Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Guts, but still no glory

Ah, it must be spring. There are birds singing in the peppercorn tree, the days are getting longer and there are mouse guts on the back doormat.

I can't tell you how much I hate having mouse guts on the doormat, or anywhere else for that matter. When Mr Furpants was a wee pussyfluff, we thought he was going to be completely incompetent as a hunter. He had no tail control at all. We'd watch him stalking something and he'd get terribly excited, thrashing his tail around and scaring away his quarry. "Oh, thank Ford!" we thought happily. "He's not going to be bring us corpses." Pffft. Mr Furpants has grown into The Most Vicious Little Hunter in the Known Universe. Boba Fett, step aside.

I came home from the pub last night to find kitty engaged in the first mousercise of the spring. Mousercise is horrible. It involves much squeaking as the mouse is tossed into the air and caught again. Of course I feel guilty and awful and sorry for the mouse, but since I rescued one and it bit me, I've pretty much left 'em to their fate.

Yes, I was bitten by a mouse.

Puss was torturing the poor little critter, so I cuffed him around the ears and took it away. "Aww," I said, cupping it in two hands. "Look, it's all wet. And isn't it cute?" Ten seconds later, I felt little teeth chiselling into my palm, literally biting the hand that rescued it. "What? You little bastard!" I cried, shaking my hand to dislodge the mouse. It landed in the flower bed and looked a little dazed. To my shame, I said, "There, puss, eat that!" A friend pointed out I was obviously a long way from nirvana.

Even after being bit with one mouse, I still tried to rescue another one. Puss was scrounging about in the alyssum under the apple tree and the victim managed to escape onto the verandah. "Oh, poor little beastie," I thought, picking it up. Sadly, this mouse was just as dumb as the last one. It took a flying leap from my hands to make a run for it. Unfortunately, The Bloke had just bought a new piece of glass for the kitchen window and propped it against one of the verandah posts while he prepared the window frame. Puss was still hunting in the alyssum, but caught a glimpse of the mouse when it landed. Through the pane of glass. Naturally, he jumped straight through the glass, smashed it, snatched up the mouse and bolted, all without getting a scratch.

So, as un-Buddhist as it is, these days I leave the mice to their fates. I figure the third time I save one, it will probably manage to set fire to the house as it runs away. (Rats, of course, get to fend for themselves, because they carried the Black Death. Sorry, guys, but the sins of the fathers and all.)

So, Tuesday was the first mousercise of the season, but I didn't see what he did with the corpse. Tonight, when I opened the back door to call Mr Furpants, he was already sitting on the doormat. "Uh oh," I thought. "Bad sign." One night when I did that, he had a rat banged up against the door step and it tried to run inside to escape. Sure enough, there he was with the arse-end of a mouse. Including the tail. (He'd already eaten the rest.)

I'm torn between disgust and amazement at the way puss can deal with a mouse. He can literally eat everything but the guts and something that looks suspiciously like the liver. It's not like he's got a steak knife and an opposable thumb, here - all he has at his disposal is teeth and a set of claws that he likes to sharpen on Bloke's thongs. Repulsive, yet amazing. (The sharpening process and the mouse dissection.)

Bloke is, naturally, responsible for the removal of all corpses, or part thereof. He doesn't cook, so it's only fair. Imagine how double-plus-unpleased I was when he went overseas during the summer and Mr Furpants went a little feral and brought me eight rats in one week. After the second one, I lost the will to dig little graves for them and ended up by shrouding them in freezer bags and entombing them in the wheelie bin. Handy hint, by the way: you can put nearly anything in a bin (including prawn tails and crab shells) and it won't smell that bad, but throw in just one dead rat and all bets are off.

I probably should point out that our house and garden do not appear to be overrun with rodents. We don't have long grass in our yard, or chooks, or a state-sponsored mouse and rat breeding program. I have no idea where he gets them from, but I choose to blame the neighbours for having grubby yards and no mousers of their own.

But what I'd really like to know is, why can't Mr Furpants bring home chilled bottles of reisling and leave them on the door step? That would be much more civilised.

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Monday, September 25, 2006


I had thought of blogging the Brownlow red capet, but one of the first people I saw was Andrew McLeod's missus. Sorry, haven't a clue what her name is, but she must have realised she'd chosen a drab gown. "Hmm, what shall I do to brighten it up? I know! I'll play down my bony, bony spine and shoulder blades by glueing sequins to them! Brilliant!"

