Eyes Wide Shut

I didn’t think anyone was that silly enough to buy into Lynx’s latest attempt at trying to convince average looking men everywhere that buying their deodorant – and it is only a deodorant – somehow enhances your ability to pull loose women. Until I saw the guy in the supermarket the other day with not one, but two packs of the ‘1 + 2 =3’ Lynx spray.

Lynx reckon that if you take one can and mix it with the second can then you get a whole new scent, which obviously must be too good, or flammable, to put in a can because if they could they’d be able to sell it separately and make a mint, wouldn’t they? I reckon they tried to bottle and name it, but unfortunately ‘fly spray’ was already in use. This is the stuff of Mensa really – mixing stuff to make something new. Why just the other day I took a dry chocolate powder, added hot water and mixed in some milk. The result was a refreshing beverage! Fuck me. I was going to demand the guy hand back his man card but i figured I’d save him a few bucks by offering him a ‘can 3’ I had at home. It’s actually oven cleaner with the label removed but I doubt he’ll catch on.

Lynx have proven that yet again, there’s one born every minute. Idiots that is, not Asians, although there probably is an Asian born every minute. The best news story I saw all week was the bit on the group of vigilante Asians in Auckland who are going to proactively end crime in the street when and where they see it. With martial arts apparently and not their command of the English language. The leader spoke passionately on TV3 news, he just wasn’t all that clear. He didn’t want his face shown so that the gang bangers wouldn’t know who he was but i reckon they’ll see him coming, he’ll be the one dressed like a ninja.

All jokes aside though I’m all for people taking back the streets. The Five O are clearly not having much luck, not for want of trying mind you, so not surprisingly we’re seeing more and more people offloading on the likes of taggers, boy racers and other such stand up citizens. I once took a ‘Which Comic Book Hero Are You’ quiz and I turned out to be The Punisher. Now that’s what I’m talking about. I read an article in a boy’s mag recently that priced the cost of forcibly taking over a third world country as a very cheap seven million NZ dollars. Fuck that’s do able. I’m starting a whip round as of Monday and when I have enough I’m going to fly in the 75 Saffa mercenaries, 60 AK47s and two Soviet helicopter gunships that buys me and then things are really going to kick off around here. Anyone wanting in please let me know – genuine enquiries only though, I’ve been burnt before when trying to put a small army together.

Speaking of crimes against society, the first and hopefully last season of the NZ version of ‘Stars in Their Eyes’, the show that brings you costumed karaoke, thankfully just came to an end. Now when I was a boy – I was raised as a young child incidentally – I used to love watching the UK version. Michael Barrymore used to host it, until he decided to drown one of his rent boys in his swimming pool. Surprisingly his career went downhill from there. Who would have thought, aye? The English version was tight, you actually had to sound like the person you were impersonating and if you got through to the final you had to sing a different song than the heat. If you happened to look like the artist after 4 hours of having makeup trowel led across your face then that was a bonus, but it was all about the singing.

The makers of our version didn’t seem so concerned that most of the contestants didn’t actually sound like the artist, which might be okay at a deaf 21st karaoke party – and I’ve been to one of those – but it would seem to be an oversight in a impersonation based talent show. The deaf 21st had a stripper too by the way. Yup. There’s nothing quite as erotic I tell you, as a petrified young lady in a g string trying to lap dance the birthday boy whilst closely circled in by a growling, grunting, gesticulating mob of deaf folk.

The finalists sung the same song they had in their heat and bizarrely, most of them didn’t even look like the star they were mimicking. The guy who wished he was doing George Michael was built like a shit brick house, the chick doing Tina Turner was actually born a man and goes by the stage name ‘Cindy of Samoa’ in real life, Roy Orbison was a pasty ginga with a nose like the Concorde and Billy Joel – the eventual grand final winner – did look a little like him but only if the real BJ gains about 30kg. All of which made for several episodes of quite possibly the shittiest TV ever produced here. And yet it was so bad I couldn’t help but not watch to see what was coming next. It was ‘2 girls 1 cup’ all over again, only with Simon Barnett, who freakishly still doesn’t look a day over 15.

