F*ck you too, f*ck-sticks

So I’m having a little trouble finding motivation to work hard for the government this morning.

What an absolute disgrace.

So I’m going to really stick it to them by being diligently unproductive today.

I’ve gotten an extra shot in my gay soy lefty latte, so I’m set for a morning of re-arranging my in-trays, alphabetising my paperclips and spray-dusting my keybort.

That’ll really show ‘em.

This morning on my ride in to work I passed quite a number of comcars.

I found myself checking out all the passengers and realised that if I’d seen Ruddock’s car I probably wouldn’t have been able to stop myself from kicking his rearview mirror off, or punching in his window or something similarly unproductive and no doubt incarcerative (a real word, I promise).

Definition of a career-limiting move, no doubt.




Sigh.



There is no emoticon for the way I’m feeling.

Adult content

This is the packaging for a Cars movie-themed piece of merchandise they are flogging down at the local Big W.

"Racy fun"?! With a kids' toy?

If you say so...

Whilst I was there, I noted a contender for gayest DVD cover-art EVAH! (to the exclusion of actual, proper gay movies, mind you):

What is going on, hot, young Rob Lowe?

What does Patrick Swayze look so pleased about? Lurking there in the background...

I tell you, DVD technology aint all it cracked up to be.

Office disambiguation

Ah, the office sign.

The silent, anonymous mothering presence around the workplace.

Letting you know that you’ve over-stepped the bounds of a stranger’s idea of acceptable behaviour even before you’d even thought of doing so.

They can be a bit cryptic though can’t they? So what do they all really mean?

Let me help you out with some examples of some of the more common ones.

“Free to good home – please take”

When attached to foodstuffs in the kitchen/tea room normally means: “I tried this and it was disgusting. Please try it too, I certainly don’t want it. I can’t believe I wasted $X on this – serves me right for trying to brighten up my dull existence with a pointless consumer product, doesn’t it.”

I can tell you first-hand of the dangers of reading such a sign literally and failing to properly understand the secret warning it contains - I recently took one of these from the tea-room (to which was attached the above noted signage):

The sign don’t lie – that is some awful sh*t people.



Appearing on the inside of each of the 10 cubicles on this floor (that is some serious effort), this one means “I saw someone else’s poo once and almost died. So I now I feel quite comfortable imposing my germophobia onto everyone else by writing a preachy, condescending sign for each cubicle. I probably spray my disinfectant wipes with Glen-20 and have to touch the door-knob 17 times with my elbow each morning before I can let myself leave the house.”

The above also has another, doubly hidden message along the lines of “I’m a complete cretin because I like comic-sans”, but I wouldn’t expect you all to get that one straight off the bat.

Moving back to the kitchen - don't you just hate it when you can't work out what you want to do with your dirty dishes? Do you find yourself just standing around, dumb-struck and completely at a loss as to whether you want to wash your mug, or throw it violently at the nearest wall? Never fear! The anonymous nagger is here!

“You’re [sic] mother doesn’t work here – please do not place dirty dishes, cutlery, cups or glass on bench tops or in the sink. Put them in the dishwasher or simply wash and put them away”

You've probably worked it out for yourselves (now that I've given you all such a solid grounding in sign interpretation), but what the writer of this sign was really trying to say was: “I’m trying to hide my malevolent control-freakiness behind a thin veneer of humour. Whereas in reality, computers made my job redundant 5 years ago and now I have nothing useful to do except trawl the internet for 'cute' graphics of someone doing the washing-up for my poorly written signs.”

Whilst we're in the kitchen:

“Please cover your food when using the microwave.”

I actually quite like this one. It means “scientific studies have shown that nothing smells worse than 10-day old tuna mornay caked onto the microwave walls and reheated about 50 times. Also, despite what you may think, you are the only one in love with your own cooking – no one else wants to relive it every time the microwave is used.”

So there you go. All you people out there with interesting jobs - you are all now perfectly trained and ready to chuck in your current posting and enter into an office job without any fear of inadvertently failing to feel properly nagged and harangued.

Huzzah!

Really real reality

ZOMG!!! (or other, ironically chosen interwebs lingo, used in a “gosh darn, I’m so much cleverer than the kids” way)

They’re making a reality show about my old job!

Let me explain.

“Solitary” is a controversial show on Fox Reality that subjects participants to “intense tests and treatments”.

Solitary 2.0 subjects never meet or have interaction with any other human beings.

That’s spot-on – I only ever occasionally spoke with my ‘colleagues’, who were all complete martians anyway and would never classify as ‘humans’ in any proper scientific testing (not even at the Ponds Institute).

They will only know the voice of their omniscient friend Val. Their sarcastic taskmaster and worst nightmare, Val will again taunt the subject by ruling every action in their laboratory pods.

Well, they’ve obviously changed his name, but they’ve got the character of my old boss down perfectly.

The voice of Val controls all elements taking place in their pods including sleep, sound, temperature, and light.

