Thursday, July 28, 2011
I received a gem of an email earlier this week, just when I needed the laugh, so I thought I'd share it with you.
These questions were 'allegedly' (I don't believe everything in emails, except that if I don't forward Irish good luck messages to 342 people within 11 seconds, little Timmy will die of scurvy, I will get 158 years of bad luck and an angel won't get its wings. Or something like that.) posted on an Australian Tourism website by some fairly interesting (=ignorant) characters around the world.
Even less plausible is that the email claims the responses given were by the actual website operator. Doubtful. But a tiny part of me (the snarky part, okay so it's not tiny) would love to believe somebody had the balls for it. Whatever, bloody funny ayway.
Q: Does it ever get windy in Australia ? I have never seen it rain on TV, how do the plants grow? (UK ).
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.
Q: Will I be able to see kangaroos in the street? ( USA )
A: Depends how much you've been drinking.
Q:I want to walk from Perth to Sydney - can I follow the railroad tracks? ( Sweden )
A: Sure, it's only three thousand miles, take lots of water.
Q: Are there any ATMs (cash machines) in Australia ? Can you send me a list of them in Brisbane , Cairns , Townsville and Hervey Bay ? ( UK )
A: What did your last slave die of?
Q:Can you give me some information about hippo racing in Australia ? ( USA )
A: A-Fri-ca is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe .
Aus-tra-lia is that big island in the middle of the Pacific which does not
... Oh forget it. Sure, the hippo racing is every Tuesday night in Kings Cross. Come naked.
Q:Which direction is North in Australia ? (USA )
A: Face south and then turn 180 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.
Q: Can I bring cutlery into Australia ? ( UK )
A:Why? Just use your fingers like we do...
Q:Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? ( USA )
A: Aus-tri-a is that quaint little country bordering Ger-man-y, which is... Oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Kings Cross, straight after the hippo races. Come naked.
Q: Can I wear high heels in Australia ? ( UK )
A: You are a British politician, right?
Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go? ( USA )
A: Yes, but you'll have to learn it first
Q:Are there supermarkets in Sydney and is milk available all year round? ( Germany )
A: No, we are a peaceful civilization of vegan hunter/gatherers. Milk is illegal.
Q:I have developed a new product that is the fountain of youth. Can you tell me where I can sell it in Australia ? ( USA )
A: Anywhere significant numbers of Americans gather.
Q:Please send a list of all doctors in Australia who can dispense rattlesnake serum. ( USA )
A: Rattlesnakes live in A-me-ri-ca which is where YOU come from.
All Australian snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled and make good pets. (BWAHAHAHA)
Q:I have a question about a famous animal in Australia , but I forget its name. It's a kind of bear and lives in trees. ( USA )
A: It's called a Drop Bear. They are so called because they drop out of Gum trees and eat the brains of anyone walking underneath them.
You can scare them off by spraying yourself with human urine before you go out walking.
Reminder: Don't forget your pump bottle of piss today, everybody....
Friday, July 22, 2011
I'm not sure how it happened.
They didn't want to do it.
They were determined not to do it.
They had happy lives.
They'd done it before, twice, and it ended in tears.
They had no plans to do it now.
They even discussed never doing it again.
But they did it.
They got another dog.
Wasn't I enough for them? I got rid of the last smelly mutt and thought that was it. The days of "Good dog", "Fetch", "Want to go for a walk?" and "I just trod in dog shit" were supposed to be over. It was meant to be "Good boy, Jasper", "We love you, Jasper", "Eat as much as you want, Jasper" and "Certainly, you can claw my quilt cover to shreds, Jasper" from now on.
Look at me, I can lick my back paw while my front paw uses the cordless mouse and my eyes never leave the screen, can the dog do that, huh, huh?
Let's compare, shall we? Dogs are disgusting. They defecate everywhere with no thought of cleaning up after themselves. They roll in dirt and don't bother to wash. They drool on everything and don't carry any tissues. And, ugh, they sniff humans' crotches. If they were at all intelligent and knew where some of those crotches had been they would never put their snouts anywhere near them.
And me? I take care of my own toileting and cover it up in a gentlemanly fashion. Except for that time the idiot human housesitter accidentally locked me inside (before my mistress eventually formed a brain and put in a cat door) and I had no choice but to eject several litres of runny, smelly, faecal matter all over my brand new cat bed. I didn't like that bed anyway. Red isn't my colour.
And so what if I don't always clean my paws after I've spent five minutes scratching in the dirt to cover up my excrement? I leave the dirt on there to prove to the humans I have done my hygienic duty and now deserve food.
And so what if I bring an assortment of live, half-dead, and totally dead, beheaded and dismembered mice, rats and birds into the house? That's not disgusting, it's proof of my mad hunting skills to show the humans I am protecting their home from an invasion of unwanted creatures and now deserve food.