Sadly the best performer for my mind was the Christian girl who did an awesome Melissa Etheridge. She loved the songs she admitted, but couldn’t agree with Melissa drinking from the furry cup like she does. Oh the irony.

The House Always Wins.

Discharge can be a dirty word, especially when used in the same sentence as ‘accidental’, ‘oily’ or ‘gusset’. But yesterday I had the only good type of discharge, the one from Ward 17.

And so ended the third admission of the year. I don’t mind admitting that the novelty has well and truly worn off and much like a movie trilogy that has gone one movie too far, I am fucken over this failure of my lungs to well, work.

I had it so good for so long, that’s the real kicker. Prior to this year I hadn’t had a hospital admission for something like 12 years. That’s unheard of for a person with my condition. Respected medical professionals couldn’t believe it when I told them; they had to have my file dug out of the archives just to confirm I was telling the truth. Lying about the length of time between admissions is rife, apparently.

Once word spread I was the hottest show in town; crippled folk were being wheeled into my room in the hope that my touch would cure them, children down in the paediatric ward were told of my exploits at bedtime so that they wouldn’t cry at night and in some far away third world country cave dwellers were etching my image on their stone walls using their own excrement.

But that’s now all gone down the shitter. My name is mud these days and I’m just ‘that guy again’. Even the eye candy was particularly disappointing this time round. Physiotherapy, for so long the home of the lost tribe of the Amazon women of the nursing profession, this time provided me with Conan, a six foot something young man who was surprisingly gentle for a fella his size. I never did get round to asking him why his Mum called him Conan but I was interested to know if it was because he was a big baby or did he feel he had to grow into the name? He was a cool guy though, despite not being a blonde with great boobs. In fact he couldn’t have been more far from it. He’s one of those chaps that look like he is wearing a woollen long sleeved sweater under his polo shirt. He is a hairy young man.

Even the tea lady didn’t even have to ask how I liked it anymore, she would just hand me the mug with a sigh. Incidentally the rumbling of the tea trolley was one of the few chances of a perv I got this time round, but only when Swedish Sofie was on shift. I think she had a twinkle in her eye every time she handed me a banana for morning tea which left me gagging to ask her if it was true what they say about Swedish girls – that they all love Abba? The one thing I dig about Nordic girls is that they really know their football and Sofie was no exception so we had many a chat regarding the state of play in the Euros.

But that was about it. The highlights were unfortunately few and far between. Maybe it was just a case of me having to be in a again so soon but the little quirks I laughed about the first two times really started to piss my off this visit. Nurses who couldn’t speak English at all well, then gave me the wrong medication, or left me waiting for due medication. Anybody who took the time to put the mandatory rubber gloves on, only to ruin the token effort by then thrusting their hands into dirty pockets or by touching dirty surfaces whilst wearing them. Other people’s nosy fucken visitors who simply can’t help but slip a few vertebrae craning their neck to see in your room and noisy, inconsiderate other patients who treated the ward like it was home. This is the shit that drives those that can afford it into private health care, but you shouldn’t have to pay twice for good health care in this country.

I thought that one of my night nurses fancied me – she was very giggly whenever she came into check on me. Admittedly I did have my top off; I was in bed after all and that’s usually enough to make anyone laugh. I told my wife about it last night and I think she’s still laughing hysterically even now. Apparently were I to post a topless pic of me on ‘hot or not’ I would only get two votes for ‘hot’ – hers and mine.

See I think staying in hospital is a bit like playing at a casino; you have a few nice nurses - a few nice wins - but at the end of the day its Arvin that gives you the bed bath and Conan who gets to pound you till you’re red in the face.

The house always wins in the end.

