look over her shoulder... ahh, unrequieted love! Killer of many many theatrical figures.
"You will most probably die
at the hands of my arms
When I go and fly and take over your face
with the blades of my hatredcopter."
Monday, January 28, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
The birds and the Bees
At this time of year, with all the flowers growing and the sun shining and the lambs skipping and the skin burning and the release of Motheiths summer ale, people start getting together. I firmly beleiv that relationships move in seasons just like, well, the real seasons. The about four months ago, and for the duration of about two months, peoples blood starts fizzing around, and then they get their mack on. And about two weeks away from the end of winter, the dumpening happens. The true test of a relationship, I think, is getting through these seasons without being affected too much. For a single person like me, the test is observing these seasonal happenings and not getting depressed about those happenings not happening to you, unless you decide to be happening all by yourself, of course. HAPPENINGS.
Anyway, speaking of happenings, what with many of my friends being in relationships and terms like "marrage" being thrown around (admitedly, the only time such word was thrown around was just then, when I typed it, but still, if any of you guys do decide to tie the knot I am best man. If not, I get to be godfather for your helpless sprog. Cause if you don't do these things for me I will get drunk at your wedding, make an arse of myself and invite myself along to your honeymoon with a camcorder and a high speed wireless internet connection) yes, with the thoughts of marriage looming, I decided I had better give my readers "The Talk" before you get all suspisious about where all those little pink clones came from. You know the talk. The one your dad or mother gave you all those years ago.
In my case, my mother got a book out from the libary with diagrams and numbered parts.
In my dads case, he waited until I woke up one afternoon, made me a cup of coffee, and gave me a box of condoms. Both approches were valuable in their own way.
Some people call this talk "The Birds And The Bees".
I have often wondered about that. What do the birds have to do with putting the wee-wee in the hoo-hoo? And bees? What crackhead came up with this shit?
As it turns out, however, the birds and the bees are what we call a METAPHOR, which means to lie creatively so your eight year old son doesn't try it. But how is it a metaphor? Well, I have the truth from a very reliable source (I made it up with MY BRAINS) and shall now impart the truth to you with:
FLAN HYPERBOLE'S TRUTH EXTRAVAGANZA BEHIND THE BIRDS AND THE BEES: EXTRA SPECIAL TRUTHFUL ADDITION OF GREATNESS INSPIRED BY BOREDOM!
For a start, what are the birds, and what are the bees? Well, pretty obviously, birds are females, as this story was made in that time where women didn't have the rights they did today and slapping a man for calling you a bird would have gotten you thrown in the mental house or just a damn good rogering from your man, your master and social better. Also, birds have pretty feathers, which, just like womens clothing, they use to attract a mate. Their sounds have often been called attractive, but also damn annoying when they go on and on and on for no apparent reason in the early hours, the late hours and every damn middle hour. Birds also make eggs, just as human females do. Next time you eat a chicken egg, remember, your aren't eating a small chicken, you are eating chicken menstruation. For these reasons, Birds are Wommen in this story.
Bees, are therefore of course, men. They hang around in packs, have a pack mentality, make lound noises, dress the same (black and yellow for bees, jeans and t-shirts for human males), talk about the same things over and over again, are stupid and have a "stinger". The stinger is very importaint, for it is much of what the bees "buzz" about. So much so that many bees buzz that they wouldn't be bees at all without their stinger. Infact, that they would die without it. This too is very importaint in the story.
In the story, there are also flowers. Flowers are the child support services bacase they do nothing.
The story begings. It is of course a spring day, where, as we have noted previously, the warm air makes the birds sleek down their plumge and the bees stingers tingle. The bees have been with their bee friends all day, drinking necter.
A bee spies a bird across a crowded medow. Their gazes lock. It is love at first sight. They begin a complicated flight where both the bird and the bee try to get nearer each other while at the same time make no move to go closer to each other at all. To the bee and the bird this flight dance is incredibly confusing as neither knows if the other is actually dancing at all or meerly just flying around. To everyone else, however, it is blatantly obvious and they wish the bird and the bee would hurry up and bang so they don't have to hear about it.
