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.

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.

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.

We're living in the future people!

I found this at work in some marketing material from years ago.
This guy was a tutor...
Nothing says "I'm a man of the future' like a 6 kilogram mobile cellular telephony device.
What a cool cat. So cool in fact, that when asked for a promotional photo, he avoids the standards profile shot and opts for this gem.


Awesome.

Stay tuned for more exciting stuff. I know I've been neglecting this and hopefully soon I'll have the time to give it some more attention.

Until then, imagine what a camera phone would have looked like back then.

Don't worry, be happy

Sometimes all it takes to make your day is to have a completely insane, muttering Scotsman walk past you, turn around and shout "YOUR HAT! I LIKE YOUR HAT! NICE HAT!!!"

Thanks McDude!
I'd high-five you but I think you have a needle stuck in your fingerless gloves.

Weather Update: Still windy. Still raining. Still cold.


Now I think of it- The whole hat compliment doesn't really make my day. It upsets me. Receiving compliments about your fashion sense from a crazy homeless guy is like having Heath Ledger compliment you on your medication management.

Too soon?

Aye

Still slacking on the blog front.
I'M IN SCOTLAND ALL THIS WEEK DOING SOME WORK THINGS. SCOTLAND IS WET AND COLD. FANCY THAT...

Whoa, holy mother of god I'm shouting.
I hate when I have a Capsident™. I couldn't be bothered going back and deleting all of that.

Anyways, I haven't had a chance to do the rounds and check out everyone elses issues/hilarity/stories about how their cat once did a poo that smelt like fried sultanas.

So once again, I leave you with no stories and a promise of improvement. Think of me of your amnesic, apologetic veteran uncle. But without the bad touch.

And just like the prodigal son I've returned...

Ya huh bitches.
That's a lyric from House of Pain's 1992 hit single 'Jump Around'.
"Tryin to play me out like as if my name was Sega" is another lyric from the same song.
Halcyon days of rap they were. I mean "...like as if my name was Sega". That's a damn compound similie or something referencing a gaming console!
Shit is tight, motherfuckers.
Word.

Anyways, I'm getting off topic.

I've brought the blog back up. (Or if House of Pain were phrasing this, it would go "And just like a motherly bird, I've regurged.")
Apologies for any confusion caused by the sudden disappearance. I don't think there's going to be any dramas, so am fairly confident I'm not gonna be fired anytime soon. Hooray.
Still though, not a great deal of internet connected free time at the moment, so posts will be kinda sporadic for a little longer.

In the meantime, here's an issue I have.
I have stupid sausage fingers that don't always press the keys my stupid sausage brain tells them to.
As such I'm frequently mistyping things, often with interesting results.
For example, the 'c' key is close to the 'v' key, and with me not being particularly well versed in the art of touch typing, 'v' often boldly presents itself where it's not wanted. Kinda like when I put on a beard and a trenchcoat and turn up at the kindergarten, but way less creepy. Or vreepy as it would be.
Also, my fingers get ahead of themselves and i end up putting words in the wrong order. For example, 'odrer'. Nice one Cabtaim Dyslexia.... (See what i did there! Wow.)
Anyways, this is usually not so much of an issue, but my work dictates that I use the words "Culture and The Arts" quite frequently in my day to day typings.
Whilst checking some copy, I found some glaring errors. Here they are demonstrating how a few small typos can make all the difference.

"...the course recently took place at the Centre for Vulture and The Arts."

"... possibilty of increased funding for businesses in creative sectors, including Vulture and The RAts."

I suspect the Vulture and The Rats sector wouldn't be particularly profitable, what with them feeding off rubbish and carcasses. Although that seems to work quite well for the legal sector.
Z!ng. See, I do scathing too...

Here's a student at the Centure for Vulture and The Arts*

I call zeez one, "Carrion"

On that lame-ass note, I leave you for now.
"Word to your moms I came to drop bombs"
Thanks, House of Pain.


