Monday, June 30, 2008

On Stalking Beings, and Other Things

He is waiting there again as I close the security door to Cath's building. Turning around, I see that he is staring intently at my movements through his Egyptian eyes. Strange, aloof eyes that don't seem to match his patchwork coat and hairy face; an generally unkempt attire that eludes to a completely different ancestry altogether. I greet him in our usual fashion. He in turn acknowledges me by closing his eyes slightly and nodding. I decide not for the first time that this must be a pretty cool way of saying hello wherever he's from, and begin constructing other mannerisms in my head that might later be incorporated into my daily routine. Waggling my head and blinking furiously, I saunter off with a slight limp to go fetch the morning bagels.

Later that day, running back to apartment to find something, I run past him sitting at a table outside the cafe on the corner of the building. Only too late do I realise who it is I just ran by, and miss the opportunity of trying out one of my new greetings. I feel guilty for about half a second, before going back to trying to remember what it was exactly Cath had asked me to retrieve from the apartment.

It is almost dinner time. After having said goodbye to Kate and Pauley, we shake off the afternoon beers and set about the difficult task of deciding exactly which local restaurateur should delight upon receiving us for dinner. We finally decide on the pub, despite the flimsy argument of superior food quality hanging stubbornly in the air between us like a floating polygraph. Leaving again, I see him sitting once more on the step outside the apartment, and buoyed by the beer I walk up and begin exalting him with the amiability only drunks can muster.

"Kiss Kiss! Who's a pretty boy then?"

"Meow!" he spits, turning on his heel and scurrying around the corner, clearly still pissed at me for having ignored his little stunt of sitting atop a cafe table during the lunchtime rush without getting shooed.

Cats eh. You make one slip up and they're getting all retributive up in your thang as though it was some awesome 80s kung fu movie, but with notably less roundhouse kicking.

Stop animal cruelty NOW! by clicking on Every click will go towards saving one defenceless bunny named Hapless George, who's never been given anything in his life except YOUR CLICKS.
Don't be selfish. George wouldn't want that.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Best Wingman Ever

I wonder if he'd consider renting himself out to be my hero.


Friday, June 20, 2008

Learning: No Longer Just for Sissies

It has been a week of revelations for me.

Good friend and fellow blogger The Irish Dreamer initiated a nightmare last Friday in a scathing post that split the Irish blogging community in two. Considering the subject of the post I'm not really surprised, and although I personally don't agree with her method of critique (and also have the impression there's more to her frustration than she lets on), my heart goes out to her; she is quite obviously reeling from being the instigator of what appears to be a very deep rift within a group of people she not only cares about, but works extremely hard to be a part of. She's in San Sebastien now, so happy holidayin' darlin. Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag and smile.

In my part of the world, a post yesterday that I had intended to be a flattering and humourous portrait of a dear friend drew completely the opposite reaction when she read it. She was embarrassed, hurt, and asked that I take it down immediately. Despite numerous apologies and attempts to explain that my intentions were not to ridicule her in any way I garnered no further reply. I hope that I haven't lost a friend over what I arrogantly presumed was an innocuous ramble.

Yesterday afternoon, sitting on the front porch in the sun and trying to digest the paper I realised that I had been reading over the same paragraph for last 15 minutes. Not that bond financing wasn't inherently fascinating to me, it's just that sometimes minds tend to have a mind of their own. Particularly mine.

Unlike the Exiled Dreamer, I've always shied away from getting too personal on these pages. Keeping people at an emotional arms length and addressing them through the fogged lens of humour is a great deal easier for me that trying to get people amused by the common facets of my life. But I realised yesterday that this goal of light-heartedness has blinded me to a very simple truth -- people generally don't like being the butt of jokes. No matter how well intended the joker is.

Unfortunately, it seems that I've learned this lesson the hard way. Hopefully, given enough time to discredit me sufficiently, my friend will stop being angry and decide that actually, I'm an okay guy. Perhaps I could speed up the hug train with the prompt delivery of some flowers; I read somewhere that apologies to girls are made easier that way. Mind you, I also read somewhere that European wasps taste like pine nuts, which is incredible when you think about what they had to go through to find that out.

"Mm, this is a lovely pesto."


Regardless of the outcome, I decided that for the sake of avoiding hypocrisy I should reverse the looking glass every now and again. But won't that just make you look really, really small? I hear you ask. Perhaps. My understanding of physics is such that anything is possible. It's a big world out there kiddo, and looking glass theory is only the beginning. Next week we could be talking binoculars. Zip Zap.

So, expect a few more posts that might not be so funny. Heck, they might not even be interesting. But they'll be about me. Me and, you know, anyone I see on the bus who looks weird. Because for me, the joy of writing comes not through the fluid expressions of an instinctual linguist, but in the twists and turns of a bumbler who has no fucking idea what he is doing.

And I don't expect that is ever going to change much.

Quickly plummeting down the charts at Things are considerably worse in Darfur though, so it's good to have a bit of perspective on the whole thing.

