Hilariarse fruit

I'll apologise for this up front. I know it's immature. I know.

Just remember, I laugh when someone says 'bum'. When Bloke is bored, he'll just whisper 'bum' in my ear in a Monty Python sort of voice and sit back and be entertained. When we went to see Ross Noble during the Fringe this year, I laughed so hard I nearly hyperventilated during a skit where a zoo monkey was bumming a bum-faced child in the face. "Bumming him in the face?" "Yes, he's bumming him in the face!" (repeat ad nauseam)

So, with that in mind, I give you The Bumberry:

And The Bumberry from another angle:

Who knew strawberries had dates?

~snicker~

I promise to write something more thought-provoking and grown-up in a day or two.

Someone must die

Just dandy for dunking piss-off biscuits

Would any court in the world convict me for killing those bastards who leave bits of instant coffee in the sugar?

I've thought about it and I really don't think so. After all, it looks like crumbs of mouse shite and no-one, no matter how much they like mouses, enjoys the thought of specks of rodent poop in their tea.

I really don't understand how it happens. Coffee will only stick to a wet spoon, therefore Someone is taking a wet spoon, dipping it in the coffee jar and then dipping it in the sugar and leaving behind little skidmarks of coffee. How does the spoon get wet in the first place? Is Someone licking it?

I hate the taste of coffee, so the thought of bits of it sullying my tea makes me feel rather... ill. And soiled. It's not as though this is a rare thing, either. It's happened in every office I've ever worked in. Sometimes, when the sugar was getting low at my first paper, there'd end up being more coffee in the jar than sugar and most of what sugar there was would be in wettish clumps.

That kitchen was pretty rank, though. A new HR person came in just after I left and declared war on the teaspoons. I think she tried washing them, bleaching them and irradiating them, but they were so encrusted with tannin, mank and pre-millennial milk that one day she went all OCD on the cutlery drawer and binned the lot. She was the same chick who used to blitzkrieg the fridge at 4pm every Friday afternoon. If your Tupperware was still in there, you could kiss its plasticky little arse goodbye.

But that wasn't really a surprise. I've always known that most HR people were useless wankers who didn't have enough to do with themselves.

Then, of course, there are the people who will napalm any person who uses their mug. I've seen a woman walk around a cube farm covering an entire floor, stop at every desk and ask the same question: "Have you seen my mug? It's bright red. You can't miss it. Are you sure you haven't seen it? It's red." The whole time, she was surreptitiously looking behind piles of paper and in filing trays, just in case her mug was there and the person was trying to keep it from her. Because of course, a mug just isn't the same after it's been used and abused by a random. It would have alien spit on it and have to be washed properly, using detergent and that yucky kitchen sponge that no-one ever rinses properly. You know the one - the one that smells like socks.

The kitchen commandments are relatively simple. I don't understand why no bastard seems able to stick to them.

1. Thou shalt supply thine own mug.
2. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's mug even if it is decorated with Gough Whitlam's Dismissal quote about no-one being able to save the Governor General.
3. Thou shalt not allow thy mug to grow furry and blue, yea but though shalt wash it after each and every use.
4. Thou shalt not besmirch the sugar with thy little crumbs of coffee, otherwise the wrath of the Lord of the Kitchen shall be visited upon thine head and thou shalt be forced to eat the sponge from the sink. Yes, the smelly one that no-one wisheth to touch.

So. Someone, are you listening? Yes, I'm talking to you. Stop leaving crumbs of coffee turd in the sugar or I shall smite thine arse into the middle of next week.

The home organ of doom

When you see two men carrying a Hammond home organ into the room, you know you're in trouble.

It's something like watching evil clowns pile out of a tiny car or suddenly noticing the milk you put in your coffee was two weeks out of date. My life started flashing in front of my eyes, reminding me of all the other bad Hammond experiences I've ever had. Like Anzac Day ~shudder~

The latest Hammond Incident was at an official sort of dinner I attended recently. The company was delightful, the food was tasty and the vino was abundant. But the entertainment. Oh Ford. The entertainment.

Why entertainment (and I use the term very loosely) was necessary was beyond me. It was a dinner with a guest speaker and a rubber chicken-clutching MC who rolled out every stale old joke under the sun. Luckily, he became funnier as my wine glass emptied.

The singer, on the other hand, was a horror. It was just like the Australian Idol auditions, except I couldn't change the channel when my ears started to bleed and Dicko wasn't there to tell her how irredeemably arse she was. Her mum was accompanying her on the Hammond and I think between them they might have found three true notes.