* With my mad paint skillz, I would totally get a Scholarship at the Centre for Vulture and The Arts, if I was a vulture.

Futile

She sits beside me now.
She's close. Close enough I can hear her laboured breathing. Close enough I can hear her typing with her index fingers at a rate somewhere around five words per minute. Close enough I can hear her make little perplexed noises when she can't work out how to use a spreadsheet.
"It's all so confusing innit!?" she laughs.
"Hmm" I agree through a clenched jaw.
She rustles through the stack of emails that lie on her desk, printed out for 'ease of finding'. Alot of things will be easier to find once they cut down all the trees needed to support her unnecessary printing habit. I alt-tab as she tries to look at my screen. Again.
She's close enough I can smell her breath.
It's a damp combination of burnt cheese and coffee. It would seem she's not a fan of oral hygiene. Or perhaps her mouth is open so often, spewing forth words whose sole function is to mask her ineptness and lack of knowledge, that a horde of bacterium have colonised the white, scum-rich valley in her tongue and her yellow teeth, where they're binary fission-ing themselves an army of stench.
She closes her mouth and I nod in feigned agreement of whatever it was she'd been talking about.
I resume my work and listen as she bellows across the office organising catch-ups, run-throughs, sort-outs and a horde of other time wasting activities disguised with hyphens.
She's mid-sentence confirming a progress-check when she tangentially begins telling someone how she 'found a piece of paper in her backyard on the weekend that was addressed to a place down the street and it was a bill from like, three years ago so she was wondering if she should take it back to the address or whether it would be even worth it because she doubts that the same people even live there any more because her friend next door told her they used to hear them having fights late at night and they even thought that the wife may have been cheating because sometimes there'd be a car that wasn't theirs parked out the front during the day while the husband was at work and then they just packed up and moved one day.'
Somewhere inside of me, a chunk of my soul bursts into flames, fanned by the knowledge she earns twice the amount I do. The smoke rises up and catches in the back of my throat.
"Crazy, innit!?" She asks
The smoke passes over my lips and presents itself as a disinterested response.
"Yeah, sure."

She continues blabbering and the sound fades out as I look to her coffee. She's left it sit while she tells someone about how she thinks she's getting the flu because her joints are swelling, which reminds her of this guy she used to know that wore a kilt and had funny looking knees.
I stare at her coffee and the gears in my head begin to click. Slowly at first, then rapidly as an idea begins to formulate.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

She sits beside me now.
She's close. Close enough I can put drops of correction fluid into her coffee when she's not paying attention.
The label says Tipp-Ex. Poisonous. Should not be consumed.
I figure five drops a day should eventually make her ill enough to need time off work.
A stir of her coffee and a genuine smile before she sits back down beside me and sips her latte.

I repeat this every day.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

A few days in I think she looks paler. She'll be ill soon. I rejoice as I imagine days without her. The freedom to do what I want at my desk without her gazing across and asking why I'm smiling at my computer screen. Days without her telling stories about how she once had a feather stuck in her cardigan but she had no idea how it had got there because she didn't know of any birds with feathers that colour.
Days without her. I smile.

Weeks pass, maybe even months. The empty bottles of Tipp-ex fill a small box in my drawer.
I can't put up with her much longer. The nonsensical stories. The constant catch-ups. The unending incompetence. The barrage of stupidity. Every. Fucking. Day.
She's unwittingly drank seven and a bit bottles now, surely she'll be ill soon.

I'm at breaking point. The rage wells up inside me and I'm starting to think I'm going insane.
I glance at her with crazed eyes as she finishes telling someone a story.
"... I mean, I wasn't even sure if they owned cats, but apparently it doesn't matter because they eventually got arthritis and we couldn't take them on holidays to Spain anymore."

My teeth crack and my hands are balled into tight fists.