Suddenly, either the bee or the bird makes a move. Either the other dancer flys away hurredly, or the two participants of this ritual meet in the middle of this medow which is hopefully a metaphor for a room and not an actual medow where anyone could see.
From now on it gets a bit mechanical. Coitus is on.
The Bees job is to inject his insides into the bird so that sometime later the bird will put forth new life. He does this by way of his stinger, which, after the bird and the bee have made themselves comfortable on a hopefully soundproofed branch somewhere, he pushes into the birds skin. However, because he is a bee as well as a man, his stinger is coated with poison and the resulting orgasmic "pleasure" at completing his act causes a full body spasm in which the bee shits out his internal organs and succumbs to the final sleep. The Bird, who I have often suspected gets the worse end of the deal in this encounter, at least when I am involved, is upset at the indignanty of having an organ pushed inside her, which, by the way, has been severed from the bee. The stinger is now the property of the bird, and by extension, the bird now owns the bee. A pity the bee is now dead. The chance to lament this situation does not last long, however, as the poison left by the bee from his stinger courses through the birds blood stream. The bird too succumbs to death and falls from the branch to rot on the ground.
Nine months later, the miricale of life is witnessed by the flowers who do nothing as about seventy maggots, the deformed ofspring of the unnatural union between bird and bee, explode from the corpse of their parent and begin, slowly, to devour it down to its bones. Soon, the maggots shall turn into flies, the pre-pubescant stage of the bee, and until they develop their stingers most of their time shall be spent eating, pooping and hanging upside down from things.
And the great cycle of life continues.
Wasn't that wonderful? Just think, when your parents told you this story, what they were really telling you was if you stick it in her, or let him stick it in you, you gonna die. As far as metaphors go, I think it is a pretty good one, and has the added bonus of being sickly.
But isn't that what sex is, anyway? I was thinking about it, as I do, and even though I bemoan the fact of its lack in my life, isn't sex gross? Your parents doing it. Eww. Your grand parents doing it. Ewwwww. Even that fat guy from school who used to breath with his mouth open and had bad hygine has probably paid for it by now. Ewwwwwwwwwww. I mean, I certainly wouldn't want to stick my junk, or anyone elses junk, in my mouth, and although it isn't essential to the maggot making process but many people do it. In fact, many things in the lead up to and during the creating life process are pretty gross, but as soon as someone else is doing them to you it all works differently.
But then again, like I say, it's been a while for me. I forget things. But I don't forget when you put something inside someone THEY OWN IT. Have fun fucking, fuckers.
In other news: I have been seeing a lot more people who aren't there. It be strange. Oh yes.
Anyway, speaking of happenings, what with many of my friends being in relationships and terms like "marrage" being thrown around (admitedly, the only time such word was thrown around was just then, when I typed it, but still, if any of you guys do decide to tie the knot I am best man. If not, I get to be godfather for your helpless sprog. Cause if you don't do these things for me I will get drunk at your wedding, make an arse of myself and invite myself along to your honeymoon with a camcorder and a high speed wireless internet connection) yes, with the thoughts of marriage looming, I decided I had better give my readers "The Talk" before you get all suspisious about where all those little pink clones came from. You know the talk. The one your dad or mother gave you all those years ago.
In my case, my mother got a book out from the libary with diagrams and numbered parts.
In my dads case, he waited until I woke up one afternoon, made me a cup of coffee, and gave me a box of condoms. Both approches were valuable in their own way.
Some people call this talk "The Birds And The Bees".
I have often wondered about that. What do the birds have to do with putting the wee-wee in the hoo-hoo? And bees? What crackhead came up with this shit?
As it turns out, however, the birds and the bees are what we call a METAPHOR, which means to lie creatively so your eight year old son doesn't try it. But how is it a metaphor? Well, I have the truth from a very reliable source (I made it up with MY BRAINS) and shall now impart the truth to you with:
FLAN HYPERBOLE'S TRUTH EXTRAVAGANZA BEHIND THE BIRDS AND THE BEES: EXTRA SPECIAL TRUTHFUL ADDITION OF GREATNESS INSPIRED BY BOREDOM!