And so what if I don't know how to use the cat door properly? Just because I want the humans to hold or prop it open, doesn't mean I'm lazy, it just means I have no desire to continually butt my own head against a hard piece of plastic, unlike the new imbecile dog they brought home, who worked out how to use it within the first hour. It doesn't mean the dog is smarter, just more masochistic. And I deserve food.
Here is the new lamebrain. You can tell by just looking she's a total defect, can't you, huh, huh?
And while I'm on the new dog... one word. Retard. It has eaten my mistress' slippers, stolen her socks, urinated on her sofa, urinated on her, and humped her arm on a daily basis since it's arrival. My calculation is that if this keeps up, the savant will be on it's way to the sausage factory by the end of the month.
And yet, the humans seem unperturbed by all of this. Like they expect it. Indulge it, even. Only last night I overheard a conversation that ended in laughter. Laughter, I'm telling you.
Man : "Bella, get off....argh.... she's humping me again."
Mistress: "Oh well, it's your turn, she's humped me every night."
Girl: "I feel a bit pissed off that I'm the only one she hasn't used as a sex toy yet."
Boy: "Yeah, I laid on the lawn today and she thoroughly violated me."
I don't like it.
So for now I'm hiding out under the bed in the boy's room, biding my time, waiting for the halfwit canine to really stuff things up and book a one-way ticket to the vet for a quick green dream.
Hmm, think I need to relieve my bowels now.... wonder where the dog's bed is...?
Friday, July 15, 2011
Oh Rihanna, you have a lot to answer for. You and your weird wigs, chains and whips and sex in the air. It's your fault I had to tell my daughter what 'S & M' stands for.
Now, my daughter is 16 and not a particular Rihanna fan, she's more of a Muse, Foo Fighters and Green Day kinda girl who even likes my Simple Minds, The Cure, Radiohead and Birds of Tokyo CDs (thank you baby cheesus for giving me a rock chick and not a dance diva), she is not innocent as pure snow (we don't get snow in Adelaide), she watches True Blood and has therefore seen simulated sex acts, fellatio and horny fangbangers (but as of last week is still a virgin which she announced in front of our friends *cringe*) so when the Rihanna video came on TV I was a little taken aback when she turned to me and said,
'What does S & M actually stand for anyway?'
I thought of lying. 'Sunshine and Moonbeams' came to mind.
'Smiles and Memories.'
'Sausages and Mash.'
I'm not sure how I would have connected sausages and mash with having sex in the air but it would explain Rihanna loving the smell of it.
Anyway, I didn't lie. Whenever she's asked me a straight-out question, I've never lied. Except that time she asked why the Tooth Fairy hadn't visited and I went into a detailed bullshit story about lots of kids losing their teeth on the same night and demand being high and the Fairy's schedule being backed up, when in fact the Fairy had a few wines and went to bed with no thought of tooth collecting.
So I told her.
And then a strange thing happened. I found I couldn't speak in complete sentences. I kind of spat the words at her, sort of like a really twisted word association game.
And so on.
It was weird, as my 18 year old son was also in the room, smirking in the corner, shooting aliens and pretending he wasn't interested but absorbing every stilted, staccato word I spat out.
And you know what was weirder?
I realised my daughter had said 'Ahh, okay, I get it...' and wandered off after the first five or so words, no longer wanting to listen to her mother speaking of such things.
But I kept talking.
And now I have part of the song stuck in my head.
"I like it, like it, come on, come on..."
Which is ridiculous, let's face it, we're lucky to find the energy for a quick bounce these days, let alone worrying about getting tied up, having hot wax dripped on each other and attaching pegs to nipples. Knowing my luck I'd set fire to the bedroom, and not in a good way, and have to confront firemen looking like I'd had the washing hung from me.
Damn you Rihanna.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
The skeletal remains of an elderly Sydney woman were found in her home last week. She had died on her bed sometime in the last 8 years; that's the last time anyone can remember having contact with her. Her husband was long gone, she had no children, no family, no friends. Awful.
As I lay dying in my bed from Manflu last week, I got to thinking... would anyone miss me? Would anyone really notice if I quietly slipped away, lying here in my mound of quilts, used tissues, headache tablets, Country Home magazines, and vomit buckets, amidst wet patches of drool, snot and excrement? (okay, there was no excrement but I thought it sounded more dramatic)
I have two kids, so you'd think they'd notice. But they are teenagers, not noted for highly keen observation skills. They will stare into the fridge for a few seconds before announcing we have run out of yoghurt, despite six tubs staring them in the face. Or will wander around their room for a few minutes, tossing clothes and shoes aside, before announcing they have lost their wallet/purse/bus ticket/calculator/ipod/keys/wand(don't ask), despite me walking in there and being able to place my hand on the missing item within 17 seconds (my record is 2.5 seconds - would have been less but I tripped over a shoe on the way in). If I started to give off decomposition gases, I don't think they'd notice - you should smell their rooms. I guess eventually they would get sick of eating 2 minute noodles and come in to see if I would get up to cook something more substantial, like toasted sandwiches, and start weeping over my lifeless body. Or arguing over who gets my laptop.