It’s scaring me how accurate this is.

This reflects not just the crushing hours, but also the mind-blowing bureaucracy involved in getting the faulty air-conditioning or flickering lights fixed - three different forms, completed in triplicate, signed by three solicitors and a priest (but all on separate days and in separate cities), and submitted with a bond guaranteeing the cost of the call-out if it turns out the air-conditioning decides to work the day the repairman came.

They’re even stripped of their conventional names, which are replaced with numbers.

Right on the money again, Fox! I can’t tell you my number, but it, and not my name, featured on my work pass, computer log-in, and internal email address and people were routinely referred to by their rank (“I’m not doing this – I’m just a 3” etc).

The initial season of Solitary, which debuted June 5, 2006, received praise from viewers and critics alike, by pushing participants to their mental and physical limits with intense tests and treatments.

This show started about a week after I started my old job! Scary.

“Mental and physical limits” – they must be talking about that day, not long after I started, where I had to (literally) run between 5 different buildings, trying to broker an agreement between parties on the inclusion of a new comma in an 11-page document. Ah, public service - I really contributed to the progress of the nation that day.

So close are the details of the show to my life that I think the Fox lawyers were a bit worried that I’d open a can of opportunistic-lawsuit on their be-hinds. So it looks like they’ve changed a few details here and there, most notably how contestants leave the game.

No one is voted off, “the only way to lose is to quit”.

Of course, for me, quitting was the only way not to lose everything.

It’s your turn to shuffle, my turn to deal.

The machine reportedly used by the PM to reshuffle his ministry.

As you’ve no doubt heard, for the sole purpose of generating some work for the desperately sluggish parliamentary stationery sector, the PM has announced a swag of changes to his ministry. And, to prove himself the consummate bureaucrat, he’s gone ahead and renamed a few portfolios without actually changing the substance of his government’s underlying policy.

A bit like when Toyota tried to flog Commodores a few years back as rebadged “Lexcens”. Not fooling anyone.

For example, from the “if we don’t name it, it doesn’t exist” school of thinking, we now no longer have a federal portfolio which references multicultural affairs in its title.

“The existing Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs will become the Department of Immigration and Citizenship.”

Oh my.

It seems less care was taken in re-re-naming what was previously Environment Australia.

“The existing Department of the Environment and Heritage will become the Department of The Environment and Water Resources.”

So this new department will have the exact same acronym as the existing Department of Employment and Workplace Relations!

Silly, silly PM. Do you know how many mistyped emails will be sent? Hundreds! Think of the wasted key strokes. Won’t someone please think of the key strokes!

Also, I’d like to inquire as to precisely what is a ‘water resource’? I thought water was a resource itself?! Although, maybe this is to distinguish environmental flows and greedy cotton irrigation from other sorts of water use, such as water pistols, water bombs and of course, going to water. Ha ha.

And poor old Amanda Vanstone. 10 years of service, only to be dumped in such a way as to say "you make us unelectable" (and I note that there were no women appointed to the Cabinet or even the Ministry proper - Parly Secs don't count in my book - to replace her).

I have so many fond memories of her time as Education Minister in the mid-late ‘90s. She made great fodder for satirists and poxy-student-march slogans: ”one two three four, Mandy Vanstone hates the poor!”

I’d like to go on record here and put down my pick for the key appointment – the one that all the major newspapers will be leading with tomorrow. Yes, all those millions of Australians who rate the Arts as the issue most likely to affect their voting intentions will be thrilled to hear of the new Minister for Arts and Sport, Senator George Brandis.

"Enjoy the Arts or I’ll rip your head off."

We’re in safe hands there I think. Phew!

For all uber-nerds and second-year law students out there, it is interesting to note that Peter Reith lite Georgie started his time in the Senate as a state appointee replacing a retired Senator. Good to see the ol’ constitution getting a workout, I say. Too many sections go unused, like that “lighthouses, lightships, beacons and buoys” head of power. What a bludger of a head of power! I should get Today Tonight onto that.

Lastly, the showdown between Hockey and Gillard in workplace relations will certainly attract column inches. I’d like to get them both in a pit-fighting battle royale! Mexican wrestling masks for all! I’m sure there’s a reality TV show in that somewhere.

The problem for me is that whenever I hear “Joe Hockey”, I become uncontrollably nauseous.

Ahem. Let me explain (you might want to put down your snack/meal/protein shake before proceeding, mind you).

I once asked a friend who was working in Parliament House what it was like to be in the thick of Australia’s political jungle (and by that I meant during the 20 sitting weeks the plonkers are around for).

Not long after, the conversation turned to the facilities available to staff and she mentioned there was quite a nice gym and swimming pool, which staff could use any time they like.

Sounds a bit fancy, doesn’t it? That’s what I thought, and so I remarked that this sounded like a cosy deal. Her response:

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I was really enjoying the pool but then I saw Joe Hockey in speedos and I could never go back”.

