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

Run! He's threatening legal!

Customer service have all the fun:

Dear fuckers,

Now that I know who you are and what you do, I'm going to sue your ass. You are the entity wholly responsible for putting Vundo virus software on my computer. You are evil people with evil intentions and I'm going to sue your fucking asses and end up with all your money. What's more, I'm going to complain to the prosecuting authorities in your country and make certain that he puts each and every one of you fuckers in jail. Better yet, how about a cosmic punishment; you will never be able to watch a movie, a sporting event or do anything pertaining to personal entertainment or business without an unwanted commercial ad popping up in your fucking face. Go fuck your mother, father, sister and brother, you fucking fuckers, and go fuck yourself!

I dunno what's less scary; Being threatened by a guy who believes in correct punctuation or the fact that he's wielding unsolicited pop-up advertising.

In the meantime..

By now you will have heard about the escalating political situation in Tibet. Please take the time to sign this online petition - the fastest growing petition in web history. It is a small thing but significant - an indication of support for the Tibetan people and a display of global solidarity to those wanting to repress the right to religious autonomy.

Free Tibet.

http://www.avaaz.org



Regular scheduled programming will resume shortly, it's been a crazy week!

Eating in Vietnam

It's a pity that nothing ever remains the same same.

Airport Tales: and Other Hijinx

Arriving at Sydney airport on departure day and sporting the niftiest in high-flying attire, I sauntered up to the arrival desk and proudly presented my passport. No sooner had I begun loudly exclaiming how well travelled I had become in recent times that I was interrupted by the attendant with some shocking news. My Vietnamese visa had expired!

"That's not right." I angled lamely, my stomach descending rapidly. "It starts today."

"Well according to your passport, it ends today." offered my observant but unavoidably hateful attendant. Snatching my passport back, I confirmed that the Vietnamese embassy in London had assigned me the wrong dates for my visa. That dastardly embassy -- The same embassy who had closed for Chinese new year knowing full well I harboured suspicions that Vietnam was another country altogether. The same embassy who only 3 days before I was due to leave had hung up in my ear when I demanded that Ho Chi Min himself track down my missing passport. The same embassy who had now conspired to ruin me at Sydney airport and who no doubt had a camera trained on me this very second to enjoy the spectacle of my destruction.

Despite suspecting worse, I summed their provable indiscretions to be two - hanging up on me, and foiling my visa. So while this was only strike two for them, I was nonetheless happy to dispense with tradition altogether and forever relegate them to the category of 'you're out'. Unfortunately this did little to balm my rising frustration, and I began making what I now affectionately refer to as 'a spectacle' but could more accurately be described as 'a tantrum'.

Clearly taking pity on those within my close proximity, Singapore airlines hatched a plan; fly to Singapore, my original stopover, and fix my visa at the embassy there. Even if this couldn't be done, I could still stay in Singapore for 6 days and catch my return flight out, meaning that I wouldn't have to fork out for extra flights. Ingenious! I vigorously shook the hand of the helpful staff member, who eyed me with barely concealed dread and encouraged me to leave them alone immediately. I agreed, and turned to the nearest camera to begin scowling menacingly.

"Thought you had me that time, eh? Look whose laughing now!"

I broke into a rumbling cackle that quietened the room. When I eventually concluded laughing and had wiped the tears from my eyes, the only murmurings I heard came from the helpful attendant who was busy whispering some recommendations into her handset that might have included the word 'security' and definitely included the word 'risk'.

I trundled off happily, knowing that adventure awaited.

The Diet of Superheros

"We're on our way up to Sydney to meet your Uncle Davey."

My Mum was on the phone to my nephew Olly, attempting to explain her absence from his usual routine of habitual nanna harassment. Olly is a smart kid. A month ago his interest in birds was such that he asked my Dad what bird he would be, assuming we lived in a world where people were birds. Not really having thought much on the matter of poultry affiliation, Dad thought instead that he would choose a bird that Olly had heard of. "Well, a seagull I guess. I guess I would be a seagull."

"Hmm." replied Olly, mentally weighing the pros and cons of his choice. "Nah... Too beachy." It will be years before he works out that all the best birds hang out at the beach, but no matter which way you fly it was a pretty inspired response. I suspect that his understanding of where I've been for the past 9 months is less developed however, but he hides it well.

"Would you like me to give him a message from you?" Mum asked.

"Of course you can." Olly replied, stalling for time while he searched for some profundity. "Tell him... Elephants."

Although I've been fortunate enough to spend a great deal of time with him over the 3 year tenure of his nephewship, I've got to admit that his point alluded me. Was he communicating his capacity not to forget some wrongdoing I had previously inflicted, or simply informing me I had an elongated shnoz and was frightened of mice? I made a mental note to ask him about it, but was pretty sure I had been out-foxed.

When I made it down to Canberra and starting spending time with him and his wont-be-left-behind brother Gus, I was reminded that when it comes to kids, conversational direction is seldom controllable.

"Davey," Ollie turned to me during dinner one night, his brow furrowed with a thought that had obviously been causing him some distress. "Davey, is it true that Spiderman eats spiders?"

I put my knife and fork down, giving the question the attention it deserved. "Well that all depends on which camp you're aligned with mate. Those pro-cannibal Spidey pundits would have you believe all kinds of misnomers about the great webslinger, but take it from me little man; this is one case where dude aint what he eats."

He seemed relieved. I mean honestly, the lengths some people will go to frighten kids. I was about to continue explaining the origins of Spiderman's power due to being bitten by a radioactive and potentially lethal lab spider, but was distracted instead by the little dude inspecting a booger he'd just retrieved from his nose. "Well I aint going to eat that, Davey."