The Guide to Good Present Buying

One of my son’s mates has invited him to a birthday party next week and I have the perfect present already in mind – a 1kg block of cheese!

At $15 a kg that’s edible gold - and the minimum going rate for a present for a 10 year old - so either way he’s a winner. Now my only concern is do I get this kid Mild or Colby cause kids can be fussy with cheese. Man he’s going to have so much fun with it and if he’s smart he’ll make that block last a whole week, so long as he doesn’t whip up a quiche over the weekend or something. I get these little individually wrapped blocks of cheese with morning and afternoon teas here in hozzie and I for one am not eating them. No, I’m saving them for the day when cheese is like smokes in prison – a cold hard currency.

My mother was shit at present giving incidentally so I was determined that I would be an ace present giver when I grew up. I still have nightmares over the time she sent me to Kenny Wrigley’s 10th birthday party with a matching set of undies and a singlet wrapped up to resemble an Action Man. I didn’t know what was in the present so any initial thoughts I might of had of Kenny joining me in the Matching Grundy Club as the package was ripped open were quickly dispelled when a hushed silence fell upon the party at the sight of them. The membership of that particular club was to remain at one for some time I can tell you.

My shame was not confined to just the party either. The following Monday Kenny was called up at the full school assembly and asked what he got for his birthday. Whether he had a memory like an elephant is a moot point because he was hardly going to forget my gift in a hurry and neither was the school once he’d told them. Needless to say the list of birthday parties where my attendance was required was pretty small after that, I wonder why?

How long is it before people start giving flagons of gas as a present? I mean really. I don’t want to start being one of those bloggers that rolls out all these facts and figures that he’s pinched off someone else’s page because we all know that shit is boring to read and 47% of all percentages are made up. But bear with me just this one time:

Remember when the price of petrol was $1.68 a litre? The Government take on that was 50.54 cents, plus the GST on the retail price, a further 18.77 cents, all adding up to a total of 69.3 cents. 41% of that $1.68 went to Aunty Helen. But wait there’s more – let’s not forget that as wage earners you and I also pay 23 cents of every dollar we make so that meant back then we were effectively paying $1.08 for a litre of the devils semen.

What that equates to now with Lucifer’s jizz prices now around $2.12 a litre I don’t know. No really I don’t. I pinched those figures from an old car mag I was given to read. I tried working it out but math was never my forte at school. Art was though, particularly anatomical drawings. Why even today I can still draw a pretty good cock, as DG Macca can attest after having found the A3 rendition I left for him in his top draw one time whilst he was away on leave. It was a scale drawing too.

It’s a lot of wedge, whatever the figure is and not surprisingly the Government has a huge surplus stuffed under the mattress, but they’re not about to cut the levy on gas anytime soon so I’m picking that the top choice of pressie for Secret Santas this year will be $5 worth of gas – not that that is going to be a huge present the way the cost of oil is rising. As a result, death by accidental inflammation of Secret Santa pressies by intoxicated staff after the office Chrissie party will skyrocket. You don’t get a lot of that happening presently, because KY – the ultimate in Secret Santa pressies - is not flammable. A pack of nudie playing cards is, but thankfully everyone has grabbed and kept their favourite shaven haven by evenings end, thus nullifying the chance of an accidental incineration.

A matching set of y-fronts and singlet are flammable incidentally, but only when set alight by a 10 year old boy who was given them by somebody else’s mother.

Prank Calls, Homespuns & Sexy Scones

Have you ever wondered if people knit anymore? I hadn’t because I assumed that it was a dying art from an era when times were simpler and gay meant happy, like the meat pack raffle and whipping up a batch of scones.

But there are still a few practitioners of knitting out there. Why just today I witnessed an elderly lady who clicked her way through a homespun whilst sitting in the waiting room we happened to share. Isn’t funny how knitters are their own biggest fans? She was clad in a knitted purple ensemble that included matching beret, cardigan and skirt. She looked like Grimace. What was Grimace anyways? I always thought it was the McDonalds way of appealing to the sexually confused, like all things purple. Barney the dinosaur is purple. Say no more.