"Crazy innit!?" She asks me, her teeth now smiling a brilliant white under the office's fluorescent lights.

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?"

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.

Jeebus is sick of your prayers.

Yep, my boss is into Jeebus.
She uses the company gear and staff to print off the weekly church bulletin.
Which means we get to read it... And oh what fun it is.

Now a brief bit of background.
I'm not into Jeebus.
I'm not into someone else instead, I don't know that there is an omniscient presence that sees over us and I don't know if I believe in any kind of theism.
At the moment, I'm pretty happy in making my own decisions on all things existential and I don't need a god or a text to define my morals, thank you very much. I'd say my self-defined set of values and morals are pretty good. I'm not a philanderer, I may be slightly greedy, I do get jealous from time to time, but I'm not harming anyone. I think Buddhism would be the closest an organised religion would come to representing my interests. Although I'm probably a tad too militant to be a Buddhist.
Come to think of it, science is the best option when it comes to explaining my world.
And I'm happy for you to believe in whatever it is you choose to, just don't try to recruit me for any of your nonsense.
Anyways...
So the boss uses work for Jeebus tasks.
And whilst folding the Jeebus pamphlets, we have a read of what's happening in the church.

Friday: Pray that Mr Johansson will find help with his current difficulties.
Nice one. Single out the bankrupt guy for prayers. I'm sure that's what he needs because his overdraft mainly consists of hopes and dreams, so surely enough prayers should be worth something, right? That makes the church like a giant ATM. Cha-ching!

Saturday: Pray that the Youth Group has more people return to hear about the Lord's word.
Wait, what? You're praying for more people to come and learn how to pray? This is getting a bit too 'meta' for me. And tell your damn godsquad teens to leave me alone. I don't want your brochure and your hymns are old and shitty.

Sunday: May we pray that Pastor O'Brady's sermon reaches out to those who need it the most.
Again with the praying about praying. Since when did prayers become so self serving? Oh what? Always? Ok... Amen!

Monday: Pray that the children have enjoy themselves at playgroup and that The Lord may reach out to all of them.
Ok, that's a no no. No touching the children. Even if you are a deity. Also, don't kids do this anyways? I didn't go to church playgroup, but by hell did I have some fun in the heathen sandpits.

Tuesday: Let us pray that Sanyan Patang's chemotherapy is effective and that his family are looked over during this testing time.
Sounds like Mr Patang's been a-sinning! Ok, that's just poor taste, but seriously praying for science? Isn't that like the old cliche of fucking for virginity? Or eating for famine? Or fighting for peace? Granted it's nice they're supporting the family during a rough time, but praying for the chemotherapy to be effective? I imagine the people of the church stood around Mr Patang's hospital bed, holding their hands over him going "Wow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow"
all psychic like.
You could call it Pray-diotherapy if you like. But I don't think it would help...
Maybe I'm just a pessimist.

And so the list of prayer targets went on.
This got me thinking that isn't it a bit selfish for this people to be praying over such minor things.?
And if you were Jeebus, or God or whichever one it is, wouldn't you be a bit pissed with people telling you about this stuff all the time.
It's be like being in high school again and having your mum constantly asking "Have you done your homework yet?"
No, but I'm about to, give me a chance dammit.
Likewise, Jeebus probably WAS going to help out Mr Patang, but you lot have been so damn annoying, asking him to do things every five minutes that Jeebus has cracked it and decided Mr Patang can sort himself out.
This goes for all of the suggested prayers. Praying for the children to enjoy playgroup? If I was Jeebus, I'd be like "Seriously you guys, fuck off. The kids can enjoy things themselves just fine. What you want me to do? Apparate or some shit? Is that what you want? You want me to apparate and do some baloon animals or something? Sheesh. Go find some real conundrums, ass-hats."

"Did you want a balloon animal or not? Now what's wrong? Oh your scalp is burning? Well go tell mummy to stop praying cos she's PISSING OF JESUS!!! God I hate kids... Hey, you there! What the fuck are those flowers for? Are they dandelions? God I hate dandelions..."

