Putting the 'Hi' into Hiatus

Wow.
It's been aaaaages.
Turns out this whole 'real life' business can be a time consuming pain in the ass.

So yeah, I've been busy sorting out travel plans, working fuckloads and doing assorted other junk.

Still, not much to write at the moment as I'm kinda overloaded in the head.

Here's a tip for y'all though:
If you're emailing a relatively large number of highly ranked, government communications staff, don't get distracted and try to work out the correct spelling of hors d'oeuvres using only the powers of your mind.
Mainly because it will be discovered that the powers of your mind are in fact categiorized as 'Feeble' after you realise you've just sent out a batch email with the text "hors ordeavues" sitting just below the "Dear [important government person]" part.

Yeah, my bad.
I think the government have now tagged me as a "Special-Needs Child" in their database.
Next time I'll just write canapes instead.

One of these days, everything will chill the fuck out for a bit and I'll get back to posting with more regularity. Bring on the literary Metamucil!

Back to the grindstone...

Oh, how sweet.

Upon my entering the unisex toilets at work:

"I'd use the other loo if I was you."

See, the ladies I work with are actually really, really considerate.

Like all decent humans, I hate Crocs.

I just found out that I am the only person in my office that is vehemently opposed to the wearing of Crocs. If you don't know what crocs are, you must live in one of the few remaining pristine, Croc free zones. Consider yourself lucky.
It pains me to even capitalise the word Crocs as it feels like I'm validating their existence.
Apparently, my colleagues think Crocs all sorts of things, like 'nifty' and 'lightweight' and worst of all, 'funky'.
This differs from my description of Crocs which often includes words such as 'fucked', 'shithouse' and 'slap-in-the-face-to-all-thinking-humans.'

Goddammit people, what the fuck?

Although I may have overstepped the mark in expressing my dislike for them whilst conversing with the banshee manager (The BM).

The BM: Oh yeah, my family all have crocs, even my little boy has a pair and he loves them! In fact, we all went to go out the other day and I said to my husband, "We can't all go out wearing crocs! Hahaha!"

Me: Ha, yeah because I know if I saw a whole family wearing crocs, I'd drive up over the kerb and run them over! Bam! Natural Selection! Hahaha!

The BM: [Shocked look accompanied by awkward silence.]

Me: [As my maniacal laughter fades] Err... Yeah, I'm gonna make lunch now.

Does anyone know if there's an animal that's higher up the food chain than the crocodile? I can't think of one. If I could I would make a pair of shoes and call them "[Abbreviated term for an animal higher up the food chain than the crocodile]" and their soles would be made from melted down Crocs and the upper would be made from the skin of the people I caught wearing Crocs in public.

Good or bad?

You're a pigeon trapped inside a cafeteria/concourse/common area in a university.
There's no other pigeon folk in the building, which makes you sad as you get lonely and have no one to coo at.
You do however have unimpeded access to ALL THE CRUMBS and all; the shelter.

Although, you don't have any sticks to make a nest out of and the floor is made of shiny marble, so you slip over a lot.

Is this a good thing or a bad thing?

Pigeons of the world, I want to know your opinions.

What has our protagonist gotten himself into now?

Hands up if you spent 16 hours over the weekend locked in a room with thirty people learning the 'science' of making a phone call?

No? Anyone? Just me then.
Damn.

Boy was it tough. Painful. Demoralising. Patronising. Conceited.
Imagine being spoken to like a 3 year old for 16 hours.
Then add in a fuck-wad who insists on relating everything the trainer says to his past job where he was some salesperson extraordinaire. A past job where he... wait for it....

... sold double glazing. Could you be a more stereotypical shit salesman type asshole?

I got into an argument with this guy over lunch as he wanted to tell everyone how he went on a twelve day sales course and is now some psychological superpower. Dude thought he was Professor Charles Xavier. He insisted that he could manipulate anyone into doing anything he wants by getting them to answer questions that form a response pattern. Then, (wait for it) HE CHANGES THE PATTERN SO YOU SAY YES TO HIS REQUEST!