For a start, what are the birds, and what are the bees? Well, pretty obviously, birds are females, as this story was made in that time where women didn't have the rights they did today and slapping a man for calling you a bird would have gotten you thrown in the mental house or just a damn good rogering from your man, your master and social better. Also, birds have pretty feathers, which, just like womens clothing, they use to attract a mate. Their sounds have often been called attractive, but also damn annoying when they go on and on and on for no apparent reason in the early hours, the late hours and every damn middle hour. Birds also make eggs, just as human females do. Next time you eat a chicken egg, remember, your aren't eating a small chicken, you are eating chicken menstruation. For these reasons, Birds are Wommen in this story.
Bees, are therefore of course, men. They hang around in packs, have a pack mentality, make lound noises, dress the same (black and yellow for bees, jeans and t-shirts for human males), talk about the same things over and over again, are stupid and have a "stinger". The stinger is very importaint, for it is much of what the bees "buzz" about. So much so that many bees buzz that they wouldn't be bees at all without their stinger. Infact, that they would die without it. This too is very importaint in the story.
In the story, there are also flowers. Flowers are the child support services bacase they do nothing.
The story begings. It is of course a spring day, where, as we have noted previously, the warm air makes the birds sleek down their plumge and the bees stingers tingle. The bees have been with their bee friends all day, drinking necter.
A bee spies a bird across a crowded medow. Their gazes lock. It is love at first sight. They begin a complicated flight where both the bird and the bee try to get nearer each other while at the same time make no move to go closer to each other at all. To the bee and the bird this flight dance is incredibly confusing as neither knows if the other is actually dancing at all or meerly just flying around. To everyone else, however, it is blatantly obvious and they wish the bird and the bee would hurry up and bang so they don't have to hear about it.
Suddenly, either the bee or the bird makes a move. Either the other dancer flys away hurredly, or the two participants of this ritual meet in the middle of this medow which is hopefully a metaphor for a room and not an actual medow where anyone could see.
From now on it gets a bit mechanical. Coitus is on.
The Bees job is to inject his insides into the bird so that sometime later the bird will put forth new life. He does this by way of his stinger, which, after the bird and the bee have made themselves comfortable on a hopefully soundproofed branch somewhere, he pushes into the birds skin. However, because he is a bee as well as a man, his stinger is coated with poison and the resulting orgasmic "pleasure" at completing his act causes a full body spasm in which the bee shits out his internal organs and succumbs to the final sleep. The Bird, who I have often suspected gets the worse end of the deal in this encounter, at least when I am involved, is upset at the indignanty of having an organ pushed inside her, which, by the way, has been severed from the bee. The stinger is now the property of the bird, and by extension, the bird now owns the bee. A pity the bee is now dead. The chance to lament this situation does not last long, however, as the poison left by the bee from his stinger courses through the birds blood stream. The bird too succumbs to death and falls from the branch to rot on the ground.
Nine months later, the miricale of life is witnessed by the flowers who do nothing as about seventy maggots, the deformed ofspring of the unnatural union between bird and bee, explode from the corpse of their parent and begin, slowly, to devour it down to its bones. Soon, the maggots shall turn into flies, the pre-pubescant stage of the bee, and until they develop their stingers most of their time shall be spent eating, pooping and hanging upside down from things.
And the great cycle of life continues.
Wasn't that wonderful? Just think, when your parents told you this story, what they were really telling you was if you stick it in her, or let him stick it in you, you gonna die. As far as metaphors go, I think it is a pretty good one, and has the added bonus of being sickly.
But isn't that what sex is, anyway? I was thinking about it, as I do, and even though I bemoan the fact of its lack in my life, isn't sex gross? Your parents doing it. Eww. Your grand parents doing it. Ewwwww. Even that fat guy from school who used to breath with his mouth open and had bad hygine has probably paid for it by now. Ewwwwwwwwwww. I mean, I certainly wouldn't want to stick my junk, or anyone elses junk, in my mouth, and although it isn't essential to the maggot making process but many people do it. In fact, many things in the lead up to and during the creating life process are pretty gross, but as soon as someone else is doing them to you it all works differently.