It's so classy, isn't it? One presumes that 23 might be the other half's on-field number, though I'm just taking a wild stab in the dark. Missus Andrew also seems to have chosen to accessorise with an albino panda arm piece in place of a handbag. I probably would have chosen a beaded clutch, but that's just me.

She said the stylist came up with the idea for the sequinned number "to have a bit of fun" with the outfit. Sweetie, when most people want to have a bit of fun with an evening gown, they wear groovy bling or cute shoes.

Anyway, after that, I lost a good deal of my will to live and had to mix myself a good, sturdy cocktail. Oh, the horror, the horror.


Saturday, September 23, 2006

Aisle go mad!

If they'd had supermarkets in 13th century Italy, I feel sure Dante would have used one as a model for one of the lower Circles of Hell. On my pet hate list, supermarket visits rank below John Howard, above pairing socks and roughly equal with de-turding the kitty litter tray.

I don't really mind a hit and run on the local, where you park out the front, dash in, buy chocolate and a magazine and leave three minutes later via the 10 items or less queue. It's the full scale, we're-out-of-everything-and-I-have-to-make-a-goddamned-list shopping trip that I really hate.

It has to be done, though. You just can't buy loo paper or Omo at the Central Market. And if I run out of the type of canned kitty fodder Mr Furpants likes, he turns our lives into a mewing, whining, ankle-clawing hell. So I go to the supermarket.

I interviewed a spritualist once who told me that one of the reasons people feel so grouchy and out of sorts in supermarkets is that you have to walk through the auras of so many other people. You know that nasty shudder you get sometimes when you pass someone? You've just walked through their aura and it was poo-brown. I don't belive in auras (though if I did, mine would obviously be gold with spangles, the shade reserved for crabby bitches). She did have a point: it's the other shoppers that make supermarkets truly nasty. I can cope better if there's hardly anyone there, but a packed Coles makes me want to peel off my own skin.

So, to make a supermarket visit complete, you need at least one of several types of shopper:

The Demon Child, who has a borderline personality disorder, is mainlining red food colouring and has the lungs of Luciano Pavarotti. This child will not be happy.

The Frazzled Parent of Demon Child, who appears not to notice the fact that their offspring's screeches have shattered jars of mayonnaise in aisle five. Invaribaly, the Frazzled Parent will suddenly lose his or her wick with a Godzilla-worthy roar while you have your back turned, scaring six months' growth out of you. For maximum points, this will happen when you are comparing the sugar content on different brands of cranberry juice. While wearing something white.

The Morbidly Obese Aisle Clogger should preferably riding a Gopher. He may appear to be slow-moving, but somehow he is still everywhere you turn, sitting in the middle of the aisle comparing brands of lard. If this person is next to you in the check-out queue or at the deli counter, he will fart and the result will be eyewatering. He will also be cunning enough to shift the blame by giving you a disgusted look.

The Tightarse is so enamoured of saving 20 cents on their total bill that they have to share the secret of their success and will offer you advice on cheaper versions of things you have in your trolley. "Those Savings meat pies are much cheaper, you know. They're all pies! Don't you want to save money?" Sure, but not if it means I have to eat a minced mouse and cockcroach crap pie. I prefer steak and mushroom.

The Dairy Cabinet Reunion. (Admittedly this is a group, but I'll count it as one, large, annoying shopper.) Supermarkets are for buying things and getting the hell out. They are not for chatting. Meet for a beer later if you like, or even have dinner, but for Ford's sake move your arses from in front of the damned milk!

The Squeezer, as the name implies, squeezes the bread, fondles the fruit and handles the pick'n'mix lollies. Closely related is The Sneezer, who coughs or sneezes on something you were thinking about buying. He or she may also sneeze wetly into a hand and then put it back on the trolley handle, causing you to examine your own trolley handle for bogies.

The Lost Boy is more tragic than annoying. It's clear that his partner has sent him out to buy a number of items which may or may not include tampons. He will be looking traumatised and talking urgenly into his mobile phone, saying things like, "Super or regular?" or "But there are fourteen types of butter! Which one do you want?" I stopped taking The Bloke shopping because he was prone to climbing onto the trolley and scooting down aisles. When people were looking.

There are probably others, but these seem to be the ones that piss me off on a regular basis. Anyway, now I've set the scene, I'll tell you about this morning's supermarket run. I was resigned to it, psyched up, but I never imaged the horror that was waiting for me: a check-out log jam of Biblical proportions.