The lassy was a soprano and obviously everyone in her family was very proud of her. And very, very deaf. She sang a few churchy things and a song from a horrible musical that she'd been in with the local No-Talent Musical Society.

Then there was a singalong. The words were on the back of the menu.

There I sat, with a forced smile on my face that must have borne more than a passing resemblance to rigor mortis. The only thing I could do to defend myself was drink chardonnay. I hate chardonnay.

And the only thing worse than drinking the chardonnay was realising the bottle was finished BUT THE "MUSIC" WASN'T. I turned the bottle upside down hopefully, looking for a false bottom, but no dice.

In the end, I just hung on to the glass, hoping if I shielded it from the shock waves of sound, it wouldn't shatter and take out someone's eye.

Dicko, where were you when I needed you, you great Pommy git?

It's ali-i-i-ive!

After a few minor stuff-ups (you know, the unco sort of stuff I usually do, like accidentally deleting my profile, arsing up the new blog so I had to delete it and start again), we have book blog lift-off.

It's called the paper drunkards and the address is http://paperdrunkards.blogspot.com/

EDIT: There are now so many paper drunkards that every month is spoken for up to December 2009! To start on 2010 seems a tad OTT, so I think that's it for official team members. But if you'd still like to play, please read the books when you fancy them and join the discussion in the comments.

Calling all book nerds!

Hi, I'm redcap and I'm a book nerd.

(applause, supportive hugs, vodka shots, etc.)

So, who else among you is a book nerd? And who would like to be part of a bloggy book group?

Dunno about you, but I'm far too lazy to actually go to a book group and my house is way too messy to host one. BUT I love talking books with like-minded peeps. (ShadDUP! I've got an Honours Degree in English Lit and nothing to do with it, awroight?)

Soooo. One is proposing a new group blog. Whoever wishes to play will be included as a team member on said booky blog. One book a month, selected in turn by booky bloggy team members. The person who chooses the book writes a critique and all the other group members respond at their leisure in ze comments.

So, what say you, my loves?

(In strictly alphabetical order) actonb, Ariel, Audrey, Chesty, Eleanor, Gigglewick, Nai, killer rabbit, rosanna, sakura, thirdcat and phishez, I am looking at YOU.

But don't be offended if I haven't listed you - everyone is welcome and I was probabaly drunk when I wrote this.

So please, do flick us a comment and you can has booky blog cheezburger too! :)

EDIT: Can everyone who wants to play flick me an email at halfheartedhack@yahoo.com.au please? Apparently I have to email you to invite you to join.

When in doubt, whinge

Ah, whingeing. It makes people so eager to see you or call up for a chat. Practice the gentle art of the whine and you'll find it works a treat in getting rid of the bastards. Hey, presto: more time for reading.

I may have little to write about at the moment, but there are always things that are pissing me off. So here's the honour roll for this week:

Cirque du Soleil
I love circuses, especially the trapezy-acrobatty sort where eighteen people with inherently-amusing facial hair all pile onto a bicycle and then wobble around the ring looking pleased with themselves. What if one sneezed? Or farted? They'd all break up laughing and fall off. It would be nothing short of comedy gold. I'm a little ambiguous about clowns because of The Pilo Family Circus and the fact that some of them look more than a little like Mr Pervy, but I'm able to look past that for a good circus. Just not for those guys who tie balloon animals in the Mall.

(As an aside, can you imagine doing that for a living? Or wearing a soiled and mangy elephant suit like the guy who hands out balloons in the Central Market on Saturday mornings? Wouldn't you look at yourself in the mirror as you zipped the great big smiley head over your own somewhat less smiley head and wonder, "How has my life come to this? Where did it all go wrong? Should I have tried harder in trigonometry?" But one digresses.)

But I cannot and will not tolerate Cirque du Bollocks. Sure, the acrobatics are great and dang those six-year-olds they kidnapped from China and forced into cirque-du-slavery can spin a good plate, but they ruin the whole effect by being so arty-bloody-farty. The costumes look like something Auntie Jean made in her painting on nylon class when the cat knocked over all the paint pots on the Crows flag she was trying to paint to take to Showdown 816.

And don't get me started on the music. I have a suspicion Enya writes it under a nom de plume. Even she would be ashamed to put her real name to that goat-herding twaddle.

When I first saw Cirque du Merde on TV years ago, I oohed and aahed with everone else because it was different and new. But the next time I saw it, I couldn't help thinking, "What a load of old crap." Something that makes me hate Cirque du Shite even more is the fact that everyone else loves it. Its performances sell out. People are willing to pay ridiculous amounts for tickets. And why? Because they think they should. They think it's erudite and cool and fun. No-one admits to going to sleep during the performance because it's so perilously close to modern dance.