See knitting was always on a hiding to nothing back at the start of the nineties with the advent of The Warehouse and the cheap synthetic jerseys they sourced from China and other such shitholes of the world. But the straw that broke the camels – or rather the ewes – back was David Bain and his wearing of several of the most ghastly homespun’s ever made. He didn’t actually have a choice in wearing them; the Filth had taken his clothes for evidence when they found him at his place. The homespun’s were from the Sally Army who they couldn’t even give them away to anyone not facing multiple counts of murder.

But the rest of us had a choice and we weren’t going to be caught dead in a homespun like his. Ever. Nana’s up and down the land who ‘never liked the look of that Bain boy anyway’, probably because he was wearing something like the kiddie fiddlers on Play School always did, stopped producing homespun’s almost overnight. The wool industry was nearly wiped out then and there. Farmers had to do something with their sheep other than sharing them and ever since have rooted only their own flock.

I’m bringing scone making back. ClubDes fights back! At least half the world’s problems could be solved if folk took the tine to whip up each other a batch of scones rather than a batch of P. Turning out a dozen scones takes only 20 minutes from prep to table, that’s a couple of handbag snatch and grabs that the Killer Beez wouldn’t get round to pulling if they were tucking into some cheese scones and not some Asians purse jammed full of cash.

I once made fellow metro sexual DG Macca a batch one night after he popped round to my gaff for a spot of man talk. There was no popping down to the mall and paying $6 for a coffee and a dry-as-a-nuns-nasty muffin from Muffin Break for us. Not wanting to look like a couple of poncey bummers sitting in a cafe we stayed in, ate hot scones with lashings of jam and shared manly stories. To finish the evening off we spooned each other on the couch. Thankfully our respective wives have never found out about the spooning bit – we’ve managed to keep that on the down low.

Not everything retro should come back though. Prank phone calls on the radio should not come back because it’s just not funny anymore. Prank phone calls as a TV show should never have made it to fucken air because visually it doesn’t work! I’d wager that you could dub prank phone calls over a porno, play it in prime time and it still would not work. People would put the mute on, clearly. Making a half hour TV show out of You Tube clips is just as bad. Who funds this shit?

I know a thing or two about prank phone calls. I was quite good at them back in the day. My mate Willy G and I would fire up the prank call when wagging school back in college. I would do all the standards – Chinese takeaway, Indian dairy owner, Scandinavian shit stirrer – whilst he would do the fresh Maori. He could only do the one but he did it really well actually, probably because he was a fresh Maori.

The call of mine they still talk about is the time I rang the local McDees and booked a 25 kid birthday party for my mate Shontell. They were very thorough, took all the happy meal orders there and then, all the desert orders, all Shontell's contact details (I had planned ahead) and never once questioned why a 14 year old wanted a Maccas party. Maybe they were getting over the fact that it was a dude with a chick’s name? The call itself was never actually that funny and it did cross my mind to abandon it more than once as it was getting a little mundane, so much so that I forgot about it the minute I hung up the phone.

Little did Willy G and I realise it would be the call that kept on giving because three weeks later Maccas hit his Mum and Dad up with a mega bill for a party they never attended. Who knew they would have actually charged for a no-show aye? Apparently they’d cooked the food and everything. It was a well prepared party I’ll give them that. I don’t ever recall admitting to Shonny that it was me that made the call but I think he knew, there was a distinct distance between us after that and I seem to recall he called me some very hurtful names. Very hurtful indeed.

Maybe I should have whipped him up a batch of scones to make it up to him? Or a David Bain homespun even.