Pfft. Fuck off Uri Geller.
I told him he sounded stupid and I'd never buy anything from him ever.
He told me I'm the sort of person he loves to sell to, because he loves it when they eventually fall for his ploys and buy whatever it is he's selling.
I told him he couldn't sell to someone, if they weren't buying anything, hated him and thought that what he was selling was shit.
A girl in the group asked him when he'd been brainwashed.
He mumbled some pseudo-psych bullshit and went out for a cigarette.
I finished my mashed potato and imagined fun ways I could severely injure him.
I also postulated that guys with long vulture necks and giant adam's apples are always fuckwits. I base this on knowing three people that support my hypothesis. Shush. My sample size is valid.

The only positive thing came in the 'icebreaker' exercise. The exercise required you to find a partner, learn about them and tell everyone else who they were, where they came from and one weird fact about them.

We struck gold on the first pair.

Trainer: Ok, you guys, you go first.

Tate: Uh, this is Greg. Greg's from London and the weird thing about Greg is that he has OCD.

[Awkward silence as Greg glares at Tate, and then glances around awkwardly whilst unbuttoning and re-buttoning the top button on his shirt. Five times.]

I almost explode holding back my laughter. No one else sees the humour in this.

Social awkwardness is my favourite spectator sport.

The only other good thing was hearing the trainer tell a fully grown man to go out into the corridor and wait for her as she would not stand for people having private conversations in the classroom.

So umm. Yeah. This job is probably going to suck. At least i got to watch a video about an Orangutan for my training this afternoon.

Hmmm..... (A story in three parts)

Part One

After reading people's comments on various blogs today I've decided I'm sick of fuckwits on the internet that make retarded, inflammatory, pointless comments and think that grammar is the lady their grampa married.
Yes my grammar's not perfect, but I don't paint it orange, tie it to a balloon and tape that balloon to a seagull bound for some place where the WHOLE WORLD CAN SEE IT. Like the internet.
You will never see my bad grammar, painted orange, tied to a balloon and taped to a seagull bound for the internet.

What we need is semi-sentient keyboards that can tell when someone is being a tool and simply melt their fingers.

*Meanwhile back in less-angry land*

Part Two

I got the call centre job. It's for a charity, it's on evenings and Saturdays and I call old people, convince them to give me money, then get their bank details. This is how I spend my spare time anyways, so no big changes there.
I also get to wear one of those cyborg headset things, which basically makes this like the best job ever. I wonder how long it takes before people get sick of me yelling "HEY GUYS, GUYS! LOOK! I'M A ROBOT" whilst dancing in a way which resembles the fashion in which a robot would dance. Probably not long.
I think I may try to take the job to the next level and turn into my alter ego which is '80's Sales Guy'.
80's Sales Guy is just like me, except he has super gelled down hair, wears one of those blue shirts with white cuffs and collar and has suspenders. He shouts things like "You got it!" and does 'gun fingers' heaps.
That's how I'll be rollin'.

* Fast Forward to a small town called Banality*

Part Three

I caught the bus home from the interview last night. I sat at the front, on the top level of the double-decker.
Somewhere near Liverpool Street station, the bus turned a corner and in front of the bus, four dudes on rollerblades came skating down the road.
At the time, I was listening to some Alexisonfire, which was lucky. I mean if I'd had Ace of Base playing through my iPod, then I would have totally thought it was 1993.
Mainly because 1993 was rollerblading's equivalent to punk's 1977.
And 1993 was Ace of Base's equivalent to rollerblading's 1993.

It could be said that 1993 was a good year for both Ace of Base and rollerblading.
Conversely, not one single year has been a good year for this guy:

"What the hell are you meant to be? Surprise Roller Elf? There's no Surprise Roller Elf in the fucking nativity scene. Once again you've ruined Christmas, Dad."

Blegh... It's time I went to bed. The Stupid is stirring inside me.

