Death Defying Metal

Even if you:

1. have lost your lovely hair, so that now you resemble Lando Calrissian's cyborg sycophant


2. think that Levi 501 red tabs are the most rock-n-roll jeans ever made


3. suffer from nappy bum


4. wear your white Reebok cross trainers every day you're not 'workin for the man'


5. think that considering how inconvenient pockets tend to be, its surprising more people don't use bum bags

Even if all of these things sum up the person you've somehow become over the last 10 years..





..Never, ever, ever stop loving Iron Maiden.

--
The sickos over at humor-blogs.com listen to Bulgarian Two Step. On the count of three, go over there and ridicule them till they whimper. One, two..

Red Harian Nation

As we shuffled slowly across Victoria Park, I chatted tentatively with Colin in the manner of new friends. He seemed like a great bloke, happily dispensing conversation that drifted quickly away from the stagnant topics we were forced to begin with. Luckily we had his imminent wedding to discuss, which was always going to give us a base camp from which to go foraging. I was looking forward to the wedding; excited to be visiting the Shetland Islands for the first time and secretly hoping to see a plethora of miniature ponies, hopefully being ridden by miniature monkeys. I decided after some deliberation to keep that information to myself; I had learned the hard way that some people react strangely to flights of fancy involving equidite riding simians. Particularly small ones.

The group arrived at Victoria Park Pavilion. Colin and I stood around trying to look like men while the girls busied themselves poking Amy's two year old son Ruban. The little ginger haired chap wore the expression of someone who simply couldn't fathom why everyone was still hanging around being boring when they could instead be at home watching Pingu on repeat. Not getting the reaction they were looking for, the girls continued to prod.

Remembering that the guests had been invited to attend a dancing class a few nights before the wedding, I asked Colin about it. We wouldn't be able to attend and I was loathe to miss it: unless traditional Scottish dancing shared some kind of similarity to Axl Rose's hip sashé, I was going to be in a lot of trouble.

“So I’m a bit worried that I won't be able to remember how to strip the Willow.” I confided.

It was true. The last time I tried I'd lost the group I was dancing with on the very first change. My partner pretended she didn’t mind, but I could tell she was upset. I could plainly see that to her, failing to strip the Willow was paramount to contracting an odious yeast infection. At the time I felt no humiliation over my error. After all, I wasn’t even sure what the Willow was.

“Not a worry mate.” said my new ginger haired friend. “Getting it wrong is all part of the fun. In fact, Céilidh dancing was invented so that Scottish men had an excuse to beat their women.”

An uncomfortable silence formed between us. A coyote howled in the distance.

“That’s a joke, right?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh good. Just thought I’d clarify.”

“When you didn’t laugh I thought uh oh. Now he’s going to think I’m a wife basher.”

“Nope. Comedian. Got it.”


But I didn't get it. I was no closer to realising my goal of appropriate Willow stripping. So, lacking the necessary technical know-how to pull off a barn dance heist I settled on a compromise: As long as I could get through the night without falling over and revealing the darkside of my kilt, I would consider it a win.

Sometimes, when I feel low, I go and try on the wedding dresses over at humor-blogs.com. It's comforting to know that I look good in a taffeta veil, even though I'm destined to always have the hips of a bridesmaid.

Slebs

We take team bonding very seriously at my company. It's not that we want to play network car racing games every lunchtime or stay for that extra pint on a Friday night; it's more of a necessity. You see, when you work in an industry where your very safety balances on a knife edge, you have to know that Goncalo 'Battlestar Galactica' Pereira has his wits about him, and that the guy who always smells of Doritos who you call Paul but who probably isn't called Paul is a man of his word. What I'm saying is you have to know that pseudo-Paul has your back, and that you have his. That's the life of a software developer. We don't expect people to understand.

Which is why the other Dave and I invented this new game called Slebs. Slebs stands for 'Celebs with small heads'. The game is cunning in its simplicity in that you have to photoshop a famous celebrity so that their head is smaller. Then you send it to the other person so that they laugh and hopefully get lambasted by someone of authority, or at the very least get some derisive looks. It's a great game. Here, let me show you:

Sleb 1 - Hulk Hogan (dave)




I was always a bigger fan of Andre the Giant. But it had nothing to do with The Princess Bride, I swear. Anybody want a peanut?