But then again, like I say, it's been a while for me. I forget things. But I don't forget when you put something inside someone THEY OWN IT. Have fun fucking, fuckers.
In other news: I have been seeing a lot more people who aren't there. It be strange. Oh yes.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
acid into, the total cows, yes?
Well, today should be a fun post. I am that stage of drunk where I can still type, but cannot remember my day nor be pissed off at anything. Ah, the powers of alcohol. Making angry people suitable for everyday life since a long time ago.
THis being said, it means I don't really have much to talk about, as being pissed off takes up about 80% of my time nowadays.
I could talk about women, but there is nothing new there. In my life, there aint none.
I could talk about money, but the situation there is much the same as above.
I could talk about emo poetry, but it's all the same eg: I slit my wrists FOR YOU!
And then they don't. Selfish buggers.
I think much of the problem with today is that there are too many people. If you are feeling like life is too much, well, life has had too much of you also. All that global warming, consumerism.... I mean, is there anything more worthy than ending it over a few degrees rise in temeperature that is trying desperately to keep in step with the price of oil. And don't forget that nobody loves you. It's not like there is another X billi0n people out there for you to get it on with you. You might as well hang yourself because one of them dumped you. I mean, what is the chance of finding your one and only amoung all those millions and billions of people? I don't think there could possibly be anyone out there with your exact taste in music.
Oh, it's fun cock-blocking your own excuses.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes...
At the moment I am drunk, eating cackers and pate in bed. Tomorow morning I am going to get the newspaper and go looking for flats AGAIN.
Oh, the joys of life. I remember typing something similar a number of years ago, where I beleive I compared looking for a new flat like eating corn, which is the natural habitat of azazel the angle of death, or something similar. I now have 17 days to find a flat and raise the money that I need to shift from flat to flat and it is... disparaging. Flat prices are on the rise. When I first moved into this flat I thought that $135 was alot to be paying per week for a room. But now, looking through the "To Let" pages and the rental property section of Trade Me I have found that you will be luckly to find a carpark in wellington for $135 a week. My god. I've slept in a carpark, and it just simply wasn't fun. The rabid rats nawing on your ears really make it hard to get comfortable. People say this is because the minimum wage has increased, and since employers have to pay their employees more they have to pass on that added cost to consumers and that pushes the price of EVERTHING up. At the moment I am on minimum wage, and everthing is just as expensive, comparatively, as it used to be. THe good news is that halfway through this year I willl be qualified to teach, which the minimum wage is about $700 a week after tax. The bad news is that until then, everything is going to be shittily, shit arse crap damn bloody soddomy difficult. Le Sigh.
In other news, YOU HAVE YOUR BLOG POST NOW STOP BUGGING ME i would like a pet aphid. Imagine all the things you coulf teach it to do. Like chew leaves.
I wonder if I could make money chewing leaves.
On the plus side, halfway through this year, I should be starting a teaching job which
THis being said, it means I don't really have much to talk about, as being pissed off takes up about 80% of my time nowadays.
I could talk about women, but there is nothing new there. In my life, there aint none.
I could talk about money, but the situation there is much the same as above.
I could talk about emo poetry, but it's all the same eg: I slit my wrists FOR YOU!
And then they don't. Selfish buggers.
I think much of the problem with today is that there are too many people. If you are feeling like life is too much, well, life has had too much of you also. All that global warming, consumerism.... I mean, is there anything more worthy than ending it over a few degrees rise in temeperature that is trying desperately to keep in step with the price of oil. And don't forget that nobody loves you. It's not like there is another X billi0n people out there for you to get it on with you. You might as well hang yourself because one of them dumped you. I mean, what is the chance of finding your one and only amoung all those millions and billions of people? I don't think there could possibly be anyone out there with your exact taste in music.
Oh, it's fun cock-blocking your own excuses.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes...
At the moment I am drunk, eating cackers and pate in bed. Tomorow morning I am going to get the newspaper and go looking for flats AGAIN.