A snapshot...

Non Blondie: You bought more bread! We've got so much bread in the freezer now.

Me: Yeah we have heaps of bread and bread related products.

NB: We almost have as much stuff in there as the others.*

Me: Yeah, but at least our bread is whole, edible bread, not just random gross bits that no one else wants, like a bag full of umm... bread rind or something.

[Long pause]

Me: Uh, when I said bread rind, I meant crust.

NB: Do you always have to do things the hard way?


This conversation exists because our flatmates have filled the freezer with the offal and other junk that they eat which includes, but is not limited to chicken feet, chicken heads, chicken liver and some unidentifiable part of a pig which may or may not be genital in nature.
That's right- Imagine coming home from work to a bowlful of fried chicken's heads peering up at you, their beaks suspended mid-squawk and their beady little eyes all shriveled and raisin-like in appearance. Then imagine thinking "What smells like a homeless man's warm, urine-soaked pants?", then you spy a pot on the stove and realise it's the source of the smell and then you think "OH MY GOD THEY ARE BOILING A POT OF URINE!", but then you open the pot and realise that instead it contains some weird things and some more chicken parts, then you throw up in your mouth a little before running up the stairs into your room and spraying so much Febreeze into their air that it coats the inside of your lungs and every time you sneeze, crisp, freshly laundered linen flies out your nose.
IMAGINE THIS. THIS IS HOW I LIVE.

Don't push me, cos i'm close to the edge.

Just when you thought I couldn't put myself through any more occupation-related pain...

I'm going over to the dark side
I have organised an job interview for Monday afternoon at a call centre. It's an evening and weekend job that pays decent money and it's not commission based and there's no cold calling.
How bad could it be?


Don't look at me like that.
At least it'll make for good stories.

This travel business makes you do crazy things.

A recap and some other junk...

Well, needless to say, my secret meeting with the CEO went well today. Whilst two of my colleagues don't have jobs as of next week, I used my charm and boyish wiles to convince her that I was awesome and that I could single-handedly turn things around.
Or something like that. Actually nothing like that. I had to be very honest and admit fault but it seemed to work out alright. There was an unnecessarily large amount of talk of office culture though. I found this funny because this is a workplace overrun with middle-aged women with nothing better to do than talk about when they had a cup of tea once that was so hot that the cup melted a mark into the top of their desk and they had to hide it with paper for a week because they'd only been working there for a little while and were afraid they'd lose their job.
Imagine banal conversation like that. All. The. Fucking. Day.
Although I lie. These conversations are punctuated with me being told what smart-casual means.
"So we all have to come along to this event tomorrow night. Dress code is smart-casual. Jiminy that means you should probably wear a collared shirt or something. Maybe jeans, I think that would be ok."
Ahh...yes. Thank you for clarifying smart casual for me. Unfortunately this means I ironed my string vest and camouflage three quarter cargo pants for nothing. Damn.

In an effort to boost the morale in the place, they've opted to install umbrellas in the middle of the groups of desks. Like, big fuck off novelty beach umbrellas. No shit. It's ridiculous.
These are the kind of people that make every second Friday "Dress As Your Favourite Pet Cat Day" because they think it will be so good for morale, not to mention FUCKING HILARIOUS to see Laneesha from accounts dressed up as little Mr Tinkles. They forget however, that no one else in the office owns a cat, let alone multiple felines from which to pick a favourite. Everyone also knows that you let your cats sleep in your bed and that your just-used vibrator has picked up so much cat-hair from your sheets that it looks like an Alsatian's disembodied tail. Fools.

So at the moment, there's a big taffeta umbrella perched gaudily over a desk. A green one, with a parrot on it and fairy lights.
The other one is pink with flowers embroidered on it. And tassels.
I work near colourful umbrellas and tassels, however I'm not a cocktail waiter at a burlesque club. What has my life come to?

Why don't you just shape some shit into a ball, roll it around in your cat-hair sheets and call it a fucking coconut. Because that's closer to paradise than these stupid umbrellas you're surrounding me with.