Friday, June 6, 2008

He's the Tall, Silent Type

"I Married the Eiffel Tower" was on Channel 5 the other night. I know. Best name for a TV show ever, right? After the initial lead in, the producers could have pretty much shown me 30 minutes of static followed by someone burping and I still would have declared it the most amazing show on television. I mean really. Married to the Eiffel tower? Who on earth has that much imagination? When I'm drunk sometimes I'll draw a picture of a fighter jet squadron attacking Godzilla, with people down the bottom on fire and getting hit by flying debris and stuff, but I would never think to marry that debris. Who marries debris?

One young lady does, and she goes by the name of Erika La Tour Eiffel. I have no idea where the 'la tour' bit came from -- I expect she was just trying to add some extra Frenchiness, you know, to make the whole thing less weird. Her sexual orientation is described as 'objectum sexual', which is a term that was made up to classify people who are sexually attracted to inanimate objects. In this case, towers.

I've drawn a diagram for those people having trouble keeping up:

Figure 1.0 - Objectum Sexual Love Graph

Now I read on a toilet door once that it's not right to make fun of people who are different, so let me just preface the following remarks by saying that I am truly, truly in awe of this raving lunatic. Fancy having to acquire zoning permits just to get a bit of late night action! Incredible.

What I wanted to show you was the original article that this programme was based on (or the other way around, I forget). I cut it out from the quality magazine 'Reveal', a self styled exposé rag which is a fantastic read so long as you are interested in either Amy Winehouse or the effects of cellulite. If you're not in fact interested in either of those things, then frankly I'm a bit concerned about your ability to assimilate.

I actually really admire her willingness to broadcast her weird sexual proclivities to all and sundry. Especially sundry, because I don't know who sundry is and unknown things are scary. It must take some real guts to cash in on a weird sex story, cheapening your entire relationship and rendering illegitimate your demand for acceptance. I totally admire her for that. What I don't admire her for is that tattoo of the Eiffel tower between her boobs.


Betcha wish I didn't point that out huh? Yeaah, me too.

I love this article though. It has some of the greatest comedic gold I've ever read anywhere ever as far as I can remember. Allow me to draw your attention to paragraph 7.

The Space Shuttle Columbia? Priceless! If you ask me, the Space Shuttle Columbia just sounds funny. "Mum, Dad, I'd like you to meet the Space Shuttle Columbia."

Of course, young love doesn't last forever. Her romance to the shuttle burned out around about the same time the shuttle did, which was upon re-entry in 2003 killing all seven astronauts on board. It's hard to pick up the pieces after something like that.

Now, some people might say that she was only interested in the shuttle for it's uncanny resemblace to.. a flying mongoose. But they'd be wrong. She loved it because it totally looks like a giant wang. Squint your eyes up a bit. Theeere you go.

Hold up, I'm starting to see a pattern here.




I have no idea what that means but I'm sure it's profound. Profound and sexy.

Oh my. What was her pet name for the Space Shuttle Colombia I wonder? Rod? Shaft? Outside of the fact that her lover's names sound as though they were plagiarised from a porno book store, you've really got to hand it to someone who obviously has her priorities for love sorted out:

1. Must be phallic symbol
2. Must be inert
3. Must have telepathic connection with

They didn't do particulary well at archery, and I'm not surprised. To me, the whole relationship seems like a conflict of interest. Think about it: I seriously doubt whether Lance would help you win an archery contest if he was paranoid that you were going to cheat on him with the winner's trophy. I've been around enough sporty love triangles to know that jealous sporting apparel makes for some pretty uncomfortable change-room dynamics. Ditch that bow girlfriend. Find yourself a nice, non-possessive airgun instead.

Anyway, that's it for me. There's really only so long you can talk about this stuff for. You start to feel a bit ensconced in the subject matter, and just between you and me, the laptop has been shooting me pensive looks for the last five minutes.

He needn't worry. I've always been a Mac man myself.

If you correctly guessed that my entire post last joke was in poor taste, I'd suggest you go to It's a happy place where people are free to love whatever objects they choose. Shoes, bikes, whatever. People describe them as smelly hippies, but by god; If getting sexual gratification from a George Foreman grill is hippy, then flower power me up baby.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Notes to Self

  • When you open an axe store, open it in some backwater hole and call it "Better axe your Mother". Feign surprise when people axe you why they need permission from their mother to buy an axe.

  • When you get a pet pig, call him "Hamlet".

  • When you get a pet polar bear, call him "Penfold", which although traditionally being a name attributed to Danger Mouse sidekicks is still a good name for a Polar Bear I think.

  • When you procure an apple cider company, GM the apples to contain tobacco and then call the result "Tobapple". It will be thoroughly addictive, and you'll make millions but then feel bad about it. Eventually Julia Roberts will sue your fucking ass.

  • When you get around to starting your Skid Row tribute band, call it "Skid Marx". Naturally you should play lead guitar and get all the babes, who'll eventually leave you for someone younger and hipper and whose band doesn't have a name that honours poo residue and glam rock in equal measures.

  • When you get a pet dog, call him "Cucumber", or "Cuke" for short; because then nobody would be as cool as Cucumber. He'd be a border collie or a German Shepherd, because those dogs rule.

Go and tell your wildest dreams. Please? I get a vote if you do, and that will make my dreams come true. You'd be like my dream weaver, you ol dream weaver you.