Stalag 17 - Life Behind The Wire

Hospital food gets a bad rap in my opinion which is a shame because it’s good, honest, reliable food. It is the steady shag of the culinary world. It might not be the best looking girl at the party but it’s the one you’ll end up going home with.

Nutritionally I reckon it would be better than most of the food we eat too. Taking a dump was never as easy as it is when you’re on hospital food. Almost too easy. I wonder if they lace the stuff with laxatives, the benefits of which would be twofold; patients get a good ring clean every day and the nurses have something to do between talking about what happened on Greys Anatomy last night by having to clean up those that can’t get out of their beds in time.

I never get enough to eat though so I supplement my menu with processed crap from the real world which always comes out looking the same as it went in. It’s made for some impressive flatulence too, this mixture of nutritional and garbage. All weekend I’ve unleashed the fury from my bed like an old man physically incapable of keeping it in even if he tried. I figure if you can’t fart loud and proud whilst in the hozzie where can you aye? I was quite impressed with my crescendo of the puckered anus right up till the moment I happened to make my way out to the kitchen and realised that an attractive young nursing student had been camped outside the door of my neighbour, only meters away, the whole day. Bugger.

My neighbour has some sort of round the clock suicide watch thing happening, hence the student outside her door 24 / 7. She sleeps most of the time but spends the rest of it calling at the top of her tiny old lungs for her daughter to come rescue her from the kidnapping she believes she’s caught up in. Ms Conspiracy Theory doesn’t appear to have a high opinion of the nurses that are trying to help her either and likes to claim that they are assaulting her. It’s amusing the first few times you hear, a bit sad the next few times and just downright annoying every other time after that. Perhaps the 24 / 7 watch is to protect her from the other patients sick of the performance?

Maybe she thinks she’s in a prison camp. There are some similarities I’ve noticed. Including an ‘us’ and ‘them’ attitude which cultivates camaraderie between patients who only really have the one thing in common – none of us want to be here. It’s a camaraderie that has people who probably wouldn’t otherwise look twice at their neighbour lean over to ask ‘how long you in here for’ or ‘where did you get hit’ or even ‘fancy a shared shower’.

It’s the same bond that has a morbidly obese guy in a revealing hospital gown and pink cardigan lurch into your room one morning whilst half way through a bowl of cornflakes to ask if you know who won the rugby. I didn’t as it happened but I suspect it was all code speak anyway and what he was actually letting me know was that tonight was the night of the big break out. I seriously hope the escape committee has a backup plan to tunnelling though because we’re seven stories up.

I have mixed memories of school camps as it happens. I was quite the sick boy back in my youth – not the deaf dumb blind kid who got leukaemia for Christmas sick – but only marginally better than I seem to be these days, so camping in a tent was not allowed. As decreed by my mother, the master respiratory consultant and authority on everything. So I had to bunk with the men. Two problems with this; Sleeping in a cabin is not really camping and the only time that that little arrangement is going to be beneficial to everybody is when you’re out camping with the American Man Boy Love Association (AMBLA).

No really, it exists, Google it. I dare you. Then sit back and wait for the authorities to arrive.

My one lasting positive memory of anything camp is that it led to quite possibly the first ever instant erection I can recall having. I was about 10 and the night before it had rained so heavy that the girls were all forced from their tents into the main hall of the camping area. Now me being a farm boy I was accustomed to an early rise and an early mug of tea so I had left the AMBLA cabin and made my way over to the main hall where the kitchen was located. Imagine my surprise – and arousal – to find 30 odd girls in the various stages of dress and undress that usually accompany getting dressed in the morning. Needless to say my head wasn’t the only big hairy thing sticking out of my jammies that morning.

Well it was actually because I was only ten and given that I would prove to be a late bloomer, I had quite the bald man purse right up till about the age of 17. I was never so ashamed to shower with my undies on after footy mind you, I simply waited till I got home to shower. Little did I know, back then, that several years later I would go on to remove all hair from the area willingly.

Sure made it look bigger though.