What could have happened? Was everyone stocking up to ride out a nuclear winter? It's Christmas and I forgot? Had the government announced supermarkets were going to be abolished? No. It was far more banal: football. One of the hometown teams was playing in the national semi-finals and every bastard was getting the shopping done early to leave time to watch the game, drink beer and yell drunkely.

I have no use for Aussie rules at the best of times, apart from liking to ogle Matthew Primus' chest and arm muscles occasionally. (I'm only human, after all.) And no, I neither know nor care who won. But thanks for getting into the finals, boys. You really put the roasted vomit sprinkles on my crapcream sundae.

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Thursday, September 21, 2006

Leggings for the legless

I spent 10 minutes loitering in Rundle Mall at lunchtime today. I never fail to be bemused by watching my fellow humans.

For example, have you ever noticed that some days you see a lot of people with no legs? Obviously by "a lot", I mean "two or more", since most days you don't see anyone with no legs. Is the increase caused by one of those nasty diseases the cigarette packets keep banging on about? (Speaking of which, is it only me, or do the gangrenous toe and the cancerous mouth make other people feel ill? I'm not usually of such weak constitution, but I can't stand to have a pus-adorned ciggie box on the table at a cafe when I'm eating. And I don't even smoke! The clogged artery doesn't bother me, but the asthmatic child is my favourite - she just looks slightly tragic and consumptive a la Emily Dickinson. Actually, can't you see freaky little kids trading the packet tops like football cards? "I'll give you a festy toe for a manky mouth." "Nah, I've got four festy toes already. Don't you have a bloody eye?" But, yet again, I digress.)

Back on topic, what about guys wearing hair bands? I know it's a bit gender-Nazi, but that one bugs me. Today I saw a guy wearing a stretchy black hairband, similar to one I used to own in the late '80s. He was of beautifully exotic complexion and very nattily turned out in a suit, but there it was: a hairband holding back a luxuriant 'fro and ruining the whole effect. Metro really has gone too far. Please, Ford, don't let the boys start wearing Alice bands! I will not be able to cope. Watching cinch belts, leggings and bubble skirts come back into style has been traumatic enough. Next it will be fluro socks, Choose Life T-shirts, lace gloves and legwarmers. For boys.

Speaking of horror couture, there were, as always, fashion victims aplenty in the Mall today. More like fashion roadkill, really. I probably should preface this torrent of abuse by admitting that I have zero fashion sense and no idea of how to look edgy and cool. After all, I did get trapped in a dress not so long ago. I can match black with black, add some funky earrings and that's about as far as it goes. I really only like wearing jeans, boots of varying lengths and black stuff.

Anyway, despite me being a fashtard myself, I still have enough:
  • sense to know what not to wear (hopefully);
  • sense to know that frou frou always looks crap; and
  • arse to say that chicks who make questionable clothing choices deserve what what one of my mates refers to as a fashion crash tackle.

Don't like the look of that dress worn with jeans? Think a white balloon skirt with a heavy leather belt, knee-high fishnets and gold pumps is just a bit beyond the pale? Reckon those pink ugg boots look crap with a skimpy summer frock? Can't stand this whole trend for formal shorts? If you're still not sure what I'm talking about, visit the Fug Girls for some celebrity examples. If, on the other hand, you know exactly what I mean, see it every day and are duly horrified, then you too can be an honorary member of the Fashion STAR Force. It's great being a Fashion Starrie. You get a little silver star for your handbag and everything. Now you've got the badge, it's your duty to take out fashion offenders with a flying pounce, much like what Hobbes does to Calvin when he's not looking.

But sorry - you're not allowed to crash tackle the legless, even if they are male and wearing hair bands. Come on, it's just not nice.

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Monday, September 18, 2006

Value-priced, satisfaction guaranteed

Girls and boys, the Hack is deeply disturbed. Flipping through the TV guide the other day, as one does, I came across this:

It's A Faberge-inspired Tribute to a Departed Loved One. Have a click. You, too, can be horrified.

Apart from the fact that is clearly Egg Artistry Theft, it plays "Amazing Grace" and has a mawkish rhyme written on the front:

“If tears could build a stairway,
And memories a lane,
I’d walk right up to Heaven
And bring you home again.”

(It’s probably copyright to Bradford, so I’m acknowledging them. I don’t want to get into a war with these guys. They look scary.)

The Faberge-blah-blah-blah thing has a little diamante staircase that leads up to a kinda-diamante cross. It’s silver. It’s white. It’s One of The Tackiest Things the Hack Has Ever Seen (sorry Etiquette Grrls, but I’m borrowing your Insert Pained Look Here capitals).

