Stop calling me, fools.

I just had a phone call at work that went like this:

Me: Hello, Jiminy speaking.

Guy: I want a Stella McCartney Adidas tersports hat.

(Long Silence)

Me: Sorry, I didn't quite catch that, what was it you were...

Guy: (interrupting) Stella McCartney Adidas tersports hat.

(At this stage I started getting self conscious that my voice was monotonous and he'd mistaken me for one of those automated voice recognition bots. Luckily there wasn't the sound of him mashing buttons to try and get back to the main menu. Also I couldn't think of any system that would have a question where one of the spoken response options would be 'Stella McCartney Adidas tersports hat'*)

Me: I'm not sure what you're talking about, we're actually an organisation that does 'x' (where x is completely unrelated to Stella McCartney Adidas tersports hats)

Guy: Oh, so you don't know about Stella McCartney Adidas tersports hats?

Me: (Tersely) No.

(Long silence)

Guy: Ok.

(Hangs up)
-----

What the fuck? What is wrong with you man? And how many times do you have to say Stella McCartney tersports hat?
I did some research and it turns out that a Stella McCartney tersports hat looks like this:

What a shit beanie.

Who wants a hat like that one bad enough to call someone about it anyways? You could get one like that out of a bin. Or an even better one off a guy who lived in a bin. Also What makes a plain blue beanie 'designer'? It's not pleated in some crazy way. There's no asymmetrical lapels. It's wool, spun into string which is then knotted together in a head shape. You're a sham Stella McCartney.

It did remind me of the Bai Long Tong phone call I had a while back...

Phones are crazy.

Fridays are awesome.

Tell me your crazy phone stories. TELL ME THEM!



* Unless the question was "What is the shittest hat ever?"

Another example of my maturity.

Today on my way home from our new house I drew a dick in the little box in the London Paper that says 'Doodle Here'

Who am I to defy such clear instructions?.

Slacking...

Yes, I'll be updating properly again soon... Non Blondie and I are just in the middle of moving house, celebrating birthdays, working etc etc etc so am a bit caught up in all that shit to get a chance to post.

I'd do it from work, but the mad vomit fish/lever arch woman has recently finished an advanced course in 'Pathetic Management- Guidelines For Fat No Hopers With Inferiority Complexes' and is doing her best to look busy in order to cover her stupidity, uselessness and complete incompetence.
God, I hate her and her brainless ass.

So yes, more stories and whatnot to come shortly.

In the meantime, go embrace the real world. Or if you're currently in the north of England repair your shattered home after this morning's horrific earthquake disaster. This will probably require you to do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING considering the earthquake was about as violent and dangerous as a stoned ladybug in a cotton wool jumpsuit.

If the media says one more thing about this 'horrible earthquake' the ghosts of 110,000 Japanese that have died in actual earthquakes are going to come and rape everyone in England with slabs of broken concrete and be all like "You want to feel real earthquake, bitches?"
So stop talking about it.
I don't want concrete in my ass.
Thank you.

It's not evil it's funny.

I was thinking I should go edit the Wikipedia page on Coulrophobia (A phobia of clowns) and upload this:



Imagine poor clown-fearing people searching for help on the interwebs, only to encounter a big picture of the thing they fear the most.

Alternatively you could put a link up there with the text "Help resources for sufferers" and link that to the picture.

Hehe...
People would be losing their shit.

Seven immutable rules...

... for the toilet.

It's alright though, I'm not going to give you a run through (pardon the pun) of some nasty poo rules. Today I'll be giving you the rules of peeing.

Now ladies, you're probably aware that us guys have the benefit of not sitting down to pee. We get the shiny urinal to piss into, which would appear to be convenient, hygienic and doesn't require us to put our ass on something that is still warm from another person's ass. This sounds like a completely good thing with no downsides. And it would be if people were able to follow the Seven Rules of Peeing, which I have developed just now.

1) Always leave a one-person-space buffer where possible.
Do not come and stand beside me and make downs with your zip. Go stand over there where there is heaps of space and absolutely no chance of us crossing the streams and causing a "total protonic reversal".

2) Do not engage in conversation whilst engaged in urination.
Piss talks are not cool. They're possibly the most awkward social situation ever. I don't want to hear how totally wasted you are/upset you are that your girlfriend hates you/your opinions on the inferior quality of the cocktails/reasons why the chick that just knocked you back is a lesbian.
We're two men holding our penises in a tiny room. It's weird already. Stop making it weirder.