Time for me to be relieved. As an uncle, I'm pleased that my responsibility starts and stops with super hero myth debunking, rather than the higher moral teachings of snot consumption abstinence. I failed that subject if I recall.

Your ideas intrigue me and I wish to sign up for your newsletter

The company I work for has long recruited its staff privately. I believe the policy originated back when it was discovered recruitment agencies regularly sold their unborn babies to Hitler so that he could send them into war zones submerged in tanks of Piranhas infected with Typhoid, but I'm not really sure; it was all before my time. We often get calls from agencies demanding to know why it is we operate this way, and they are surprisingly unperturbed when we explain our preference for wishing remain the lone proprietors of our everlasting souls.

The Other Dave took a call this morning.


The Other Dave: I'm very sorry, but we recruit privately.

Underling: Absolutely, but have you ever considered the benefits of specialised help in this area?

Dave: Again, sorry, but our company doesn't require specialized recruiting.

Underling: Fantastic! Because I actually specialise in recruiting for companies that don't require specialised recruiting companies.

Dave: ... ?

Underling: ..I see that my razzle dazzle has left you speechless. Allow me to explain further.

Dave: *click*

---

UPDATE:


I'm currently standing in Singapore Changi Airport on free internet next to a gentleman who is very provocatively clearing his nose every 30 seconds or so. Whoever said travelling isn't glamorous has clearly never rolled like me.


If I don't get the chance to update, or to read your lovely blogs over the next 2 weeks please forgive me. I can only assure you that upon my return I will be refreshed and full of great new ideas and perspectives, and more than likely with a plethora of new Vietnamese curse words. And scurvy.


A big happy birthday to Rosie too! Your hovercraft etc. is in the mail -- I like totally promise and shit.

Water on the Brain

The water cooler at most workplaces is seen as a manifestation of team camaraderie; its purpose not only to quench the thirst of the dutiful employee but also to act as a sounding board for weekend exploits, confidential office whisperings and as a mediator of giggled debates regarding the probability of the new girl seeing any action from the more debonair of the IT team (always spectacularly overestimated). It is a focal point and a place of solace -- the beating heart of office societal interaction.

At least thats what shows like Boston Legal have tricked me into believing.

The water cooler at our work is sadly nothing like this. Limp, covered in lime residue, it languishes in a long forsaken corner of the office that I believe was once home to band of trolls. Indeed, their fossilised droppings can be found littering the surrounding area, forcing the more intrepid of water gathering souls to play poop hopscotch in a vain attempt not to make contact with the foul stuff. If by some miracle you make it through the athletic preamble to the actual cooler, you must remain steadfastly on you guard throughout the 15 minutes it takes for the water to drip from the bone coloured stalactite into your drinking vessel, as bandits lie in fiendish ambushing positions waiting to profit from your patience. Why these individuals are not outside pretending to be 50p short of a bus fair like any respectable bandit is beyond my reckoning.

All in all, the entire experience is extremely harrowing. After such an ordeal, you couldn't be blamed for wanting some kind of reassurance that the water you were getting was of a superior quality. This particular unit, coming directly from the mains and flowing through a noticeably flimsy filtration system (the stalactite) does have the advantage of coming with a handy ready-made explanation as to the numerous ways why the water it produces is better than the bottled variety.




While this information is indeed welcomed to someone of my go-go-go water needs, it is a statement that could also be attributed to a tap. The nature of its assertion also left me a bit worried, for it seems that up until now I was also labouring under the falsehood that bottled water was instant. Oh no, wait, there's the whole lid thing. "The scourge of the lid inconvenience". How could I forget.





Again, while I'm fully aware that Joe from accounting has long dreamed to be in charge of water bottle maintenance and warehousing, the potential lumber inconvenience from such a position would be nothing when compared to the frequent bowel scouring caused by wayward e coli stowaways. And trust me, the less time Joe spends in the bathroom, the better.

With all of these obstacles affronting the team, it is little wonder we all opt for the coffee purchased from the cafe downstairs instead. Actually come to think, the barrister lady does carry with her a rather troll like countenance. No no.. no I'm sure it's just a co-incidence that the cash register is situated under a rickety old bridge, oft used for the crossings of billy goats.

Sure of it.

Deer Diary

London was beautiful yesterday. Cath and I went for an amble through the sun glazed Victoria park, which ended with us feeding deer at an enclosure found at the eastern end. Nearby we overheard a boy querying his mum: "All deer can fly, right Mummy? Not just the ones in the rain?"

Sitting on the Fence

Last weeks news:

Last Monday a Palestinian suicide bomber detonated his bomb within a crowded shopping mall in Israel in the first attack of its kind for a year. A second attacker, wounded in the initial blast, was shot on the scene by a police officer.

"I saw he was alive, his hand was twitching, " The officer said. "He raised it again to try and activate the bomb, so I shot four bullets into his head and neutralized him."

and neutralized him.

To me, this the biggest case of 'extraneous information' since Niall Bunyan told me about how his unprecedented case of ring sting gave him a most unpleasant sensation of stinging ring. How's the terminology too. Neutralized. I was confused for a minute there, because I thought he was shooting four sprays of deodorant into an exceptionally smelly armpit problem.

Furthermore, and I can only speak for myself here, but when I'm in the market for neutralizing people, I always shoot them an even four times in the melon. You just never know when a suicide bomb blasted, three shot head wound mo fo is going to re-incarnate and start eating peoples brains. Don't laugh funny guy I've seen it happen.