Mr Angry Checks In

My son’s school is peddling lipstick as its latest fundraiser. No seriously. Why? Because every woman uses lippy – or so says the pamphlet that came with it. Now I think we all know that isn’t the case but what an interesting train of thought to use when deciding what to use as your next fundraiser. All women poop too, so how bout fundraiser two ply?

It’ll never catch on but I’m wondering just how far they’ll go to get their hands on our money. Back in my day our fundraising consisted of selling calendars, school ones at that, which every relative would buy so that no matter where you went whilst on your holidays, you’d be reminder of school whilst you took a slash in Aunty or Grandmas carzie. Now it’s chocolates, hot cross buns, pastries and cosmetics. Next week it will be strap-ons and anal beads. Engraved with the school logo for your pleasure!

And I’m sure we only did the fundraiser thing once a year. Now it’s every other week. But then that’s the financial situation that most public schools find themselves in these days – in the red. They literally have to raise tens of, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars of their own accord just to keep running. Now this is election year and we’ve already started getting fired up about just how big a tax cut we should all get but I reckon there is a more important question to be asked; What’s happening to the taxes that we pay because they sure as fuck don’t seem to be getting through to the places we expect them to go?! Like schools, cops and hospitals.

Don’t start me on hospitals. My week long gestation on the couch at home came to an end this week when I finally got the call up to return to Ward 17, the ward with the higher mortality rate than Ward 16, the ward where they put the people on deaths door. Go figure. Now I realise this place isn’t a hotel, but I can’t help but feel that when you’ve been given a time and date to show up the least the buggers could do is have a bed ready for you. They knew I was coming dammit; it was hardly a surprise admission! Terribly selfish of me to think that I know but that’s just how I roll.

Now four hours is a long time. It’s even longer when you have to spend half of it sitting alone in an empty triage room waiting for a bed to become available. Those rooms always look cool on TV, like in ER and shit, but there are exceptionally boring in real life. Even I was to open all the bagged up tubing and start a colonic irrigation on myself it would still be boring. Cleansing, but boring.

I spent the other two hours in the TV room where I was able to share in the delightful presence that was Andre. Andre is one of those guys that got himself heavily tattooed up and down the arms as soon as he was legally allowed to because it made him look like a hard bastard. Then he shaved his head and spent the next 20 years listening to Judas Priest to remind himself of just how hard a hard bastard he was. Now pushing 50, he still shaves his head, wears a puffy vest over a small boys tee-shirt despite it being freezing outside just so you know that he’s still a hard bastard. He no longer looks hard mind you, he looks like a scrotum, only with tattoos.

He likes to use the words ‘shit’ and ‘its fucked’ a lot, mainly when referring to the state of his cellphone and especially when in the presence of his mother who has to be pushing 70 just to remind her how hard he is. She didn’t seem to mind that young Andre has developed a bit of a potty mouth and infact promised to take him out for a roast dinner at the local takeaway. It doesn’t get much more hard than mum taking you out for a roast tea that’s for sure. Andre – as you may now have deduced – is a Mummy’s boy and is not at all hard. He does manage to succeed in pulling of a look though, the look of a fuckwit.

So needless to say the first day back was not a good one and any troubles I might have had in firing up the Mr Angry persona I was hoping to bring with me were gone in the first five minutes. Since then – and I write this on day two – I’ve even managed to piss off some hoighty toighty theatre staff by not being on the premises when they called for me. I had left the building and was actually on the sideline coaching my sons soccer team because personally and this might just be me, but I find stuff like that a tad more intrinsically rewarding than sitting around waiting to have a tube shoved up my arm.

I had four hours free yesterday in which they could have done that!

High Def Porn? Love the Feeling!

The TVNZ boys and girls must have got their hands on some good stuff recently because just look at the promo line they came up with after their last big toke sesh:

“Shortland Street. Love the feeling”.