I really hope she was able to access counselling for that.

Pop pap

S2bc is correct (free plug there for an excellent post) – Beyonce’s Irreplaceable is a bit spesh.

And I came to that conclusion without even having seen the film clip (the visuals being the normal extent of my interest in Beyonce)!

To the left
To the left
Everything you own in the box to the left
In the closet that's my stuff - Yes
If I bought it nigga please don't touch
And keep talking that mess, that's fine
But could you walk and talk at the same time

This all very sassy and how I like to imagine I would behave if I was a tall, taut and terrifically rich popular music mega-star who was breaking up with some ‘nigga’ (which I can totally see happening some time in the near future, so it is just as well I’m studying up on how best to do so).

So go ahead and get gone
And call up on that chick and see if she is home
Oops, I bet ya thought that I didn't know
What did you think I was putting you out for?
Cause you was untrue
Rolling her around in the car that I bought you
Baby you dropped them keys hurry up before your taxi leaves

In addition, this song is bound to be a contender for my mental list of “songs I would sing if I made it into the top 12 of Australian Idol” (yet another inevitability in my life that I am determined to be prepared for).

An excellent choice for either “R ‘n’ B” night or “Number Ones” (snigger) and destined to impress Marcia who is no doubt bestest crackpipe-buddies with Beyonce.

But listen Beyonce, if you’re happy enough to have your not-quite-husbang Jay-Z splash himself all over your latest album - just to ram home that you are both so wonderfully happy in pseudo-wedlock that you are creating beautiful music together - do you think songs about breaking up with yet another ‘nigga’ in a long line of replaceable floozies are going to be believable?

I need to be able to take my trash-pop seriously, you see, and you are making me feel awfully conflicted.



Hmmm, maybe not that conflicted, when I really think about it.

Summer evening snaps in the nash cap

It's stinking hot in your capital, there's no breeze and nuthin' on the telly.

Time to amuse oneself, while the light holds....

(You'll have to imagine the summery things that don't come through on the camera - cicadas and sticky knee pits)

Tobias samples some cherries

Best get started on that pile

Ghost cat!

Cheeky bastard.

But-ler (noun) – the chief male SERVANT of a household, usually in charge of serving food, the care of silverware, etc.

I don’t think there is any point looking forward to next week’s Australian Princess finale anymore – I think we can all exhale.

I’m pretty sure Paul Burrell is just going to go ahead and award himself the title and snatch the tiara away from Jackie O with his common little butler’s hands. None of our surgically enhanced lovelies are good enough for him it would seem – I guess that’s what comes of being so far up Princess Diana’s a*se that daylight is but a distant memory.

In fact I bet he's spewing that he doesn't even get a mention in The Queen.

What a seething heap of hysteria he is – veins popping on his forehead as [insert name of interchangeable contestant here] puts milk into the tea-cup before the tea.



I mean, sh*t! He’s right! That is much worse than the shocker hot-pink shirt and maroon tie combo he was sporting….. And it really puts Matthew Newton’s ‘things that batter’ in perspective. Or something.

They could easily rename this show “Grasping ex-butler’s quest to impose on otherwise easy going women an unending list of obscure, impossible to adhere to social rituals and useless, demeaning hierarchies with no relevance to real life”.

I’d still watch.

Mindless violence

Look at these idiots, brawling at the Australian Open. What a bunch of morons.

How stupid can you be?


I mean, everyone knows you can’t hurt anyone trying to kick them in thongs.

Anyone? No? Dussst.

I am simultaneously disgusted, delighted, horrified and perplexed by this:


This (if like me you had not seen it before), is ‘Sprayduster’, a product which made the rounds here at work recently.

It is full of compressed air which is sprayed, through the tubular attachment, onto one’s keyboard keybort to dislodge what collects between and beneath the keys.

I am:

Disgusted – because judging by the amount of crud dislodged from my keybort, I appear to have inherited it from someone with dandruff, eczema, flaky nails, hand tinea and leprosy.

I don’t think I’m a germ-a-phobe, but EWWWWW! Spray Duster dislodged what looked like at least 10 years worth of someone’s discarded epidermis, food crumbs, nose-pickings (probably) and god knows what else.

To think I have been touching this much crud!! And I use these fingers to continuously graze occasionally enjoy a workplace snack with! Blergh!

Delighted – because now I have a lovely (relatively) clean keybort on which to bang out my cutting-edge policy analysis and incisive and strongly supported advice.

Horrified – on behalf of you all that the public service agency I work for has chosen to spend your tax-dollars on this very embodiment of modern consumerist excess.

Perplexed – by the swirling ball of conflicting emotions I am experiencing.

As you can see, I am all at once very impressed by this product’s effectiveness and ingenuity, disgusted by what it reveals about the hygiene of my surrounds, uneasy about the excess it represents and resentful of the cold-burn it gave my hand (the can was ice-cold … ‘You’re as cooooold as ice!’ – there, some nice Foreigner for you all to get stuck in your heads, mwah-ah-ah).

