Contentment Is The Fun-Killer...

Life has been so unbelievably boring since two of my best friends got boyfriends who treat them well.

That may sound cruel and slightly worrying to you but it wasn't until they met some boys who weren't social retards, raving emotional monsters or just plain old richard-heads that I realised exactly what percentage of our conversation time had been taken up discussing the latest transgressions, cries for dumpings to occur and general relationship faff.

But the thing is that all this lovey dovey contentedness has spilled over and affected other realms of conversation in unforeseen and annoying ways! One thing becomes 'good' and everything else is suddenly 'good' also!

Look I made you pie charts!

We have BEFORE*

And we have AFTER*


Verily there are other modes of conversation than getting really worked up about things and describing in exquisite detail exactly how you plan to kill everyone but seriously is that bitch who does the rosters any less of a bitch now that you are secure in the knowledge that your fella isn't out doing the dirty on you? I doubt it!
And if I sit there explaining in intricate detail the exciting backstabbing weirdo story of the week that has occurred at my workplace they react appropriately but it feels vaguely odd, like bitching to your Grandmother using hardcore swears and watching as she politely ignores the sassy language as any lady of a certain generation is wont to do...**

Even boring happily married friends natter about more, even if it is by way of what their lovely spouse did or what the lovely children did or what they're doing to their lovely house to make it more lovely...

I get the worrying feeling that they're all going to start talking about interior design and mortgages and the like and I'll be left sitting here with my comic book collection wondering when they all become so... parent-y...***

I'm glad they're happy, I approve of and like their fellas but I miss the intricately laid out plans for murder-death-killing...


*They get bigger if you click on them!

**Well not my Grandmother, my Grandmother's fun to bitch to, she suggests a smack upside the head for everyone! Equal opportunity flicks around the lughole!

***No I'm not sitting here with a twitching Peter Pan complex singing 'I don't want to grow up', I just don't want to grow... boring...

You Don't Know What They're Like...

Kangaroos.
Everyone thinks they're so damn cute with their little twitchy noses and their little pouches and every other damn thing.

Yeah well, tell that to my car!
Driving along, minding my own business, BAM!
No I didn't bloody hit the kangaroo!
I am not whining because it jumped out in front of me and I was unable to stop before impact, that's common enough and a risk we all take driving anywhere with a kangaroo population, I could have dealt with that.
I am whining because I had a kangaroo run full tilt into the side of my car!
Being hip-and-shouldered by a marsupial whilst driving - I mean who prepares for that?
There goes a huge wad of cash as the automotive industry breathes heavily and rubs a statue of the roo in a somewhat indecent manner.

It's hard enough keeping your eyes on the damn indecisive nancies that line the roads as you approach, twisting their toes in the dirt and shyly wondering whether they're going to bound in front of you, keep time alongside you or turn and head away back into the bush. They like to leave the decision until the last possible moment just so you can enjoy the spontaneity of their bound with them.

I mean yes I feel bad the damn fool animal probably hurt itself but those things are built like brick shithouses, they are taken at birth to a secret grove where cement is injected directly into their veins so even the smallest roo can completely total your vehicle.
That and the fact that even a moderately sized kangaroo could, if startled or all hopped up on sex hormones during that time of the year, kick your intestines out through the small of your back, has led most of us to have a healthy respect for the buggers.

Visitors to Australia are sometimes a little shocked that we're not more excited about kangaroos and get this terrible kicked puppy look in their eyes when we casually mention that the best place to spot roos is gently bloating along the side of the highway.
Or mention that roo meat is delicious...

And people who want to hug koalas?
Well you wouldn't want to hug them if you heard the noises those little buggers make, like an old man with a phlegmy chest perving on a catholic school girl, or saw what they could do with those adorable little clawed hands of theirs.

If you want to hear some interesting stories about possums, ask a New Zealander, as their country regards this member of our fluffy inhabitants as vermin who are actively destroying aspects of New Zealand's ecosystem. And you don't want the buggers in your roof!

Wombats? Never bothered me personally but if you hit one in your car it'd look like you lost a game of chicken with a solid iron ingot about the size of a dog and apparently they have been known to burrow under your house and do... things, and also knock over your bins.

Echidnas pretty much keep to themselves so are still considered cute but step on one...

Platypi* are even more reclusive so they're one of the more highly favoured Aussie animals and we don't even eat them...

Emus however, mighty tasty...
Look they're big stupid curious birds who will scare the shit out of you.
If you have a packet of hot chips on you and are unwise enough to wander out anywhere in emu territory you will find them converging on you through the long grass in a manner reminiscent of the raptors in Jurassic Park II.
Of course emus can't open doors but they'd have a spirited go at eating the doorknobs.

I don't know why we're supposed to feel any worse about having an emu burger than someone in the States or appropriate parts of Europe should feel about a big old deer steak but something about nomming down on the animals on our coat of arms really really seems to bug folk.
Yes, Skippy was a wonderful fanciful program and so on but so was Bambi and that hasn't stopped anyone...


*Yep, that's the plural.

Making Shopping Fun

I like to go to supermarkets and buy the most confusing assortment of odds and ends - light globes, mouthwash, copper wire, blu-tack etc - and then give the cashier shifty looks.
Whether they think I'm up to something devious, am some kind of mental MacGyver or just plain weird this is a great way to pass the time and worry people.

If they comment on the incongruous collection and try for the laugh, protocol dictates a 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' smile be given and the items be described as being for 'Home Improvement'* even if they are made up of snail pellets, bleach, a plunger, a rubber duck and a packet of straws.

At the very least it'll give the check-out chick or chap something to tell all their friends which much exaggerating of the craziness of your eyes, the condition of your teeth and the soullessness of your hellish voice.

At the next stage you can have a whole other level of fun when your local law enforcement turns up, scowling suspicously and inquiring as to your intentions, only to find you fresh-breathed, with newly globed light fittings, a snail-free garden, recently plunged toilet, soaking your whites in bleach, making little figurines of mousies with copper wire that you prop up with blu-tack, sipping a cool drink through one of your new straws and watching your rubber ducky bob around in the bathtub.
Their embarrassment will be almost as tangible as their mild concern as they back away from your crazy castle.
Afternoon well spent *dusts off hands*

Now if National Security forces get interested however...

[The following paragraph withheld in the interest of international security]

*Oh Sin City!

Biohazard: Maintain A Safe Distance...

First cold of the season.
Feverish, cranky, feels like flesh is crammed full of electrified cotton wool.

Big storm the other day.
No electricity.
Laying in dark feeling sorry for self.
Won't leave candle burning as keep having visions of burning to death, snot streaming from corpse as it plunges from the second storey window and face-plants in downstairs' herb garden.

Contemplating new career as country and blues singer with wonderful new woeful material.
Mull this idea over and decide leaving the candle burning would be preferable.

Electricity back on.
Light bad.
Milk in fridge gone wrong.
Return to blanket cocoon and reinforce protective minefield of tissues around bed.

Call work.
Don't want to go in.
They don't want me in either.
Germs go through workplace like the plague.
Stupid building-wide ventilation system, stupid non-opening windows.

Return to bed.
Glad nose all blocked up.
Bet bedroom smells like a giant's armpit.

Over-judicious application of medicated lozenges, skin scalding hot showers and hot lemon with honey.
Cats taking advantage of semi-comatose fever paralysis to use body as heated couch.
Too tired to protest.

Still not dead.
Still pretty gross.
Settle in to wait for immune system to resolve industrial dispute and fix this shit up.
Could be a while.