Oh, the joys of life. I remember typing something similar a number of years ago, where I beleive I compared looking for a new flat like eating corn, which is the natural habitat of azazel the angle of death, or something similar. I now have 17 days to find a flat and raise the money that I need to shift from flat to flat and it is... disparaging. Flat prices are on the rise. When I first moved into this flat I thought that $135 was alot to be paying per week for a room. But now, looking through the "To Let" pages and the rental property section of Trade Me I have found that you will be luckly to find a carpark in wellington for $135 a week. My god. I've slept in a carpark, and it just simply wasn't fun. The rabid rats nawing on your ears really make it hard to get comfortable. People say this is because the minimum wage has increased, and since employers have to pay their employees more they have to pass on that added cost to consumers and that pushes the price of EVERTHING up. At the moment I am on minimum wage, and everthing is just as expensive, comparatively, as it used to be. THe good news is that halfway through this year I willl be qualified to teach, which the minimum wage is about $700 a week after tax. The bad news is that until then, everything is going to be shittily, shit arse crap damn bloody soddomy difficult. Le Sigh.
In other news, YOU HAVE YOUR BLOG POST NOW STOP BUGGING ME i would like a pet aphid. Imagine all the things you coulf teach it to do. Like chew leaves.
I wonder if I could make money chewing leaves.
On the plus side, halfway through this year, I should be starting a teaching job which
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
I hate it when saying you'll do something more often means that you actually have to do it.
I think, personally, making promises about things that you don't want to do shouldn't count. Like saying anything to a woman. Don't count.
Look, I haven't the horizontal tango with anybody for...what, two years now? It's not fair to be punished if I'm not doing anything to be punished for. And before you say anything, no, going to watch the pole show at mrs. palmers place ain't no substitute to tango.
Isn't metaphor fun?
Anyways, thought I might write something since I am up at an unreasonable hour, and something actually note worthy happened at work yesterday.
I was hanging about cursing because the laundry was a mess cause they had some sort of "differently abled" person doing the morning shift. This ment that all morning there was only four uniforms ticked of the list, one hundred uniforms being ready to be ticked off the list, coathangers on the floor and the cleaning hadn't been done. I don't know about you, but I can certainly sort uniforms at a rate greater than a peice per hour. Also, to make matters worse, the cd player had given up the ghost, I could only find "solid gold" or "the breeze" on the radio staions and the intercom system was being filled with the same four sickly sweet love songs that, after half an hour, make you feel that you have just been fucked in the ear by a throbbing, phallic sugar cube.
After about an hour, however, something wonderful happened. I smelt gas.
Now, as we all know, what I see, hear or smell, probably only has about a 40% chance of actually being there, just like the met service predictions. And just like the met sevice, the appiritions/predictions only happen if, figuratively speaking, there is a chance that the prediction might rain on the four loads of washing you put out that morning. But after ten minutes of inhaling the possibly phantom fumes, a coworker finnaly came in so I could ask them if they smelt anything. They said yes, so I turned off all the machines, and got the supervisor.
When I got back there, he couldn't smell anything, so I said, hey, come back in ten minutes, it might have something to do with the machines, so I turned them back on, and two minutes later I found myself drowsy and light headded. So yes, turn of machines, find supervisor, gas smell not there, I say I'm gonna sit down cause I'm woozy. He says he's gonna check out a few things.
Now, there are a few things in life that kinda annoy me. Many of them you have found for yourself by reading this page periodically. But allow me to add a couple more:
- not being taken seriously when I report a potentally serious situation. Wise cracks are not an appropriate way to deal with someone who says they've been gassed.
- Sitting in a smoko room for half an hour waiting for both my head to clear (I got a headache after the high-headdedness went away) and for any news eg: was it ok to go back to work? Was anyone being called about this?
- Having to go and find the supervisor after I got sick of waiting, and him telling me that "well, I couldn't smell anything". I told him I was going home. And I did.
You know what I like? Sitting being paid for that half hour in the smoko room. Oh, and entertaining the thought that the thorndon new world will explode. My favourite co-worker wasn't at work so I didn't really care what the hell happens to the place.