The TV guide ad says,

“When our loved ones pass on, we know they await us in Paradise, but still miss their presence in our daily lives.” Huh? WTF? For people who live in Adelaide, Paradise is not that desirable a suburb. It’s waaaay too close to the Great Big Happy Clapper Church that spawned Guy Sebastian. But hang on, I see the attraction. If you buy this crappy egg thingy for the remarkable value of just $79.95, you too can make yourself miserable at any hour of the day by cranking it up to play "Amazing Grace". Aww. Isn't that masochistic?

But the arse musical egg wasn’t enough. I, too, am a masochist (but not quite enough to buy the stairway to heaven), so I visited to see what else they had.

Reader, I was speechless. Where should I start? The Minature Cottages (at just $119.97 per "sculpture")? Or the Peter Brock the Legend Express Train Set (a steal at only $139.95 per issue)? Or perhaps one of the So Truly Real Pets, like My Little Yorkie? There’s something for everyone here, and the horror just goes on and on. And on. I’m starting to feel like Kurtz at the end of The Heart of Darkness. (Or Apocalypse Now. Whatever floats your boat.) Sorry, My Little Yorkie completely blew my formatting, so you'll have to click for a look. He/she is "poseable", "remarkably lifelike" and comes with a 365 day money-back guarantee. Against what? Crapping on the carpet? Humping your mother-in-law’s leg? I’m not sure, but you can get all of this for just $199.95. People, it’s a stuffed dog. Can we please make some sort of link to reality?

What I’d really like to know is how Bradford Editions stays in business. Do that many people really want a Bill the Little Eel? Who, apart from looking distinctly "special", looks remarkably like Luke the Little Rabbitoh, but in a different jersey?

(That's Luke on the right, by the way.)

And what is the market like for a Footprints in the Sand pendant? The thong also tried to take over my whole blog, so once again, you'll have to click. It's so tasteful: a fake diamond-encrusted thong, engraved with the lovely little epithet: "When you have seen only one set of footprints is when I have carried you." Presumably, I carried you in my thongs, but don't let that ruin the romance.

Or what about a complete set of Spirit of the Butterfly Dance ornaments?

Those butterfly dance ornaments really bother me. Why would Native American girls be wearing Tiffany wings? Why?

It’s just all too sad. As one of my mates says to me at least once a day, “What’s wrong with people?”

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Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Frock horror

Today I became trapped in a dress and had to be cut out. With scissors.

I was wandering through Target (that’s pronounced Tarjaaay, dahling) when I saw this dinky summer frock. It was blue and white floral with no sleeves, a knee-length A-line skirt and a tricky little tie belt. In short, it was just as cute as a button. "Hmm," I thought craftily. "That doesn’t look like a cheap frock." So off I flitted to the fitting room.

There was no problem getting the dress on. The zip went up nicely. Once on, however, it did look rather like a cheap frock because it gaped unattractively around the neckline. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," I thought, trying to undo the zip. It jammed halfway. "Spiteful cheap frock!" I thought, yanking at the zip for a good minute before admitting that help was needed.

Mum was waiting outside, so I said, “Psst! Mum! I’m stuck!” She dragged at the zip for a while, but still no cigar. I tried to yank the dress over my head, but that wasn’t working either (boobs can be such a problem). Admitting defeat, I went to the fitting room lady and told her I had a zip problem. She came over and helpfully did it up for me.

“Nooo,” I whined. “It won’t go down. I’m trapped!” “In a Target frock!” I added in a silent wail. Not quite believing that anyone could be dumb enough to get stuck in a dress, she also dragged at the zip for a while. Ba-bow. She fetched another lassy who took her turn struggling with it. Meanwhile, I was wishing I’d shaved my underarms and was feeling like that jar of olives that everyone passes around at a party but no-one can open.

The two women went off to consult the manager about what to do with a customer stuck in a frock and one returned with a pair of scissors to “unpick” the zip. Predictably, this didn’t work, since scissors tend to be more suited to cutting. There was yet more consultation. Finally the first woman returned and said, “We’re just going to have to cut you out.” So she did.

Now let’s never speak of this regrettable incident again.

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Tuesday, September 05, 2006

The SBG name

On Saturdays, I like to play The Game. All my mates have already heard about The Game, but damn it, this is my hobbyhorse and I’m going to ride it until the wheels fall off. Or I get bored and start playing with my Barbie Campervan instead.