Sleb 2 - Mr. T (me)








Sleb 3 - Rocky (dave)



Look at the shorts. That's attention to detail right there kids. That's how we beat the Russians. Some might tell you it was economics, but they'd be wrong. It was shorts detail.






Sleb 4 - Han and Chewie (me)


If I had a small head, I'd try and look all unperturbed about it too. I'd be all.. "It's coool man, just chillin with my big dog and my small head. It aint no thang."







Sleb 5 - Bill and Hillary










Sleb 6 - Big Bird


Check it out, I even made Mr Hooper look all uncomfortable with his upside down frown and whatnot. Ahh Hooper. Never could handle a bit of malformed bird head.







Sleb 7 - Jon Bon Jovi (Dave)



For all you guitar players, look at his chord hand. It's not a chord!

Bon Jovi is mediocre -- You heard it here first.







Sleb 8 - King Kong



Could you ever love me? Even though I'm a big monkey? It's the head isn't it. You don't go for dudes with disproportionately sized heads. *Sigh* I needs a banana.


More people with smaller heads than you would care to look at over at humor-blogs.com. You know what they say about small heads though, right? Small hats. Very small hats.

Old Man BMX

The other day when I was walking down Well Street to grab the paper a really old guy whizzed past me on a bike. While this is nothing that usual, what caught my eye was that he was dressed head to toe in a fluoro Kappa tracksuit, wearing a huge gold medallion and backwards cap and that his bike was a hotted up BMX.

"Woaaah," said my very impressed internal monologue. "He'd be amazing for the blog. I could explain that he was a perfect example of what you would look like if you'd just woken up from a 60 year coma caused by a BMX accident. I'd need a picture of him, so I could say that I work for BMXing Australia and that I was doing an article on the implications of wearing incontinence pants while freeriding. Hopefully he won't ask for a card, but if he does I'll just say that I've already given them all out down at the Sunny Vista estate and that he could grab one down there from Beryl if he liked, so long as he didn't ask about her recent divorce. 'Yikes' I would then say, for effect."

It was brilliant.. until I remembered that:

a) I didn't bring my camera
b) it had taken me two hours to make up the joke about the coma
c) the old guy was long gone

I was left feeling vaguely uncertain, as though I'd somehow invented the entire scenario in my head; just like in the Labyrinth where that chick wakes up and can't believe David Bowie could actually be the head of the muppets, while at the exact same time have such enormous hair and bad dress sense.

Paying for my newspaper, I cautiously asked the lady behind the counter whether she had seen any old guys getting around today, you know, like on a BMX or something. She turned her head and looked at me out of the corners of her eyes; the way people do when you walk into a bookstore and ask if they have any other books in a similar vein to 'The Notebook', because you're on a bit of an emotional roller-coaster right now and that book made you feel as though you had something to live for and you have every intention of keeping that buzz going, man.

"Forget it." I said quietly and walked out, not collecting my change. Then it occurred to me that the old guy and the paper lady probably have a racket going and are taking over the world, 20p at a time.

I'll find you, geriatric BMX bandit. And when I do, I'm taking the best damn picture of you the world has ever seen. And then I'm taking my 20p back. I'm taking them all back.



More tales of delusion and grandeur over at humor-blogs.com. Please click that link for me? It helps me out a lot while at the same time helps starving kids in that place.. overseas. The dusty one. It's totally win win.

World Tour of Burger Establishments

With thanks to Charlie


We live in the United Kingdom, which enjoys a fine culinary history of hastily delivered dining. Not only do we have McDonalds and the Colonels Fried Chicken, but we even have a place called PFC (the P stands for perfect, although I assume its in a 'love you just the way you are' kinda perfect).

The king of the hill, so to speak, has always been the greasy tarmac known as Burger King.


United Kingdom



Which got me thinking. Are we alone in our enjoyment of burgers that have more than cheese than common sense? What do other countries partake in when it comes to foodstuffs that even mould tends to avoid?