3) Don't address another man's wang. Ever.
I don't care if it's big, small, diamond encrusted, semi-automatic or French. You should never in any way address another urinators (I'm just gonna run with that, even though it's not a word) member. Not even in passing or indirectly. Feel free to breach this rule if you are in the market for black eyes and/or broken noses.

4) Learn and implement some physics theories. Or at least some basic principles of fluid dynamics.
Your piss hitting the urinal at 90 degrees results in splatter. Splatter is the ultimate no-no.
There's a thousand angles you can opt for, depending on the shape of the urinal which will avoid you splattering everyone within a 6 foot radius.
There's nothing worse than when you suddenly realise tiny droplets of some fuckwad's piss are glistening in the hair on your arm or leaving little dots on the leg of your jeans. The worst thing is you can't address this in any way without breaching rule number 3. Your only option is to shuffle away from the splatter and hope that they don't have crazy asparagus acid-piss that's going to leave burns.

5) Wash your fucking hands, you filthy sloth.
It's called water and you wash your hands with it. You can even use soap and if you're feeling like it, dry your hands too! This is so that you're not putting your piss on anyone else. You already pissed on the guy beside you Captain Splatters, the least you can do is not touch everyone else with your Super Manky Genito-Hands. Plus your urine soaked hands smell like homeless. Chicks are not into homeless.
If not for hygiene, do it for the ladies. If you've had to read this far to go, "Ok, i'll do it, but only for the ladies" then you sir, are an asshole. An unwashed filthy asshole.

6) Don't make noises.
Seriously. Urinating involves relaxing certain muscles. Relaxing implies there is no requirement for physical exertion. Why are you groaning?
Also, deeply exhaling whilst you're urinating makes it sound like you're masturbating. Stop it. It's nasty and you're creeping me out. If pissing in a room full of men is the closest you come to sexual satisfaction you should seriously look into seppuku. (Not to be confused with bukkake, which coincidentally also requires a room full of men. Eww. Sorry)

7) Pants stay up.
You don't need to pull your pants down to pee, you degenerate. (I've seriously seen a guy do this. It made my brain vomit.)


Now go forth, print these out and put them up in your local pub/bar/school/place where people urinate. If need be, add your own tag and perhaps a poorly spelled comment about someone sucking balls. This should add 'cred' to the rules and increase compliance.

Thanks in advance for your assistance.

Well?

Since when is calling someone you've just got off the phone to 'Cockface' deemed to be inappropriate for work?

Prudes.

Some Pictures

As I'm lacking in words/brainpower at the moment, I'm posting some pictures instead. Words/brainpower expected to come back some time this afternoon hopefully.

In the meantime, here's some photos from my travels thus far.

Sunny days in Czech Republic. And some guy with a cross. Religion is a popular pastime for everyone there. Except statues, they don't do a whole lot. Posers.

The Girl partially obscuring a sunset. The alternative title for this was 'Sun? In England! Quick, grab the camera and take a fucking photo!' Or it could be called 'The Water's Blue, You're Just Colourblind, You Dumbshit.'

The trumpeteer. He also plays saxaphone.

Remnants of ads in the underground. One bit looks like it's part of an old ad for Giant Strangle Hands™

Waterfall. Splash. Or a humourous cut scene to represent a moneyshot in an old movie which would have been preceded by a train going into a tunnel, a rocket taking off and possibly a bottle of champagne being opened.

The excitement of Liverpool St station. It's usually busier than this. Maybe everyone ran away because the building appears to be being held up by pick-up-sticks.

More statues in Czech Republic. Statues are like Jesus to them. Wait, the statues are Jesus? Oh, it's all starting to make sense now.

London. From Southbank at night. Through a foggy lens. Crap.

Everyone's favourite holiday: Sit On An Orange Bench With A Stranger Near A Fuck-Off Spiky Green Bush Day

More with the silhouettes and the contrails. At least there's no statues though. Bet you're relieved.

The whimsical land of The Carnies. PS: It's not Frankston. It's a fair. I even got through this night without being pickpocketed, acquiring a giant panda or winning a shitty prize. What is it with Carnie prizes though? Yes, I got some balls to go in some hoop or something, it was damn hard and all you're giving me is a shitty lunch box from some cartoon that hasn't been on tv since 1995? Fuck you and your Captain Planet lunch box.