The Game involves looking through the birth notices in The Traumatiser for inappropriate baby names. When you find one, you yell it out to the nearest person (plus the spelling, because that’s often the best bit). If there’s no-one home, you text a mate so they too can be horrified.

You'll know an inappropriate baby name when you see one. It’s when people call their kids stuff like Amber Rain (how did no-one realise that was way too close to "Golden Shower"?) or Jaxxxson D. You can just imagine the weddings in about 25 years’ time: “Do you, Tulip Melodee Capri, take Diezel-Reef Rocky to be your lawful wedded husband?”

No. It’s just wrong and it has to stop.

When I was a kid, the worst thing that people could do was call their children Kylie or Darren. Now the possibilities are endless. “Hey, darl, let’s just make up some crap and call junior that! I know - Shanniyquw'aah would be really individual!” When kids were all called Jane or Robert, they made up rock’n’roll stage names like Pink and Eminem, but now what do they have? Sweet FA. These kids will be changing their names to Bill and Nancy to be different because their friends are all called Stelth Jet and Charlize-Trinity-Pi.

This phenomenon goes by many names, but my favourite is the one that a friend came up with: the shallow bush grave name. Giving a child a shallow bush grave name condemns him or her to a lifetime of socioeconomic disadvantage, at the very least; at the worst, it means an unmarked grave in a state forest.

When choosing a name for a new pet (yes, even goldfish), I like to use what I refer to as the doorstep test. Choose a name, then stand at the back door and yell it. Do you feel like a dick? If the answer is ‘yes’, choose another name for kitty. The same goes for kids. Come on, people, there’s no need for anyone to have a name that he or she will have to spell out every time they order a pizza FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES. Have some sense of mercy.

There are so many different levels of wrongness with the current trend in children’s names. The South Australian department of Hatch, Match and Despatch has helpfully collected all the names given to children over the past few years on their web site. I spent a little time the other day going through the 2005 list, looking for examples, and all of these names are fair dink. Have a look for yourself: I needed several large vodka, lime and sodas afterwards to calm my nerves, but if just one child can be saved the indignity of being called Tae'lah, it will have been worth it.

Initials (in disguise or not) are just cruel:
Ajay, Arjay, Ceejay, J, MC, Tjay, Lakaya-K.

Dogs' names are also out. What if he or she grows up to become Prime Minster?
Ace, Astro, Bud, Dash, Duke, Jet, Coco, Lulu, Terriah.

Making a name by taking something random and adding “lyn”, “len”, “din”, “den”, “don”, “son”or “syn” also doesn’t work:
Acelyn, Baylen, Caelyn, Rocklyn, Shayden, Trenden.

Some kids are doomed to be bullied because their names are just not appropriate for anything past 45BC (or is that BCE? not that I'm politically correct, of course):
Adonis, Caesar, Lancelot, Neptune, Oberon, Aphrodite, Delilah, Isis.
Then there’s Latrelle, which is obviously made-up and not from the age before time, but dooms the poor kid to Chinese burns in the schoolyard anyway because it's a little close to 'latrine'.

Just because famous people chose arsehat names for their kids, doesn’t mean you should too:
Brooklyn, Romeo, Talon, Apple, Cruz, Mackenzie, Tigerlilly.

Thou shalt not name thy children from The Lord of the Rings or any other fantasy adventures.
Aelfric, Balen, Eldan, Haydar, Merlin, Odhinn, Shandor, Theoden, Thorin, Avalon.

Putting two crap names together with a hyphen doesn’t make the final effect any better:
Alvin-Aram, Blaize-Aanton, Coda-Ryley, Max-Shingo, Charm-Sahara, Cherkira-Anne, Rumour-Lilly, Shania-Shanni.

No, no, and no!

But they’re trees, man! Trees!
Aspen, Cypress, Huon, Jarrah, Acacia, Cedar, Oaklane, Sequoia, Grevillea.

It might have sounded cool on TV, but it won't work at kindy:
Alfie, Bond, Jorell (wasn’t that Superman’s dad?), Maximus (yes, we all liked Gladiator and thought Russell Crowe looked hot in leather, but it’s time to get over it now), Neo, Ripley, Trinity, Wyloe (that's 'Willow' to people who can spell), Xena, Leia.