And to think - I was worried I was losing the ability to write about the really important issues! As if!

Make mine a big, powerful MAN-LATTE!

As I was passing the local café on the way into work this morning, there was a table of about 5 guys (looked to me like IT contractors, or something like that - you know, polo shirts tucked into Lowes trousers).

Their coffees arrived (5 lattes) and one of them asked, in a rather shortish fashion, for more milk in one of them (it was about 40% froth, so that was fair enough).

Then, another one of them yells out "yeah, and can we get them in boys' cups - I'm not drinking out of this glass, it's for a girl".

Derisory, manly chuckles ensued.

I know - I almost vomited too. And I was still wearing my helmet, so that would have been messy and expensive.

Now, either these men were trying really hard to emulate the French and had decided to assign gender to inanimate objects or, more likely, they were more than a little bit conflicted.

"Let's all meet up for a big manly get together at a girly cafe where we'll talk in a manly and disparaging fashion about the girly drinks we've ordered! ORDERED I tells ya! ORDERED like man!"

I mean, if you are that worried about continuously acting out your masculinity, why would you go to a café and order a latte?!

If anything in that equation was ‘girly’ (by traditional, schoolyard paradigms), it is the latte, and not the vessel it is delivered in.

What chumps. On so many levels.

Complete brain organ failure - Australian Princess redux

You know on Australian Princess, they make the girls do chores such as ironing underwear, polishing silver and cleaning crockery – what on earth is the point of this?

What Princess is going to be polishing candlesticks? Exactly which part of Princessly life is this preparing them for?

If Paul Burrell told me to do that, I’d be like “no way b*tch/girlfriend/gay man! You’re the butler! Get scrubbing!”

But then again, the chances of me getting anywhere near that show…

Anyway, onto more serious analysis - how is Kylie Booby still in this show?!?! And did you know she is only 22? Looks about 35 to me. But I guess that’s what drinking bundy and cokes since you were 14 will do to you.

However, she did quite well on tonight's episode, impressing the judges by “arsing lots of questions” (lost her ‘k’ apparently) about poor-tray-cha at the UK’s National Portrait Gallery. So now you get points for admitting to not knowing anything? Ok. Fine.

And did I mention I like to watch this show in order to feel superior to the contestants?

Jackie O: What was it like to be that close to the Queen?
Stephanie: Breathtaking! I thought, like, my organs were going to fail or something.

The show is excrutiatingly slowly building towards the climax, the pairing of the eventual winner and a “real life prince”.

And you’d be knocked off your feet by the Prince chosen for this series – that is, if you’re the type of person who buys a $15 “genuine” Louis Vuitton handbag from Paddy’s Markets thinking they are getting an AMAZING deal on “real life” designer luggage.

“Prince Michael Sapieha’s lineage is one the oldest Royal bloodlines in Europe and were instrumental in shaping the Poland we know today.”

Could they be any more non-specific?

“Consequently, the Sapieha family were granted a principality, and therefore Prince Michael holds the royal title.”

Sounds a bit like a bought title to me.

Oh well, neither Kylie or Stephanie had any idea who Henry VIII was earlier in the show, so I suspect they are in no danger of being disappointed by this ‘Prince’.


Next week we get to meet some cut-price "real-life Princesses", including Princess Olga, correctly identified by Kylie as "sound[ing] like she's off Shrek or something."

Don't miss it!

Or, have a life and miss it.

See if I care.

Mmmm.....shiney

I don't know why I'm doing this, as it will probably interest no one but me (the very essence of blogging, no?).

But, holy brake-horsepower batman! There are some schweet, tastey morsels amongst the 2007 models announced recently by the major motorcycle manufacturers.

Prepare to be bored everyone!

Let's get things rolling with this delight from Ducati:


The new flagship 1098 replaces the older, less than popular 999. This tricolore model will only be shipped in limited numbers. But who cares! I still get to look at unlimited photos of it. I haven't dribbled this much since I first saw Madonna's Hung Up video clip.

Also from Bologna, the Ducati that I would probably buy if I sold my car, my wife's scooter and one kidney, the Monster S4R:


The 2007 Testastretta Monster will feature an engine which a few years ago was winning World Superbike races. Mental. And all for less $$ than a Corolla.

But unfulfilled motorcycle lust reaches its zenith with the MV Agusta F4 CC. With this limited edition MV have managed to improve on what was already considered to be the most beautiful motorcycle ever built.



Not that I expect anyone is still reading at this stage, but Kawasaki have updated the Z1000, the big brother to my current bike, the Z750. The original Z1000 was such a shock to the eyeballs, so new and daring, that this update is a bit of a disappointment. I reckon the big K could have just retired this current family of Zs and let it become a big fat cult classic.


Also, the release of new model instantly reduces the resale value of my bike - so BOOO!

So there you go, one totally self-indulgent motorcycle post. Please feel free to think less of me.