A study in cement. LAX is a boring, boring place. Especially when all you want is a fucking sandwich and no one sells food unless you count the beggar who'll give you some gum for a tenner. Which i don't.

Hoisin, bitches!

Most. Boring. Job. Ever. Since when do straps go above your chin? Is that even practical? I say no. I didn't tell him this though as he had a knife on a gun. That's the weapon combination I always choose to not fuck with.

Because everyone associates lions with water. Tie your boat up to a lion holding a ring in its mouth! Poor lion, all green and trapped in a giant brick with nothing to eat except a big circle.

Canary Wharf. On weekdays, home to a specific group of wankers called 'analysts' or 'brokers'. On weekends, home to sweet fuck all, apart from this here bridge and some seagulls. And maybe even some pigeons with arms

Fireworks. Or another cut scene representing some kind of sexual occurrence.

In London this is called an 'adequate measure' when combating a boring street-scape. Blue chairs. Wow. Inspiring. "Hey what you wanna do today? We should totally go down by the river and sit on a blue chair! How awesome would that be?... What do you mean 'no, you're a loser'? "

Don't be alarmed. It's just an installation I saw once. How alarming... No? Umm.. ... Err... They weren't real alarms- it was a collage, so i guess you could call them false alarms?
I don't know any more alarm puns. Ooh, wait: The gallery was such a rip off, we had to pay alarm and a leg to get in.
That is all.

An abandoned mill in a place I used to live. It's pretty abandoned. Is abandoning an antonym of bandoning? For example, 'you can tell it's empty by the lack of people bandoning the area'.

That's it. I have nothing else at the moment.

Slugs - An update

There's news on the slug front.

Last night The Girl found a dead slug in the kitchen. It was dried up. It almost looked as if it had been embalmed.
Further research tells me that slug's slime is hygroscopic, meaning it attracts water molecules. This leads me to believe that this dried out little slug had been bled dry of his slime, possibly in some kind of ritual.

And then it clicked.

The Predator Slugs had somehow found out that I had discovered their evil plot and in an effort to appease me, they had gathered under a rock and held a ceremony where they sacrificed one of their own in order to avoid the Little Green Pellets Of The Apocalypse.

Predator Slugs, your offering sates me. Keep out of the forbidden sector (the lounge room) and ye shall be spared.

The one where I am rudely disturbed

Travel documents.
They're important, people!
You should take very good care of your passport and always remember to take it with you if you're travelling abroad.

It's also very handy to have it nearby in day to day situations.

I have an awesome story for you all that I was withholding for a time like now. And by 'a time like now' I mean now that I remembered it.

So let's go back to May 2007.

The Girl and I had just moved into our shitty tiny tiny shoebox fantastic new room in a share house in Hammersmith. The house was made up of about 9 bedrooms over 3 levels. There were no dining/loungerooms and as such no one really knew anyone else in the house. But it was cheaper than living in hostels, so we were happy enough.

It was a Friday morning.

I awoke on this fateful day at the usual time, around 6.30am. Begrudgingly, I slid out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom.
I was enjoying the invigorating properties of hot running water when there was a knock on the bathroom door. I'd been in the shower for 5 mins at the most.
I yelled out with the old 'Yeaap?'
No answer. I shrugged and thought one of my flatmates was being a bit rude, but it didn't bother me.
*Knock knock.*
'Yes, what??' Slightly more aggravated this time.
Still nothing. I was annoyed by the lack of consideration displayed by my flatmates. Whilst pondering the possible need for immediate access to the bathroom ('upset stomach', plaque eradication, morning number ones, follow-through, feminine dramas) there was another knock.
That was the final straw. I jumped out, threw my towel around me and grabbed the door handle.
Boy, was I going to give some shit-words and death-eyes to the impatient person on the other side.
I swung open the door.
Instead of an impatient flatmate, I was greeted by 10 people clad in police uniform, bulletproof vests, walkie talkies and utility belts.
Umm...
Hello.

Oh Hi. We thought we'd drop around and make sure you weren't having long showers.

One guy even had a bandana on. I guessed he probably had a nickname like 'Maverick' or 'Ace' or 'Shooter'.
I thought of all the reasons that my house could be suddenly filled by such people.
Was I living in a crack den? No.
Had I been storing weapons grade plutonium? Don't think so.
Was I an extra in a new Police Academy movie? Nuh.
Was I Jason Bourne? Not that I recall.
Had I punched any old ladies recently? Nuh-uh.
Maybe it was because we'd been neglecting our basil plant and they'd come to take it into foster care? Possibly.