I do find the whole prayer thing to be very self-centred. I mean, shit, you want something? Why not work for it like everyone else. Stop being a slack ass and do the hard yards. Stop asking for money to come your way. Don't pray that life will get easier. No one likes a pussy. Especially one that spends their time praying that Jeebus will make everyone stop calling them Monobrow Mary. Here's a tip. If you want a deity that will fix that problem, screw Jeebus, go get a Venus and shave your damn eyebrow lady.

I think if everyone who spent time praying did something actually worthwhile instead, a shitload more good things would get done. Think about that next time you're kneeling in front of your bed. Instead of sitting there, hands clasped asking god to help you pass your mid semester exams, why don't you get out a fucking text book and do some actual reading.

If I never post again, know that God came under the cover of darkness and stole my soul away.

So today was a day of rage*, blaspheme and generally unwholesome outbursts. Probably not to be repeated, so if I've offended you**, do come back cos it's likely my other posts won't be so offensive. Probably.

* Regarding today's ...errr... outburst. I realised when i got home tonight that I hadn't eaten any lunch. And when I don't eat, I get super grumpy.
So if I had eaten lunch, I probably wouldn't have had such a tantrum this afternoon.
Rage and Biscuits is a bit of a misnomer now I think about it. If I have biscuits or any food for that matter, I don't get grumpy/rage-y... Maybe I should call this Rage or Biscuits.
Meh...

**This post is all in jest, so please God, don't let anyone be offended by it. Kthxbai.

My colleagues, on Australia:

You know when sometimes you're roped into something so absurd that it angers you because now you're implicated in a conversation that will go down as being one of the single most retarded things of all time?

Female Coworker1 (FCW1): Oh, I vomited once when I was underwater.

Female Coworker2 (FCW2): Oooh, gross! How?

FCW1: Well I was over in Australia (gesturing across the room towards me, because apparently, I'm Australia in it's entirety) and I was snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef and we'd had too much to drink the night before and I had the urge to throw up, so i pulled my snorkel out and vomited in the water.

FCW2: Oh that's disguting.

FCW1: Yeah i know, and then all the fish came up and were just eating it like 'chomp chomp chomp'. (Making chomping gestures with hand in front of her face)

FCW2: (Even more alarmed) Ewwww!

FCW1: Yeah they were like those little silver fish... (Pauses, shouts at me) Hey Jiminy, you know those silver fish that they have over there?(Placing hands about 30 cm apart which I assume serves to indicate the approximate size of the fish.)

Me: They have silver fish everywhere, FCW1.

Trying to identify a specific type of fish with 'silver' being the only descriptor is like trying to find a restaurant in India with 'unhygenic' as your sole clue. And no 'sole' wasn't intended as a fish pun. But it can be now I noticed it.

FCW1: Yeah, but you know the ones in Australia that swim around and then they'll be under a jetty in the shade?

Me: (Incredulously) Are you serious? It could have been a million types of fish. I mean, nearly all fish are silver and I don't know what fish you saw under a jetty. I have no idea what you're talking about.

FCW1: Oh well... (Then to FCW2) Yeah, well anyway., these fish were just swarming around eating all the vomit. It was crazy! (Doing 'swimming fish' AND chomping gestures with hands)


Oh. My. God.