I decided to find out.







Germany








Monaco






Japan







United Arab Emirates





Vatican City



That's all we need; A burger joint run by people who for 2000 years have traded solely on guilt.

At least it'll be convenient in the event of needing your last rights read out.

Ever get the feeling someone is watching you?

Dramatic Lemur

Dramatic Chipmunk

Allow me to take this opportunity to retract any statements I may have made that may or may not have suggested that YouTube was inane and/or pointless. After viewing all of the available evidence it seems clear that I was wrong.. so very, very wrong.

Even more inane banter coming soon. It's Monday, and the weekend was pretty, so cut me some slack. Or give me a beer. I'm easy either way.

While They're Young

A friend of mine Ben has a little brother who has just started going to primary school. Alongside learning about the wonders of numbers, letters, and Transformers, he has also been exposed to a variety of new social structures. Specifically, he's started bringing home the sailor talk.

Unfortunately for him the lesson plan for discussing the different applications of the verb 'to ho' falls a bit short around the playground, which leaves our wee protagonist a bit confused most of the time.


"Ben, what does gay mean?"

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't know."

"Why do you ask?"

"Well all the kids at school call me gay. And each other. That call everyone gay."

"What do they think it means?"

"They don't know either. Their brothers call them gay."



Lo, another generation indoctrinated into sexual ambiguity.



I don't wanna start nothin, but Humor Blogs has been asking difficult questions about your sexuality too. Better go there now and set them straight.

LOLCets

Overheard on the train back from Brighton:

"You know Mery's cet? Yeh, the fet one. Wull it got run over by a car end lost ets tail. Et must heve bin bed, because now et kearn't crep!"

"Hey?"

"Mery's cet. Et kearn't crep! Et'd do my hid in."


A very tired Cath rose grumpily from my lap, not being able to contest any further with the tales of feline constipation. "Mery's cet is doing a lot of people's hids in today." she explained to me, and at least 3 other people within earshot.

Kiwis. As ubiquitous as Australians, but just a smidgen noisier.

iPhone called. Wants its tee shirt back.

I've always been quite amused by the arrogant pushiness of the new iPhone marketing. "Say hello to iPhone." it demands, probably interrupting the conversation already going on around it. You politely ignore it and carry on talking, pretending not to hear. You will meet the iPhone in your own time, perhaps after it buys you a few ice-breakers.

Only one problem. Marketing senses your reluctance and reaffirms its request for a more formal introduction. "Say hello to iPhone." comes the more forceful entreaty. "Today."

Golly.

"Oh, right." you stutter, a little embarrassed. "Whatup iPhone?"

Que a ten minute diatribe on the Google Maps 'zooming' feature, lightly sprinkled with Macy Gray worship. You inwardly curse your inability to deal with socially uncomfortable situations and wonder what the end of your friends amazing anecdote was. How did he manage to retrieve his underpants from the mouth of that polar bear? Curses.

This situation is not uncommon, and it only seems to be getting worse. For instance, have you seen their new marketing campaign?





Brazen, to say the least.




Still want one.

Stumblor Guide to: Calling in Sick

The world of falsified sick-leave has been in a bit of a creative slump recently. People just don't seem to care anymore. While I'm sure that a mixed kebab at three in the morning probably didn't help your overall well-being, calling it food poisoning is just lazy. Eight tequila shots and the accidental drinking of an ashtray should prompt you to invent whimsical ailments, such as Mexican Grippe, or tar infused stomach acidity. While I salute your propensity to party, I naysay your ability to coin decent excuses.

But I understand. I appreciate that finding a believable affliction first thing on a Monday can be a bit of a bogus ride for all you 24 hour party people, and that googling in the hopes of finding one is not entirely dissimilar to actually going to work in the first place. I get it. So, I've decided to help. Altruism I think they call it.

Below are a list of underused scourges of the body that are entirely original, believable, but most importantly, temporary. Road test one of these bad boys next time you wake up in a ditch on a school-day, praying like crazy for a head that wasn't the ill-gotten gains of some very questionable robot dancing. I know I will.