So being the singular synthesiser of testosterone in a thick swamp of estrogen producing manatees I mockingly declared that I felt left out of the festivities as i didn't have an umbrella above my desk.
Bad move Jiminy. Manatees cannot detect sarcasm.
Yesterday a package arrived in the post for me.
"Open it." My boss says, grinning daftly with her fish-mouth.
I sigh and pull away the packaging.
It's a wide-brimmed hat with corks dangling off it. It even had a kangaroo printed on the front of it. Because that's what we all do in Australia these days. Seriously, live in the now. Why didn't you just get me a brochure for EXPO 88 or a block of cheese signed by Peter Russell Clarke. Why stop there though? Buy me the box set of Crocodile Dundee videos wrapped in prawns and soaked in Eucalyptus oil. Or save yourself the trouble and just write me a card that says HEY YOU'RE AUSTRALIAN. Cos that's about as funny as your fucking hat.

It's like me buying her some severed heads, cos isn't that what the English were into at some stage? Cutting off heads and sticking them to things to ward off their enemies? Or was it burning people? Maybe I could bring her some matches and a some sticks to make a pyre.
They wonder why there's such a high staff turn-over? Geez... I dunno guys, it wouldn't have anything to do with the incompetent managers. Maybe it's because there's NOT ENOUGH UMBRELLAS.

Anyways, I'm getting all worked up. The point of this was to paint a picture of the 'culture' in my office. It may seem to you that it paints a more accurate picture of my current absence of sanity but frankly, I care not. Me and Other Me are very happy with ourselves.

Anyways, my office sucks and I'm powerless to change it, unless I magically develop ever-shrinking ovaries overnight and miraculously turn into a bitter, thick-skulled ass hat.
Quit, you say? I'd like to but I need the cash as The Girl and I are saving furiously (which I imagine would look like a tiny kid frantically jamming handfuls of bank notes into a piggy bank) for our big Europe/India/South East Asia/Back to Australia trip at the end of June.

Looks like I'm in Grit-Your-Teeth-And-Deal-With-It City for three more months. Hooray.
Oh well, I hear it's full of umbrellas culture at least.

Holy shitballs!

It's been a damn long while, homies.

This is mainly due to the Draconian measures that have been introduced to my workplace.
My boss sits beside me and frequently leans over and asks what I'm doing. If, god forbid, I'm taking two minutes out to check my email I get asked why I'm wasting time and not doing ALL THE WORK YOU HAVE, WHY IS THIS?

To which i shrug and scream at her in my head....

Despite all my rage i am still just a rat in a cage.

Anyways, my place of work is about to implode in a maelstrom of menopausal wrath. It's all cloak and dagger, with whispers in the corridor secret meetings and all kinds of junk.

I have to leave in five minutes for a secret meeting in a nearby coffee shop. I would not be surprised if there are Gregorian chants involved.

I think the meeting could be because the banshee manager overheard a few of us going to town (in the insulting sense, not the sexual one, you bunch of degenerates) on them the other day. And by overheard, I mean sneaked into the hallway and listened. Which is retarded behaviour from people who claim to be more professional than a hat full of doctors.

The problems may be that they heard the following terms being bandied about;

- Fish mouthed wench
- Fish wife
- 88 (Referring to the two fat ladies that are our managers.)
- Captain Aubergine and the Egg-Shaped Crusader (again, a nasty personal attack which i really should refrain from if I ever intend to kick it with Jeebus)
- Incompetent, irritating, thick-skulled, daft, retards.
- Cockwits.

Apparently this could be classed as subordination or some bullshit.

I don't see how.

Meeting begins in a couple of mins. I gotta get going.

Will give you the details upon return. And i'll post more, k?
Is anyone even left around here? Or did you get bored like, three months ago and give up and go to find your gutter humour froma more reputable and intelligent source, like say from a 10 year old?

It's ok. I understand.