Naming your child after a singer or actor will not guarantee them stage success and they probably still won’t want to talk to you when you are 64:
Axel, Cobain, Diesel, Duran (!), Jaggar, Jethro, Ozzy, Presley, Delta, Dusty, Mariah, Missy, Santanah, Shaniah, Sharday, Sinead, Chevvy, Deniro, Denzel, Dustin, Errol, Keanu, Marlon, Phoenix, River, Cameron, Demi, Jada, Sienna, Tatum, Charlize.

Destined to become US soap opera characters:
Beacher, Bracken, Clay, Dace, Reef, Riven, Saxon, Ocean, Nova, Onyx, Paisley, Serenity, Storm.

These are nicknames, not proper names. Think about it, parents - if you don't have a 'full' name like Charles or Robert or James, what will you yell when you're angry because your kid has shaved the cat or voted Liberal?
Banjo, Rusty, Skip.

Naming your child after alcohol is inappropriate (and even worse if you can’t spell it):
Bintang, Cooper, Jayga (I'm taking bets that the middle name is Mysta), Semyon, Karona.

Bikers and molls:
Blade, Blayde, Blaed, Blaze and Blayze, please leave the room.

Geographical names will not make your child look cosmopolitan:
Boston, Brooklyn, Cairo, Dakota, Dallas, Indiana, Memphis, Utah, Bethlehem, Bonneyville, Calais, Chyna, Cierra, Daytona, Decoda, Denver, Devon (or could that be after the NSW version of fritz?), Havanah, Indianna, Jemaica, Karolina, London, Montana, Sahara, Savannah, Tarlee, Yarra (at least these two are Aussie, I guess), Tennessee, Vienna, Indiya, Kenya, Oceania (a city or a country not enough? Then why not go for a whole soccer region!)

Changing “er” for “ah” just makes the kid sound just a little “special”:
Connah, Tylah, Ambah, Summah, Taylah.

Pure trailer trash:
Jad, Jachlan, Jailin, Jaimon, Jarren, Jaxon, Jhyrelle, Jodon, Kheshawn, Lyjones, Neshaun, Raiden, Taiyne, Tallyn, Tjarell, Tyreese, Aneisha, Chenael, Chinae, Darillinna, Jaelah, Jakyrah, Jamelia, Jarnilla, Jaskan, Jenisa, Kimjoline, La-Shay, Laytish, Schenise, Starla.

In the ghetto (for a girl this should end in ‘sha’, but often starts with ‘Ch’ or ‘Sh’, ‘K’ or ‘La’):
Chaniqua, Dayischa, Kaleesha, Keenisha, Lakeisha, Letaiiya, Shakahna, Shakeita, Shaytana, Shontayah, Tallaylah, Ditanyia.

Stripper names (girls only): Angel, Electra, Destiny, Breeze, Cameo, Emerald, Fuscia, Ginger, Gypsy, Honey, Jazelle, Jewel, Khushi, Kiki, Kalypso, Misty, Necta, Sapphire, Star, Wynter, Jazz, Liberty, Rain, Lotus.

Random apostrophes = bad (see also Pure Trailer Trash and In the Ghetto):
John’Anton, A’Janae, Da’jah, E’Lyssia, T’Leeah, T’Kira, T’nesha, Tae’lah.

Crimes against spelling (or how to force your kid to spell out his or her name for the rest of his or her life):
Kacper, Kamran, Kyrahn, Naython, Raighne, Rhyeleigh, Jorja, Mackayla, Penellape, Porscha, Sermone, Melleny.

Come on, man, you just made that crap up!
Xayde, Xyen, Ved, Tyryn, Tahnyl, Quratulain (this may be foreign and therefore not strictly an SBG name, but nothing with a ‘rat’ in it can be good), Tjayanga, Brightlyn, Charmony, Dagny, Jaskan, Jezalia, Opriss, Tohlea.

“Darl, listen to this one! It sounds so classy!”
Ashanti, Caprice, Chanel, Chevelle, Chetine, Danique, Dior, Magenta, Mercedes, Ritz, Qamarah (no, babe, it doesn’t sounds like a sweet potato!)

Now banned from overuse (in all their spellings) and because I’m just bored with them:
Jessica, Jordan, Madison, Bailey, Lachlan, Jayden, Michaela, Nikita, Scarlett, Brianna.

WTF, man?
God-Li, Knowledge, Sheriff, Elordy.

I have no more words
Stelth, Tornado, Zenith, Zeplyn, Akaylah, Justus, Celtic, Axiom, Terra (Terror? Do you really want your daughter to be stopped at every airport in the western world?)

Some of the South Australians who named their kids in 2005 obviously got some ideas from this site. It’s great. Really.