Smoke Inhalation. Particularly useful if your voice sounds like you've been at a nail gargling party hosted by Janis Joplin and Eartha Kitt.

Altitude sickness. More effective if you first grow a beard and make sure to magic marker a few digits before going into the work the following day. Remember not to give any credit to your Sherpa, as you will lose all plausibility as a mountaineer.

Love Blindness. Difficult to argue the viability of a day off work using this one, so be careful. On the plus side, it should clear up in a day or two; considering you can hardly even remember what she looks like.

The Sweats. A very real affliction apparently, which can be brought on by plane flights, diet allergies, and the two o'clock Monday morning realisation that you left the office unlocked all weekend.

The Runs. An oldie but a goodie. The greatest thing about runny poo is that no-one wants to talk about it, so make sure you go into excessive detail. Keeping in mind the common knowledge that no-one who wasn't genuinely sick would discuss the frequency and shade of their bowel movements, this technique should see you home and (figuratively) hosed.

Growing Pains. Nothing to do with calling in sick, I was just genuinely interested in what became of Kirk Cameron. I miss him.

Summer Sale Madness. You may need a bit of panache to pull this one off. My recommendation is to mumble the first bit, place emphasis on 'madness' and giggle uncontrollably during any conversation lapses.

The Bends. Take a snorkel to work the next day, and if anybody gives you lip, just get disproportionally irritated and reply: "Well I WOULD expect that coming from someone whose blood is oxygenated correctly!"

Better Your Metaphor

I'm working on some other projects this week (yes yes, I'm very busy and important), so to keep us occupied and off the streets I decided that we could all participate in the brand new Stumblor Better Your Metaphor activity.

Chosen battlefield: 'Busier than a'. See Jess and my IM correspondence below for an example:

Davey: Are you busier that a unicyclist at a tightrope convention?
Jess: Yes dear, I'm busier than a thumb twiddler at a boredom junket.

(I conceded hers was niftier)


Yours: [Submit yours and you could gain Stumblor-wide notoriety!]


Submissions will be judged on character and originality, meaning that people who submit one-armed miners or one-legged ass-kickers, riverdancers or dance dance revolutionaries will be scorned menacingly. In fact, no amputees at all. They freak me out.

Entries in the comments please. I'm expecting big things from Milly-Vanilly, she's got more metaphors than... most people.

Energy equals.. umm.. Multiplied..

Soooo excited about Mariah's new album:




Things I would like to ask Mariah Carey
By Davey

1. Who was the famous physicist responsible for your new album's namesake?
2. What does the variable c correspond to in that particular equation?
3. What is that round white thing in the sky when it's not day?

That last one is in there just to throw her. I'm pretty sure her publicist would have prepped her for the other two.

Dear God, why Me-me? Part 1.

Ok, it seems there is no avoiding this meme thing. Eleanor Bloom and the blogger formerly known as Milly Moo are only too delighted to push the format, and although it all feels scarily reminiscent of being passed 'So, who do u like? Pass it on.' notes in Mr Clews' History class, I must be pretty convincing in my assurances of participation because the requests keep rollin' in. Heavens knows why; I'm lying through my teeth.

Lying is a bit strong. It's more like when you have every intention of taking out the garbage right up until the point where your house starts smelling like fish. Which is strange because you can't remember having recently eaten fish. Considering that's about the best simile I have ever come up with, it really is a wonder why people are requesting me to write more. Perhaps they're suckers for punishment, who knows? People's preference for bdsm is none of my hoo-ha.

So anyway. I've got like three memes to do. Don't worry, ye of little attention span; I'll totally fudge it. I've got a plan.


Meme 1 -- Earliest Memory

My sister used to be a massive fan of Barbie; an anomaly among children in a district that was more used to rearing cattle-rustling femme fatales and World War I flying aces (in the case of myself). Many Barbies and their ill-pink accoutrements were purchased for her growing collection. Along with the pink Cadillacs and obscenely long maned ponies of fluttering eyelidded virtue came packaged many Barbie-related information pamphlets coaxing the world's future cheerleaders into joining the latest Shopping Mall Appreciation Society, the Cookie Bakers Council, or some other no doubt worthy NPO.