Since the smell went away when I turned off the machines I don't think it was actually gas, but one or two of the machines do use "wear goddam gloves when using this" chemicals, so, unfortunately, I don't think the place will actually explode.
Do you think that burning down your place of employment is the most common of employee dreams? I think there's a little arsonst in all of us.
In other news, I went and saw "I am Legend" at the movie theatre. It scared the poop out of me. I also saw the trailer for the new batman movie. That was good looking indeed.
Look, I haven't the horizontal tango with anybody for...what, two years now? It's not fair to be punished if I'm not doing anything to be punished for. And before you say anything, no, going to watch the pole show at mrs. palmers place ain't no substitute to tango.
Isn't metaphor fun?
Anyways, thought I might write something since I am up at an unreasonable hour, and something actually note worthy happened at work yesterday.
I was hanging about cursing because the laundry was a mess cause they had some sort of "differently abled" person doing the morning shift. This ment that all morning there was only four uniforms ticked of the list, one hundred uniforms being ready to be ticked off the list, coathangers on the floor and the cleaning hadn't been done. I don't know about you, but I can certainly sort uniforms at a rate greater than a peice per hour. Also, to make matters worse, the cd player had given up the ghost, I could only find "solid gold" or "the breeze" on the radio staions and the intercom system was being filled with the same four sickly sweet love songs that, after half an hour, make you feel that you have just been fucked in the ear by a throbbing, phallic sugar cube.
After about an hour, however, something wonderful happened. I smelt gas.
Now, as we all know, what I see, hear or smell, probably only has about a 40% chance of actually being there, just like the met service predictions. And just like the met sevice, the appiritions/predictions only happen if, figuratively speaking, there is a chance that the prediction might rain on the four loads of washing you put out that morning. But after ten minutes of inhaling the possibly phantom fumes, a coworker finnaly came in so I could ask them if they smelt anything. They said yes, so I turned off all the machines, and got the supervisor.
When I got back there, he couldn't smell anything, so I said, hey, come back in ten minutes, it might have something to do with the machines, so I turned them back on, and two minutes later I found myself drowsy and light headded. So yes, turn of machines, find supervisor, gas smell not there, I say I'm gonna sit down cause I'm woozy. He says he's gonna check out a few things.
Now, there are a few things in life that kinda annoy me. Many of them you have found for yourself by reading this page periodically. But allow me to add a couple more:
- not being taken seriously when I report a potentally serious situation. Wise cracks are not an appropriate way to deal with someone who says they've been gassed.
- Sitting in a smoko room for half an hour waiting for both my head to clear (I got a headache after the high-headdedness went away) and for any news eg: was it ok to go back to work? Was anyone being called about this?
- Having to go and find the supervisor after I got sick of waiting, and him telling me that "well, I couldn't smell anything". I told him I was going home. And I did.
You know what I like? Sitting being paid for that half hour in the smoko room. Oh, and entertaining the thought that the thorndon new world will explode. My favourite co-worker wasn't at work so I didn't really care what the hell happens to the place.
Since the smell went away when I turned off the machines I don't think it was actually gas, but one or two of the machines do use "wear goddam gloves when using this" chemicals, so, unfortunately, I don't think the place will actually explode.
Do you think that burning down your place of employment is the most common of employee dreams? I think there's a little arsonst in all of us.
In other news, I went and saw "I am Legend" at the movie theatre. It scared the poop out of me. I also saw the trailer for the new batman movie. That was good looking indeed.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Is it wrong that cliking my knuckles while half cut almost gives me an orgasm?
Yes. For the love of god, I hear you cry, yes it is.
So yes, tonight is another night of being suedo-drunk and reading web comics late into the night. I forget why I decided that after, what is it, four months now, it might be a good idea for me to start doing some blogging again, but hey, some of you asked for it. Now here it is. And just like the fairy tales of yore the thing that people think they actually want ends up biting them in the arse. And it ins'nt a normal bite, either. It's a "we've just crossed this bull-mastif with a shark so not only does it exert 20kg of pressure, but it also has three rows of teeth to do so with, some of which will remain lodged in your arse until surgeons come along and remove them with scalpels and, for some reason, a complete lack of anesthetic" kind of bite.