But, it's my blog and I'll bore you if I want to.

Some shapeless thoughts which have been accumulating in my mind over the holiday period like lint in an unpicked belly button:

• Just to show my paranoia never goes on holiday, everything’s out to get me, especially the weather – 7 days by the beach but only 3 good beach days, 2 of which were ruined by illness (yes, my only time off work since last Christmas and I instantly become sick, my body loves me). Furthermore, one night in a harbour-side 5-star hotel with sweeping city views and an easy walk to the Boy Charlton pool - persistent rain and a top of 13 degrees!

• Speaking of beach holidays, seems that the old ‘us and them’ tribalism of coastal communities is still going strong – where else could you get heckled by slags in bikinis whilst waiting for take-away fish and chips?

• I am calling for a royal commission to investigate why there is always, ALWAYS, some plonker on the Pacific Highway who drives 15km/h below the speed limit right up until an overtaking lane comes along, at which point BAM! they hit ludicrous-speed! Then, they slow right down again when the overtaking lane ends! I’d like to tie these people to a chair and slap them with a rubber thong until they provide an acceptable explanation for their idiocy.

• Horrified, perplexed, irritated, defeated – all words I can use to describe my feelings regarding those people at large family gatherings who do not lift a single finger to help in any way. Am I really related to these people? I almost threw a phone lost it on Christmas Day when clearing plates from the table – one guest simply held her plate up and pushed it towards me without pausing from her conversation or looking away from who she was talking to. Should have just dropped it in her lap.

• I hate summernats with a passion. I tried that whole “each to their own”, “let people just have fun” approach. I really did. I was even toying with the idea of not hating it at all and almost decided to tolerate the obnoxious noise that echoes throughout the night all over this part of Canberra - you know, share the earth and all that. But, there’s no escaping it – the only times I’ve felt threatened and have been on the receiving end of homophobic abuse in Canberra have been during summernats. We even copped it in the supermarket car-park at 9.30am on a Saturday morning, ferchrissake! The fact that the perpetrators are typically wearing car-themed merchandise and are hanging out of riced-up Pulsars and Subarus with interstate number plates is a bit of a giveaway that summernats is the only reason they are here. Get out of my town!

Alright! Environmental destruction, community disturbance and a whole weekend of verbal assualt on women! All officially sanctioned and partially funded by tax-payers! Australia rocks!

• It was very thoughtful of the gas company to send their bill to us so that it arrived one day after boxing day, and was due three days after new year’s day – nice to come home from interstate to an overdue bill.

• The soundtrack to Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette really is f*cking brilliant. Easily makes up for the Dunstardisation of that movie.
  

• If you haven’t already done so, you really should get into Ricky Gervais’ free Guardian podcasts. The LovelyWife and I nearly added to the holiday road toll super-carnage-fiesta listening to these on the road north – never mind microsleeps, driving and tears of laughter don’t mix so well.

• Hate to go all Column 8 on yo' asses, but today I saw Easter eggs at the supermarket. Kill me now!
  

'Tis the season!

Ah eczema Xmas.

You know, I don’t think there is a time of year more suited to me offending people.

For instance, I really don’t like fruit cake. Can’t stand it actually. Think I’d prefer to drink a salmon milkshake. This is really handy for when workmates, family members or your partner lovingly prepare a Christmas pudding or fruit cake, only for you to turn them down. So many crestfallen faces.

I also don’t like fruit mince pies. These can take a lot of more effort and care to make than some Christmas puddings, so I get to cause extra offence when turning these down. Same goes for rum balls, rocky road and white Christmas – blergh!

Pointless gift buying – another favourite hate of mine. I’m always guaranteed to bang on about the pointlessness of so many of the gifts we buy when in the company of someone who has gone out of their way to get me something pointless and disposable.

Another traditional Christmas activity - spending too much time in the company of family members - really doesn’t do much for me either. Countless opportunities there to put peoples’ noses out of joint by steadfastly refusing to attend every single family gathering organised between Christmas and new year: “what do you mean you’d prefer to go to the beach rather than driving for 45 minutes to your 2nd cousin’s place to watch them open their presents?! Are you mad?”

And let’s not forget the huge potential to step on any religious toes left lying about the place when I pipe up with my predictable atheist grumblings.

And it doesn't even end there - I am not a big fan of New Year's Eve celebrations either. So, on the off chance that by the time 31 December rolls around I am yet to offend everyone I know, I then have the chance to be an utter killjoy and spout off something offensive about New Year's Eve being a meaningless, pack-driven activity. I've found that people who have been looking forward to this party event for the whole year really appreciate my negativity. Who'd have thought.

So yes, this time of year really is a gold mine.

I reckon just as most businesses do 40% of their trading during the Christmas period, I am likely to fulfill at least that proportion of my annual offence-causing quota during this time.

Itchy Merry eczema Xmas everybody!