What the..? Love the feeling of what exactly? Now I love the feeling of several things, most of which occur whilst in or around the toilet so I’m struggling to make the connection – unless it’s their way of saying the show is shit? I did once have a good feeling towards Shorters but that was because it was ending. Loved that feeling!

But this is just the tip of the iceberg - which is also what the guy said to the doctor after revealing to him that he had lettuce leaves sticking out of his orse. Have you been sucked into the High Definition (HD) revolution yet? Have ya? Freeview and Sky are trumpeting the arrival of HD as if it were bigger than a cure for cancer, but it’s going to take more than a few digitally enhanced slow motion sport ads to get me to ‘suck it and see’.

Funny how slow mo’s in porn movies is something that never really caught on? Shame really because it works so well in sports and they are both contact activities. Anyhoo.

HD TV supposedly yields a better-quality image than standard television because it has a greater number of lines of resolution. Maybe it does, but I’m not really having problems seeing the old lines on our present TV and we are just talking about TV here, not exploratory surgery, so I reckon so long as I can read crappy tag lines like ‘Love the Feeling’ then I don’t think I really need further clarity, do I?

Here is what HD TV means in real terms to the good folk at Freeview and Sky TV; it means you will pay more for a picture that you might think looks better but you really won’t be able to tell the difference. Despite this, you will tell your mates it rocks anyway because you bought the new $100 box that decrypts the signal and now pay an extra $10 a week to help you love the feeling and you don’t want to let on that ‘the feeling’ is actually Sky TVs dirty hand down your pants twisting a fistful of your curlies.

And so your mates will sit in your lounge trying to pick the difference your awesome HD signal gives on your mega flat screen LCD TV (that supposedly gives an image as clear as ice anyway) but really won’t find any to that of their similar setup at home and will inevitably remember the last time you let them down like this; that one time back in your single days when you said your latest girlfriend was really hot and it turned out she wasn’t. She was a bogan, from Wanganui and that’s when you learnt the lesson that being ‘up for anything’ doesn’t always equate to being hot.

Another supposed plus of HD is that digital television requires less bandwidth if sufficient video compression is used. No doubt, but I bet your Sky box carks it once a week like it does now even after you’ve bought the new one. Love that feeling! Especially when it’s right in the middle of your favorite show! And lets be honest, we in New Zealand are hardily one to start waving our bandwidth capacity around because in that particular changing room we’re the boy who showers with his undies on and gets dressed behind a towel.

This all reminds me of the time CDs were coming out and all the excitable folk got carried away and started saying that all those cassette tapes had started the AIDs virus. Or was that monkeys? Then DVDs got you all moist at the very thought of no more crusty old video tapes, but still you were torn between keeping the old pornos you had on VHS or upgrading. Thankfully the bad tracking midway through the first root made your mind up for you. Now it’s HD’s turn to play the easy girlfriend from Wangas and tomorrow it’s BluRay. Don’t even get me started on BluRay. The guy who makes all the blue DVD cases must love the feeling of BluRay right about now aye?

Yep, if you’re a conspiracy theorist then HD should be right on your list. Right up their with those pricks at Sony who should be just about ready to push the big red button they have in their Tokyo head office that switches off all the remaining Play station Two’s in the world meaning that whether I like it or not, I will have to buy a PS3 which surprise surprise, is BluRay compatible. Geez, picked that one like a broken nose now didn’t I?!

Shafted by Sony. Love the feeling.

Angry Old Men, Alsatians & Pink Triangles

The Ten tenors are coming to town I notice. First question then; Why the fark is there ten of them?

Admittedly my working knowledge of opera is akin to that of my working knowledge of vaginal thrush – I’d rather not know - but ten fat buggers all singing the same song sounds a lot like a ‘choir’ to me. Three or four fat buggers singing the same song I can somewhat understand, but ten reads a little too much like ‘ten reasons to hike the price up’ as far as I’m concerned.