Click, click, click, ahh. It's better than sneezing.
So yes. My life. Most of the persons who read this actually already know about it, because working in a laundry for the daylight hours means that there is suddenly a lot of spare time in conversations to fill, but since part of the reason for this page, apart from making you allsquirm in anguish over my overly graphic descipctions of pain, is so that I have some record of my life that can be used to remind me of how things used to be after the booze-fuelled brain worms of ytinasni devour what little brain cells I have left. I am glad that I had the foresight to create myself a psudenom before I become a teacher, for I beleive that having my students find out about my drunken life might make them a little harder to control in the classroom. For some reason, even though many of new zealands youth cannot in fact put together a coherant sentence half the time, this does not stop them from dropping thinly veiled, and not so thinly veiled, hints about informant that they know, and they want you to know that they know, that you would rather all the other students in the class do not know. Like the fact that while teaching you were living with your parents. Anway...
My life at the moment:
Soon I shall be moving from my residence of the last year, into a flat with Calvin Shine, Hobbs and... the other guy whoose psudenom I have forgotten. Plays a mean elccletric guitar. It shall be a grand time, filled with fully clothed manifestations of testoserone practicing handstands and the art of week long binges. When I do get my teaching degree and teaching job halfway through this year, my salary will be able to accomidate a modest lifestyle of such activities and, hopefully, small things that will make my life more enjoyable, like furniture and a blender for magiritas and morning after vodka-with-fresh-fruit-drinks. Life, I beleive, will be good. Also, the absence of a certain petty as fuck flatmate with whom I have finally lost patience will also be a plus. She's a good girl, but as one of my friends remarked, in the case of flatting, we are like chalk and cheese. I prefer the anology that we are more like horisima and a certain weapon of mass destruction. Or is it wrong to compare the deaths of many and mutations of subsequent generations to my living situations? Ask my conscience. It was last seen in Hawaii.
I had a christmas with my family. That was nice. I received many books, and some bottles of grog, which shows that people know me, and a fair amount of chocolate, which shows that they do not. But you know christmas. Its the thought that counts. And apparently it is a social fo-pah to say: hey, thanks for the thought but did you know that chocolate is often too sweet for my tastes and makes me pee like a boozed fire engine. Then again, my gifts to people were really quite sub par, so I cannot complain. My new years resolution, apart from the one to stop drinking (I haven't been sober since christmas) is to save money when I start getting $700 a week and usesome of that money to get people I actually care about some nice, costly and thoughtful presents. I am of the opinion that the thoughtfulness might be harder to come by than the money, which, as my good friend pointed out to me, I have a good deal of trouble holding onto anyway.
Anyway anyway...
There is a girl at work I like. No one knows this, becase I haven't told anyone. Her name is Shanshan, but I have never greeted her by name, because I don'tknow if I would pronounce it correctly. But most of my day is spent looking forward to when she finishes work, half an hour before I do, and she gives me a radiant smile and I find my face contorting into that same unusual sape and we both kind of stammer out our hopes that each other have a good night and our wish to see each other the next night. It's not much of a conversation, I agree, and you would have thought that after years of life slowly but repeatedly hammering my soul into the calloused thing that it now is would possibly give me more conversational finess in such situations, but it doesn't. Although I tend to take my stammering embarassment as a sign of love at first sight, or something near it anyway. The same thing occurred when I met Satomi for the first time.
Gosh darn and emotions. These aren't even emotions based on anything, but they are the best i've had since my crush on the goth-y boarders coffee girl with pig tails, who seems to have dissapeared.
Is that all? Well, it is probably all you can be bothered reading at the moment. This has been a rather long post, and not all of it filled with side splitting hilarity. So I guess I should probably make it up to you with this famous joke:
Poo.
More next time. I promise it wont be as long comming as it has been previously.