My work choices

Warning! Warning! Dangerously long and auto-biographical blog post! Contains very little popular culture commentary!

So for various reasons (mostly the ‘wanting to keep my job’ reason) I’ve not always written about what I do for a living.

The odd snippet here and there has probably let the cardigan-wearing, morning-tea-trolley-pushing cat out of the bag and anyone who is interested has probably picked up that I am a public servant ................. (I’ve left that space there for your gasps of awe).

So anyway, about 6 months ago, convinced that it would be “good for my career” I moved to a particularly dark, manky and ‘orrible corner of the public service world where the hours were frightful, the atmosphere soul-destroying and the issues eye-gouging-out-with-a-teaspoon-ly boring.

In this dark pit, anyone who maintained a cheery outlook, interacted socially with their work-mates or displayed a eagerness to ‘balance’ work with home-life (and by ‘balance’ I mean going home occasionally during the week) were taken to an unmarked room in the basement fitted out with flickery fluro lights and unusual stains on the walls, never to be seen again.

The doors to the outside world were guarded by deeply psychopathic orcs and when/if you left at the end of the day they would pass you a rusty blade with which to peel off just a tiny bit of your soul to throw into the flaming 40-gallon drums which marked the ceremonial entrance to the building. Not that I want to be melodramatic, at all. Oh no, not me. This is EXACTLY how it was.

I haven’t relayed any of this before partly because the place had the world’s most oppressive security and I was (probably quite rightly) immensely paranoid about publishing anything to do with the place. Also, not long after starting there I think my body/mind went into survival mode, dedicating all mental/emotional energy to staying sane, leaving little left over for creative whinging blogging.

But anyway, those around me probably noticed me nose-diving quite quickly into a state of mind that could probably be most hysterically, nicely described as “hopelessly oppressed and listless”.

Having a strong conviction these days to put the skids real early on anything resembling a destructive state of mind, I’ve exited the joint (after a long period of “oh, you’re leaving us” purgatory, in which each and every crappy task was dumped on my desk – thanks very much, bastards).

I am now basking in the sunny, rainbow and kitten-filled delights of a cruisey, happy-go-lucky no-responsibility role in what I consider to be the most interesting portfolio in the federal public service (I don’t think I want to be more specific than that, right now but I will say that I am enjoying being forced to read Variety magazine for work – nyah nyah).

Pictorial representation of my current state of mind

This new outlook on life means I feel slightly more comfortable about sharing some of the highlights of “the other place”, as I refer to it in conversation (even saying its name out loud still sends me into a cold shiver, my body jerking with nervous tics and a Tourette’s like proliferation of swears - quite humourous, if you enjoy visual comedy).

So, for the purposes of creating a “bumper holiday edition” of comicstriphero, here are some highlights, just for the galling entertainment value. I hope you all enjoy my pain. No doubt there’ll be more as I become more comfortable confronting my ‘issews’ and feeling the power within blah blah courage blah blah, wind beneath my wings, etc.

An Australian icon

All staff at ‘the other place’ were, of course (being good little non-unAustralians) all completely bereft upon hearing of the death of the late Mr Steve Irwin. Tears flowed! Chests were beaten in rage against the cruelty of the universe! Emotional email tributes abounded! And, in a massive, massive break-out of gay-abandon, people were actually turning away from their computers and talking to each other about non-work-related matters!

It was about this time that I came to realise that I felt very different to my workmates - lesbian hair-cut and facial piercings aside. In fact, I started to suspect that I had somehow missed out on the special get your personality removed with a special syringe new-starters’ induction session that everybody else appeared to have attended.

Forthwith, the following exchange regarding the heroic Mr Irwin:

Me: Gee, that stingray must have been pretty clever, aiming for his heart and everything. Eh?! Eh?! *wink wink*

(I know, not the funniest line in the world but at least I was trying)

Some guy: No. It doesn’t work like that. The stingray’s barb is only ever employed as an involuntary reflex in response to danger and it was pure chance that it hit Steve Irwin in the heart.

Me: (absolutely crushed) Um, yeah. Ok. That was actually supposed to be a facetious remark.

Some guy: (after staring at me blankly for at least 5 seconds) I don’t think you understand – the sting-ray doesn’t aim its barb…

Me: ‘Facetious’ meaning satirical or deliberately light-hearted.

Some guy: …in fact it has been scientifically proven that the barb is deployed in a matter of milliseconds so the key factors in this scenario would have been Steve’s location, the angle the ray was swimming along…

Guh.

Shot through the heart – and you’re to blame

After this, I decided not to raise the topic ever, ever again. It was about this point in time I received an iPod for my birthday (thanks LovelyWife!) and I proceeded to glue the earbuds into my skull to try and avoid the temptation of attempting to interact on such issues in the future.

As you will see, it didn’t work for long…

Oh the humanity!