Anyhoo, my lungs have this week decided to revert back to the capacity of a 90 year old man and I was due to be back in Chateau Capital Coast Health today and not writing this. My specialist was all ready to admit me after our latest consultation until he was told by the Bed Manager that there was a "Code Red" in the hospital at that time. Given that the Westpac helicopter was landing on the roof fortuitously at that moment I half expected to see the Vietcong making their way up the hallway right then and there but no - apparently a "Code Red" in the hospital means 'we have no beds free’ – and not Charlie has broken through the wire.

So I was sent home with a fistful of oral antibiotics and strict instructions to rest until someone karks it or leaves when I can then have their bed. I'd prefer it was the latter really but when you’ve suffered the ignominy of being rejected by a taxpayer funded public hospital – a bigger social burn than being dumped on Facebook – I guess you take what you get. I reckon the local homeless shelter would have had a bed free last night, so what does that say about our health care system aye?

But I’m not too fussed really, I prefer a few days on the couch at home with a big bag of Twisties than I do a few days in a hospital room doing the same. It’s the whole white linen thing really because Twistie prints seldom come out in the wash when on white linen. Incidentally I only ever buy Twisties for the articles. Funny, my wife reckons that I should refrain from writing about wanking all the time because it makes me out to sound like I’m a wanker. Which it would really wouldn’t it? I did suggest that to alleviate this perception I could write about her wanking me off but the response I got was lukewarm to say the least.

I had already decided that seeing as my body was playing old again I would too. This visit – once the hospital hits Code Amber and Charlie has been forced back to the tree line – will be my ‘angry’ visit. I’ve done the ‘happy’ and the ‘philosophical’ visit so the next step in the process is the ‘angry’ visit. I plan to answer every question with an annoyed answer of “whatever". I’m planning to blame everything, including the fact that I’ve soiled myself again, despite being perfectly capable of making my way to the toilet, on the Japs and the young people of today. I plan to cross the road at inappropriate places at inappropriate times. I plan to have the volume setting on my TV always at its loudest despite appearing to be asleep. I also intend making salacious comments to anything in a skirt - but then I already do that anyway.

Interesting isn’t it that you can do antibiotics orally and intravenously but not anally? Just goes to show that even the medical community doesn’t think you should be whacking anything up there, except maybe a suppository which is used to make you poop. Nuff said I reckon.

Speaking of bum fun, I had to laugh when seeing the one of the local lesbian councillors on TV last night complaining about the named and shamed taggers who have to wear pink vests when cleaning up their artwork. She reckoned that because ‘pink’ is commonly associated with being ‘gay’ then it’s like gays having to wear pink triangles back in Nazi Germany. News to me because I thought pink was a Tom Cruise colour and that he invented it?

Now you know that anytime someone starts comparing something back to the Holocaust that they do so because they don’t actually have a case to argue and they’re looking for the sympathy vote. Not that I’m gay bashing the councillor, but I know several lesbians whom I’m pretty sure would have not made the same link as her and I’m pretty sure that even now the comparison has been made, probably still don’t give a shit.

Now German Shepherds had it really tough after the war. People even called them Alsatians so as not to even refer to them as being German! Heaven forbid any post war Alsatian that followed its instinct and sniffed the crutch of some unsuspecting passer by without being portrayed as some testicle hungry, foaming at the mouth, devils dog named Kahn or Gunga, being held back by some 6 foot four foaming at the mouth Aryan psychopath named Kahn or Gunga. Thankfully that all changed in the sixties and seventies when ‘The Littlest Hobo’ TV shows were on air and everybody forgot why they were angry with German Shepherds in the first place.

Any way, make the taggers clean their crap up whilst in the nude I reckon. Their handiwork always looks as unattractive as I imagine a pale, semi-naked homie clad only in a pink vest would look like.

The youth of today huh?! They’re as bad as those bloody Japs!