Attracted to the vibrant pink paper, I seized one of the Barbie fan club applications. I managed to get the gist of it through the patient explanation of Mum, but then promptly forgot about it; probably because it had very little to do with planes, pilots, or things that flew.

A few months later, Mum found me in my bedroom at one o'clock in the morning bawling my eyes out. Apparently I had suddenly realised that we had missed the cut-off date for sending in the application, and although I wasn't sure what prizes I had missed out on, if any, I was pretty certain that they would have been great, and that I would have liked them. A lot.

Before we all get carried away with the implications of my being heartbroken over not getting into a club for girls, let's first examine the alternative explanations. Personally, I think this says more about how much importance I place on the punctual submission of documents. At least it would, had I any semblance of punctuality. Which I don't. Punctuality issues notwithstanding, I still think that this story shows that from an early age I liked to while away the twilight hours conjecturing and pondering. About plastic dolls, sure, but I bet you I was just thought they were GI Joes with 60s haircuts. And frankly, that level of zietgiest understanding shows merit, and not you or my twice a week, 80 pound an hour psychiatrist is going to tell me any different.



That's Eleanor's done. Milly's next, then Eleanor's other one. Will the pain never stop? Yes, indeed the pain will stop; in just two memes time. Quit yer bellyachin.

When Good Books Turn Bad

[two weeks ago, via Stalkbook]:

"Hey David,
Long time no hear lol.
Hope you remember me I have change heaps [sic] ,
I think for the better [sick].
Hope to here [sic] from you."

Thought process: Who the fuck? Ignore.

[one week ago]:

"I really thought you would of least said hello back thanks David"

Ok fine. Doris, take a note:

(ahem)

Dear school chum,

Delighted upon hearing the news that you have improved for the better over the last 15 years. Ignoring the fact that you sound creepy, possibly to the point of boiling bunnies, I am curious as to why you are under the impression I am indebted a hello to you? If memory serves, you were some girl from high school that didn't talk to me, whereas I was the guy whose letterbox was repeatedly incinerated by unknown parties -- two distinctly different roles whose responsibilities did not include the odd amicable greeting or the mutual sippings of fine china'd tea. These days, I fear I would be branded an embellisher for even referring to our dealings as cordial. Non-existent would be more like it, which coincidentally also sums up the level of guilt I have for not replying to you.

Nevertheless, I do so hope that you continue in your quest for self improvement. By my calculations, you are well on your way to being full-blown crackers. Although I cannot support your need to harass people whom you never knew, I will no doubt be rooting for the prosecution upon hearing of your stalking-related arrest. I'm not sure what womens prison is like, bull-queer wise, but heads up on not dropping the proverbial soap.

Laters,
d.

Doris, did you get all that? Remember, there's two e's in 'queer'.

Sir, and please forgive me for saying so, but are you quite sure you want to send such a.. controversial correspondence?

Alternatives?

Supposing you just ridicule her from behind the assumed anonymity of the internets?

Doris, if I was 100 percent that you weren't in cahoots with the bunny boiler, I would totally promote you right now.

Thankyou Sir.

Back to work, turncoat.

Get Rich.. and Quick.

So, tell me your concept?

Well, we got loads of lead, right? Tons of it. And some pretty good shape making tools. You know, those things that make shapes?

I'm listening.

Well, I'm thinking... we could be counter-fitters!

Hold on mate, I was always pretty terrible at maths.

I've done the sums stupid. You and me right, we'll get minted turning all this lead into coins!

Two pound coins?

Nah, pound coins. Two pound coins are all multi-coloured and that.

Fuck it.

Yeh right, fuck it! We'll make poind coins!

How much lead we need to use per poind coin?

Bout 90 p's worth.

Result!

Yeh, but we gotta spray em gold like.

Gold?

Yeh, bout 5 p's worth of gold paint we need to use, each one.

How much does that leave us then?

Well mate, let's just say this next round's on me!

Reeesult!

or