On the rare occasions that my colleagues could break themselves away from their engaging and long running series of discussions (yes, it was a series) on the complex issues arising from the application of market-based principles to regulatory impact assessments (this was their social interaction mind you, and not directly related to their work), they would choose to lighten the load by discussing such frivolous and hearty topics as…wait for it…the most efficient form of mass transit for moving large numbers of people AND freight at the same time.

I know! What a party! Woo.

Pointy-head #1: No matter how much you try you’ll never convince me that heavy rail is flexible enough to accommodate the rapidly changing demographics of post-industrial civilisations.

Pointy-head #2: But you continue to ignore the important role of existing infrastructure.

Pointy-head #1: That’s not an acceptable argument. We’re working in hypothetical mode here.

Pointy-head #2: Well anyway, in terms of energy-expended per kilometre travelled, the Zeppelin is actually the most efficient means of transporting people and freight at the same time.

Pointy-head #1: Yeah, ok, that might be the case, but the ratio of fuel-storage requirements to actual storage capacity is sub-optimal. For it to be able to travel long distances, a Zeppelin needs to carry much more fuel per unit of weight transported than any other example you’ve come up with.

Pointy-head #2: Ah-hah! You see, it burns its fuel so slowly, that this is not really an issue. It can actually get away with carrying a lot less fuel in total than any comparable transportation vehicle over the same distance.

Me: (making a desperate attempt to interact socially with someone, anyone) Well, it would have to carry a light load, wouldn’t it? I mean, it has to float, right? Plus, wouldn’t a Zeppelin be light on fuel because it is so bloody slow? Thereby negating any advantages derived from its supposed efficiency?

At its top-speed I reckon I could walk along behind one poking it with a long, energy-efficient stick to help double its normal speed. Meanwhile, my mates on a train have alighted at their destination and delivered their packages.

(Long silence)

Pointy-head #2: (turning away in disgust) Look, there’s no need to be rude.

(Insert sound of me slowly dying inside)

comicstriphero was surprised by the ferocity with which her will to live burned

Try not to breathe

I knew for sure I was living and working amongst aliens (and not amusing aliens such as ALF or Dr Zoidberg) when it became apparent that no one in the office shared my puerile and juvenile sense of humour (I know! Very hard to believe).

I tried (honest I did) to sit through a meeting about bottom trawling without giggling like an idiot. But then my mind, being ever so cruel, had me imagining Rick from the Young Ones saying ‘bottom trawling’ and I just about lost it.

Until I realised that everyone else in the room was absolutely stoney-faced and unmoved.

I’d fancy some bottom trawling with Felicity Kendall … oo-er!

I mean, come on people! Bottom-trawling! That’s a-grade humour right there!

Sigh.

This scene was repeated not long after during a meeting in which frequent reference was made to a map showing an “East Intercourse Island”.

I sh*t you not:


At that point I was going to interject and suggest that what we really needed to talk about was why anyone, anywhere, at any time would think that this was a good name for an island and perhaps there were some doings-a-transpirin’ ashore this strange isle. I was also going to suggest a site visit was in order.

But again, not even the tiniest twitch of a smile on the faces of my ‘colleagues’.

So, clearly, this place was a humanitarian disaster (I’m really failing at this whole ‘try not to be melodramatic’ thing). If this were the ‘80s, I’m sure it would qualify as telethon material – Daryl Somers and Ray Martin could team up to raise the $249,682 needed to fund urgently needed personality transplants for these poor, suffering public servants.

I'm going to open up a can of telethon on yo' ass

Good news for those of you who have made it all the way through this post – I’m currently undergoing some repressed memory therapy and hope to be in a position to bleat hysterically relay more of my exciting adventures shortly!

And you thought Christmas was exciting! What a thrilling Australian Idol journey you are joining me on!

He's gone for it

Can you believe it. The third test isn’t even over yet and they’re flogging a DVD of the second test (‘Amazing Adelaide’).



Keep an eye out for the framed promotional poster commemorating the new record for fastest and most shameless cricket merchandising effort! Limited to a million copies - give in to hysteria.

Also, just while we're cricketing - Shane Warne's hair.



Nine's super shlow-mo camera shot looking down the pitch clearly shows Warnie is still stone-cold bald on top. Advanced Hair hasn't given him more hair, they've just got him to grow in longer.


I think they should get the "hot spot" camera onto it - show where the heat is escaping most quickly to demonstrate exactly where there aint no hair no more.

Australian values test Princess! Life is worth living after all

Life can be very cruel. I missed quite a lot of tonight’s cracking dialogue due to the noise from the Christmas concert at the school across the road. Lousy active kids! Get back inside and watch TV!

PhD students Cleverer types than I could probably come up with a snappy analysis of the ways in which this programme illustrates the cultural hangover present in Austral-English relations (yes, I'm sure there's a funding grant in there somewhere).

Me, I’m much more interested in Kate’s crunchy country goodness. Upon hearing that they’ll be taught to speak like a princess: “Oh crap! We got another test comin’ up or somethin’”

She’s got this thing in the bag.