I have a husband, but he was away. He knew I was sick and rang twice a day to check on me, and I would hope that if the son had answered every call and the Husband had not spoken to me at all, he would start to get suspicious by the third day. Maybe even worry a bit, and prompt the son to come in and poke me with a stick. After all, he'd need somebody to wash his shirts when he gets back from his trip, wouldn't he?
I have a best friend, but I only saw her and a few of our other friends the previous Saturday night, just as I was on the cusp of falling ill. I had a headache and razorblades in my throat at that stage, just the beginnings of a cold really, so they wouldn't have been expecting me to die any time soon. It would be another week or so before they missed me. Although, you'd think me leaving a birthday party (free food and booze) at 10.19 on a Saturday night, boobs covered up, still sober and walking upright, might be a sign that I was not quite myself.
I have parents, but I saw them the day after the birthday party when I huddled in the corner of their living room, sitting in the warmth of the sun streaming in the window, with a box of tissues on my lap, slipping in and out of the conversation (and probably consciousness). All I wanted to do was sleep, but I think I grunted and nodded in all the right places without offending them greatly, made a few sarcastic comments and rolled my eyes at appropriately timed moments. A normal visit, really.
I have siblings. Pffft.
I have That Fucking Cat. He would sit on my feet meowing, then start clawing me, trying to get me up to feed him. He would miss me for about one nanosecond, until someone else fed him and he would switch allegiance to their feet.
I have loads of other friends I see less often than my besties, so they would take a while to notice my absence. Although we do email reasonably regularly, so the lack of rude jokes, Maxine quotes and icanhascheezburger animal photos in their inboxes would be the first sign something was amiss. I did manage to flick off one email from my deathbed to organise a dinner in a few weeks time. That's if I'm still alive then.
I am such an erratic blogger and commenter that the blogging community would not miss me for ages. It's not unusual for me to not post anything for a few weeks, then do 3 in 8 days. And I'm so slack at commenting on others' blogs, it's more of a shock if you do see me, than if you don't.
I have Twitter 'friends', but I don't have a 'clique' I speak to every day who noticed my absence. That's okay, I was part of a real life clique once (maybe twice, okay, three times if you count high school, but let's concentrate on the last time about 12 years ago), and when someone gutsily informed me of this ("You lot are so cliquey") I skedaddled so fast out of that situation I caused a dust storm. I had no idea I was being an elitist snob, but once I stepped outside of the 'group' and made an effort to be friendly with everybody I could see how confining (and defining) it was, and how much other friendship I was missing out on. In fact, the dinner I have organised in a few weeks (again, assuming I'm still alive) would not be happening if I hadn't stepped outside that clique, as it is with a couple I immediately met on the exterior of that group and with whom I have maintained a solid friendship.
Anyway, I digress (blame the drugs)... I have missed people on Twitter before; I've been known to post caring tweets such as "Where the hell is @soandso?", "What in shit's name has happened to @whatshisface?" and "Are you fucking ignoring me @arsehat?" when tweeps have gone missing in action. Anyway, the lack of daily Cateisms on Twitter was eventually noticed, and to those of my 2,870 followers who sent messages looking for me, I hope you got my replies and I thank you. All five of you.
I have Facebook friends. But I'm so rarely on there nobody would notice my profile gathering cobwebs. In fact, some idiot would probably *like* it and put me in a group of "People Who Don't Update Often and May Therefore Be Dead".
I have neighbours. But I saw her a couple of weeks ago, it's Winter, so it wouldn't be unusual to go a few more weeks between sightings. They don't do their Sunday night Greek barbecues in Winter, so there's no need for me to hang over the fence hoping for leftovers to put in our toasted sandwiches.
I have extended, in-law family. But they would wait on news from the Husband before wondering if I was dead. And then use his time of grief and mourning and sorting out laptop arguments between the kids to come and steal Gran Green's chiffonier (which we just inherited after a 25 year wait... I don't mean we've waited that long for her to die, she was already dead, it has sat in the MIL's house and we've been told for 25 years that we'll 'be getting it one day'. I think she was waiting to see if our marriage would last)
Lance Armstrong might miss my stalking, err, I mean, scintillating conversation starters. The local courier would miss delivering all the stuff I order online. The lovely ladies at Dymocks would wonder why I hadn't entered their Friday Giveaway and the local bakery would probably go out of business. Okay, and the local boozery. Hey, it's near the bakery.
As a social experiment, my dying and not leaving the house or having much contact with the outside world has been interesting.
As a health and wellbeing experiment, it sucked hairy dogballs.
Oh, and the Husband is back from his trip... with Manflu.