A man whose badge identified him as belonging to UK Immigration very sternly and quickly shouted at me: 'What room are you in? What's your name? Where are you from?
Meanwhile, I'm dripping wet looking around at the SWAT team that has suddenly materialised in our hallway. I try my hardest not to laugh.
'I'm in the front room. My name's Jiminy. I'm from Australia.'
One guy then peered into the bathroom, presumably to see if I was harbouring any illegal immigrants. Once he realised our bathroom was essentially a shoebox filled with porcelain and tiles and that I wasn't trying to help Pablo out a window, he relaxed a bit.
In a perfect twist of fate, to back up my story I was wearing my Australian flag beach towel. (A little too convenient, I bet they thought.) Luckily I'd decided not to wear my 'Unauthorised Border Crossing Convention 07' commemorative bath robe .
Anyways, I got hustled into our room by two of the armed guys. Whilst Maverick and one of his colleagues ran around our house for a while and knocked on doors, some others checked the Girl's and my passport and best of all I thought, jovially stated 'Well you check out, we'll have to arrest someone else!'
Good jokes from the guy with the gun.
They then left as quick as they came, leaving us a receipt of their search warrant and an overwhelming feeling of complete bewilderment. And possibly some hidden surveillance devices.
They piled into two unmarked black vans and took off down the road.
It wasn't until after around ten minutes of The Girl and I staring at each other in silent confusion that we gathered our senses enough to think to look at the warrant receipt. It was a carbon copy that was completely illegible. Oh well.

I laughed for about another half an hour at the sheer absurdity of what had just happened, then went back and finished my shower.

Dawn raids are an awesome way to start a Friday.

So the moral of the story is:

Keep your passport handy at all times because you never know when some gung-ho enforcement agency is going to do a dawn raid on your house, beat on the door, drag you out of your shower, ask you to prove you're not an illegal alien and then disappear into thin air.

I'm full of wisdom.
You people could learn alot.

The SAS, well kind of...

No, I'm not talking bout the Special Air Service. This is something more stealthy and possibly more deadly.
Slimy Ass Slugs.

We have slugs in our house.
Not like pets in a terrarium, but rogue night-slugs that sneak in under the cover of darkness, leave trails on the carpet and then exit before anyone awakes.
There are some reasons this scares me.

1) They 'Know'
In the same way that Scientologists 'Know'. But somehow it's worse than listening to/watching Tom Cruise. The slugs know what time we go to bed and what time we wake. They coordinate their slimy reconnaissance missions whilst we sleep.
That's the bit that chills me. Whilst we sleep...

2) I don't know
I know we have a slugs, but I don't know what they want. Or where they come from or whether their intentions are noble or something altogether more insidious.
There are trails which slide around from behind the stove, into the lounge room, then from there it's hard to tell what their objectives are. There's at least two, maybe three slimy little trails on the carpet. The trails usually come out of the kitchen, go under the dining table and loop around the legs of the chairs maybe two or three times and then arch back around and out behind the stove again. What do they want with our chairs? Do they want to sit down? Can slugs even sit?

3) They eat penis
Yes, that's right. Being hermaphrodites all slugs have both male and female organs. The slugs mating ritual consists of two slugs encircling each other and sperm is 'exchanged through the protruding genitalia'. I imagine this to be kind of like a wet high five. Unfortunately for the slugs, sometimes, the corkscrew-shaped protruding genitalia, which is science-talk for 'wangs' get entangled and the slugs have no other choice but to practice apophallation, which is where one slug chews off the other's penis. How's that for sexy time? Wet high five, followed by having your wang chewed off. Eww and oww.
Not to worry though, because once the penis has been chewed off, the slugs can reproduce using their female genitalia. Hooray! Lady-man-slugs!

4) This:
Oh great. that's just what I need. Hermaphrodite gastropod molluscs with infra-red, motion sensing vision hunting me for sport whilst I sleep. Fuck.
Predator creeped me out when I was a kid. And now I have to relive the horror, albeit in slimy slow motion.

If the slime trails start appearing closer to my room, I'm gonna freak out.

Slimy, stealthy, murderous little bastards.