I’m starting to like Jean more and more. Tonight she was ticking all my boxes, listing pet hates as white shoes and anklets. Testify woman! All she has to do is confirm how foul toe-rings are and my proposal will be in the Royal Mail.

Quote of the episode of course pertains to Kylie Booby. From the make-up stylist: “You’re as orange as Ayres Rock.” Haw haw. And she probably hasn't had a fake tan touch-up for at least 2 days.

Crikey I hope they keep her in this competition for at least another 3 weeks.

More scandalously mildly interestingly, Carla from Palmerston, ACT, (go parochialism, woo!) has admitted her repressed lesbianism bisexuality! Plus she hates Kylie Booby, correctly identifying her as a “screaming harpy”. If she wasn’t goth as all get out I might think about liking her for the title. Maybe.

Following this revelation and her later wardrobe transformation (out with the blacks, in with the orange twin-set!), those sneaky producers subtitled her monologues with “Carla: Confused ex-goth”. Insert catty noise here!

Anyway, tonight’s ‘important lesson’ was how to speak proper-like.

And what better crowd to judge how condescending and snooty princessy the ladies had become than the barely-repressed young fags from one of Sydney’s most exclusive private schools! This was pure genius on the part of the producers, I must say.

One little queen could barely contain his faggy, lispy, excitement at presenting his snarky little remarks on what is no doubt his favourite show (well, at least when “The Bachelorette” isn’t showing). Get a blog, and maybe then I’ll be interested.

At least they all sniggered at Kylie Booby’s name as much as I did. SNIGGER!

Ah dear, forget what I said about life being cruel, for a bounty of humour has been delivered to us in the form of this orange harpy.

Give thanks everyone. 'Tis the season!

Random Rant

"So, what are you guys up to this weekend?"

I am becoming progressively ruder to shop assistants who ask me this question.

I just don't understand why this is any of their business.

I know it is just supposed to be an ice-breaker. I was once a faceless retail wench myself so I understand.

However, I settled for the "how are you today?" or, even more outrageously "can I help you with anything?"

I am aware that I am probably coming across as needlessly grizzled and misanthropic, but next time a retail flunkey asks me whether I'm "up to much" this weekend I'm thinking of replying with one or more of the following:

• "Why? Will that determine whether or not you help me out today?"
• "Well, since you asked, I'm going in for a colonoscopy. Seeing you're so interested, would you like to come?"
• "Here, I printed off my itinerary for you as I knew you'd ask."
• "What do you mean, 'what am I doing this weekend'?! Have you forgotten our date?" (I expect this to work doubly well with the lay-deeez).

Teh kids today - sheesh.

Because plastic tiaras are always classy

So pretty much as I expected, I am loving the new series of Australian Princess.

My favourite contestant so far has to be Kylie Booby *snigger*. AS IF you wouldn’t have changed your name.

Upon hearing that “Fergie’s sister” would be making a guest appearance, Kylie Booby thought that Jane Ferguson was related to this woman:


rather than this one:


whom she’d never heard of.

In terms of actually liking any of the contestants, I am already a bit fond of Kate the pig farmer although I wager I’ll be crushed by the weight of ‘salt of the earth’ references by about week 3. Kate the pig farmer likes huntin’, shootin’, campin’ and fishin’. So pretty much any activity where you can drop the ‘g’. When described as naïve by Jackie O, Kate had to ask what “naïve” meant.



What qualifies Kate to be the next Australian Princess? “I have the right plumbing”.

Onyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

One of the highlights of this show for me is the rather base thrill of feeling smarter than them all (lame, I know, but they are probably all thinner than me, so there you go).

So for example, I felt all book-smarts and worldly when, during the ‘learning about other cultures’ section, Carolyn said she had never heard of Tonga before (hasn’t she ever seen the Late Show’s 'It’s Academic' rip-off where every answer is ‘Tonga’?). And when Kylie Booby spoke Arabic to the Tongans. Leanne thought the Tongan guy was ho-o-o-ottttt, which meant she at least remembered who was who.

Did I mention there is a contestant called Kylie Booby? Wow, she is a right cow. What a piece of work.

Unfortunately I think she might get booted early. I recommend tuning in for as much Kylie Booby you can get while she’s still there.

Amanda, the incongruently intelligent doctor is my early pick. Although her ability to string two sentences together may alienate her from the other girls. Her greatest fear is “driving up a really steep hill”. Deep, man.


I’d also like to note Stephanie. After a hard day flogging used corollas at the car yard, Stephanie goes home to run her own spray-tan business. What an entrepreneuse!



When asked what Stephanie wanted to get out of the series, her answer was “my eyebrows back”.

Don’t forget to check out the Australian Princess website, where Jean will teach you how to sit and walk. Finally! I’m so sick of just standing, stuck in the same spot. I wish my parents had taught me how to sit and walk all those years ago.

I've so far resisted the temptation to click through to the forums. My self control can't last long though.