Cirque du Pants has been planted in the Parklands for about five or six weeks now, but I think they're due to roll up their over-engineered tents and push off in the next day or two. Bugger off and don't come back.

"Gift" shops
I just realised the other day that "gift" shops are packed with the most unmitigated load of crap known to Ford. There's one I walk past a few times a week and I'm so blinded by the riot of primary colour and shiny useless things inside that I'm never really sure what they sell. I have an impression of a crowd of malevolent glass elephants and papier mache cats and fake Carnevale masks that haven't ever seen Venice unless there's a town in Taiwan that was renamed for marketing purposes.

There's another particularly scary shop that has a rack of little-girl scarves out the front in various pastel shades of fake fur. At the bottom of each scarf is a mournful-looking teddy bear that seems to melt into the fabric. It's as though someone caught a teddy in the wild, skun it and spread it flat before turning it into a scarf.

They remind me of a fur stole my grandmother used to have. You know the sort - it had a head and paws and a little chain to link the front paws to the back paws so the poor dead little thing looked as though it had just jumped onto your neck and curled there out of love. Just in case you were ever tempted to think that just a teeny, weeny little fur coat might be OK, there was Stinky the Stone Marten peering back at you with his beady, glassy eyes, his nosehair-curling aroma of camphor and his little dead paws ~shudder~ Fur is never OK.

More digression. The point is, I don't really care if people want to have shops full of rubbish. I also don't care if other people want to buy said rubbish. It's no skin off my nose, after all. I also have a horrible feeling that my outlaws have a more than passing acquaintance with "gift" shops, given their past form.

What I really want to know is how such shops have come to be known as "gift" shops. Is it an acknowledgment that gift-giving is essentially useless? Or that no-one but my friend Stephanie puts in the effort to choose a really good present that's suited to its recipient? Call me picky and ungrateful, but my idea of a good present is not a pink rabbit-shaped letter rack. Nor is it a set of see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil walruses.

Anti-nose blowers
There are no two ways about it. My sinuses are a burden. They always have been and they always will be. Plus, no-one would call my nose small, so when I start unpacking my trunk (as a friend's husband used to say with unnecessarily malicious glee), it can be reasonably loud. When one of my nephews was small, he would actually burst into tears every time I blew my nose.

Today, I blew my nose in public. I had no choice: the Snot Fairy has come back for another visit, her fourth this year. Anyway, a woman who was standing about six feet away turned around and give me the most disgusted look, for all the world as though I'd just walked up and spat chewing tobacco on her shoes. And because I was so surprised, instead of saying, "Bugger off, you old trout! Would you prefer I snorted?" I actually apologised. For blowing my nose.

And no, I did not spray her.

Too-long trousers
Why are people walking around town with their trouser-hems in tatters? It's an epidemic, I tell you, mostly among the young. It doesn't seem to matter whether the wearers are male or female or whether they're wearing jeans, trackies, cargoes or suit pants. Some of these trousers look like the wearers have dangled their feet in a pond full of the little-known but ravenous polyester piranha.

The dark magic that is hemming has been lost. I think it's a sign of the impending fall of civilisation. Come on, loves! When you buy the pants, all you have to do is pay another $10 and someone will take them up for you. Go that extra yard and say no to looking like a dero.

Clothes shops putting out summer clothes in winter
Hello, retailer people? Listen to me for a minute. It's still cold. I don't want to try on little strappy dresses right now because I'll have to take off all six layers. I don't want to try on sandals because that would involve getting frost-bitten toes. Plus, I'm fat from too many winter stews and yummy, warming pasta dishes. Now I know this is a bit radical, but do you think you could bring out summer clothes just a little closer to summer?

On the bright side, though, sooner or later they'll lap themselves and we'll be able to buy winter 2010 clothes in winter 2009. We'll be able to be ahead of the fashion pack AND appropriately dressed for the season.

Mobile phone ring tones
I understand that these days, very few mobiles come with a ring tone that goes "bring bring". The last phone I had could tweet, neigh, miaow, play Peer Gynt, do a polka and let rip with atrocious thing called The Bells of Spring that made me want to stuff my ears with hamsters to block out the noise. But there was no "bring bring". So I understand why people download ring tones. In fact, I'm coveting my brother's Doctor Who ring tone even as we speak. Mmm, Christopher Eccleston and his great big bony nose...

But listen to me when I say that if you happen to be the person who sits a few cells away from me in the cube farm and who has the Adelaide Crows theme song for a ring tone, I am going to eviscerate you with a plastic teaspoon if you don't turn that thing down.

Whingers
Oh God, I hate whingers.