So yes, tonight is another night of being suedo-drunk and reading web comics late into the night. I forget why I decided that after, what is it, four months now, it might be a good idea for me to start doing some blogging again, but hey, some of you asked for it. Now here it is. And just like the fairy tales of yore the thing that people think they actually want ends up biting them in the arse. And it ins'nt a normal bite, either. It's a "we've just crossed this bull-mastif with a shark so not only does it exert 20kg of pressure, but it also has three rows of teeth to do so with, some of which will remain lodged in your arse until surgeons come along and remove them with scalpels and, for some reason, a complete lack of anesthetic" kind of bite.
Click, click, click, ahh. It's better than sneezing.
So yes. My life. Most of the persons who read this actually already know about it, because working in a laundry for the daylight hours means that there is suddenly a lot of spare time in conversations to fill, but since part of the reason for this page, apart from making you allsquirm in anguish over my overly graphic descipctions of pain, is so that I have some record of my life that can be used to remind me of how things used to be after the booze-fuelled brain worms of ytinasni devour what little brain cells I have left. I am glad that I had the foresight to create myself a psudenom before I become a teacher, for I beleive that having my students find out about my drunken life might make them a little harder to control in the classroom. For some reason, even though many of new zealands youth cannot in fact put together a coherant sentence half the time, this does not stop them from dropping thinly veiled, and not so thinly veiled, hints about informant that they know, and they want you to know that they know, that you would rather all the other students in the class do not know. Like the fact that while teaching you were living with your parents. Anway...
My life at the moment:
Soon I shall be moving from my residence of the last year, into a flat with Calvin Shine, Hobbs and... the other guy whoose psudenom I have forgotten. Plays a mean elccletric guitar. It shall be a grand time, filled with fully clothed manifestations of testoserone practicing handstands and the art of week long binges. When I do get my teaching degree and teaching job halfway through this year, my salary will be able to accomidate a modest lifestyle of such activities and, hopefully, small things that will make my life more enjoyable, like furniture and a blender for magiritas and morning after vodka-with-fresh-fruit-drinks. Life, I beleive, will be good. Also, the absence of a certain petty as fuck flatmate with whom I have finally lost patience will also be a plus. She's a good girl, but as one of my friends remarked, in the case of flatting, we are like chalk and cheese. I prefer the anology that we are more like horisima and a certain weapon of mass destruction. Or is it wrong to compare the deaths of many and mutations of subsequent generations to my living situations? Ask my conscience. It was last seen in Hawaii.
I had a christmas with my family. That was nice. I received many books, and some bottles of grog, which shows that people know me, and a fair amount of chocolate, which shows that they do not. But you know christmas. Its the thought that counts. And apparently it is a social fo-pah to say: hey, thanks for the thought but did you know that chocolate is often too sweet for my tastes and makes me pee like a boozed fire engine. Then again, my gifts to people were really quite sub par, so I cannot complain. My new years resolution, apart from the one to stop drinking (I haven't been sober since christmas) is to save money when I start getting $700 a week and usesome of that money to get people I actually care about some nice, costly and thoughtful presents. I am of the opinion that the thoughtfulness might be harder to come by than the money, which, as my good friend pointed out to me, I have a good deal of trouble holding onto anyway.
Anyway anyway...
There is a girl at work I like. No one knows this, becase I haven't told anyone. Her name is Shanshan, but I have never greeted her by name, because I don'tknow if I would pronounce it correctly. But most of my day is spent looking forward to when she finishes work, half an hour before I do, and she gives me a radiant smile and I find my face contorting into that same unusual sape and we both kind of stammer out our hopes that each other have a good night and our wish to see each other the next night. It's not much of a conversation, I agree, and you would have thought that after years of life slowly but repeatedly hammering my soul into the calloused thing that it now is would possibly give me more conversational finess in such situations, but it doesn't. Although I tend to take my stammering embarassment as a sign of love at first sight, or something near it anyway. The same thing occurred when I met Satomi for the first time.
Gosh darn and emotions. These aren't even emotions based on anything, but they are the best i've had since my crush on the goth-y boarders coffee girl with pig tails, who seems to have dissapeared.
Is that all? Well, it is probably all you can be bothered reading at the moment. This has been a rather long post, and not all of it filled with side splitting hilarity. So I guess I should probably make it up to you with this famous joke:
Poo.
More next time. I promise it wont be as long comming as it has been previously.
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