Phone-y Business

Another normal day at work chasing people for this and that, organising something or other, managing a new project and occasionally answering the phone trying to help people out.
And then I get a phone call.

jiminycricket: Good morning, Place of Work, jiminy speaking. (Yes I have good phone etiquette, you plebes should try it out some time.)

random phoner-innerer: Hi

jc: Hi. What can I do for you?

rp-i: I would like to speak to *mumble mumble mumble*

jc: Ah, sorry who were you after?

rp-i: Bai Long Tong

jc: I'm really sorry I don't think anyone by that name works here, what was the name again?

rp-i: Bai... Long... Tong... last name Tong, T... O...

jc: Yes, I understand. We don't have anyone here by that name, was it something I could help you with? What was it regarding?

rp-i: Nothing. It's personal.

jc: Ah ok....

rp-i: *hangs up*

Bai Long Tong!
Haha.. I though that was what you did at the homewares store when you needed utensils to cook something on a really big fire.
Or perhaps I misheard and he said Buy Long Dong. In which case I'm freaked out as it looks like spam has now made the jump to telephony. I'm perfectly happy with my dong thank you sir. I would not care to upgrade. Next they'll be calling and offering me cheap poor quality replica watches: Bai Rong Klok?
Then i wondered if maybe I was having a prank played on me. I mean come on... Bai Long Tong??

Later on today i received another call. This time to my mobile from a number I didn't recognise.
I answered it and it's some guy from some company who found my CV on monster (which was put up in April 2007 and hasn't been touched since).
He offered me a job working in strategy for their Point Of Sale division.
Which is based in Rome.
What the hell? Rome! Me! Work! Strategy!
I had to decline as I'm kinda locked into my current work and I don't really want to uproot from London now that non-Blondie and I are are sorting out all our travel budgets and finding a new house and everything else.
So it's nice to be able to say I was offered a job in Rome, but nicer to say I've got an awesome girlfriend that i can travel all of Europe with very shortly.
(That has to be worth at least 10 brownie points, doesn't it?)

There's some sense behind all this, I swear.

Screw memes, I think the best way to gain some insight into what someone is like is to record what they do as a part of their daily goings on. And I decided that for blogging purposes, the best way to do this is to record all the search terms you use for one day.

And so...

Things I have entered into google today.

- Russia potato
- Vodka wheat
- Google reader alphabetical order
- jiminycricket
- Melbourne dust storm
- bloomsbury bowling lanes
- Namco southbank
- Network config mac
- Sheep stomach
- Autobots breaks
- Salary calculator

Also for a little further insight into my life:

Random excerpts from The Girl and my googlechat nonsense:

The Girl: careful
Me: Careful of babies!

Me: STACK THE BABIES, STACK THE FUCKING BABIES! QUICKLY!

Some time later....

Me: Maybe if I do this well while I'm here I can chisel myself into it so well that they'll NEED me to keep it running. Which i can definitely do from back home for 400 dollars a month
I will be the WEBMASTER!!!! WEBMASTER!!!!
Whoa, nerd klaxon is going bananas
The Girl: hahaha
yeah, that works
easiest way is to just not give them the account details
so they can't get control of it
mwahaha
Me: eggsackery
The Girl: and threaten to write horrible things on it and send it to their entire database if they dont pay you!
Me: hmm... i like your evil ways
The Girl: YES!
I JUMPED OVER THE HOMELESS!
and kicked them when i did it!
Me: KA-POW!
The Girl: Also, i am now the proud owner of a laminated seating diagram. HUZZAH!
Me: v00t!

And then again, a little later...

The Girl: yes, it makes ACTUAL sense, not crazy jizzle sense
Me: lol
Crazee Jizzle
Lethal Bizzle
Dizzee Rascal
Kevizzle Ruddizzle
The Girl: kevizzle rizzduzzle
Me: lol, sweet
He pwned Johnizzle Howdizzle
The Girl: does the name 'davensac' make you think of something dirty
like, a butterflies testes?
Me: Like a man and his scrote...


Umm. what?
I don't even know what we were talking about. No doubt it was important...

Also I hereby trademark a term.
That term is 'capsident'.
Capsident™ is what you say whenever you accidentally bump the caps lock halfway through the sentence and stART TYPING IN CAPS FOR NO REASON.
If this happens to you, simply write "Sorry, capsident!" and any presumptions that you had begun yelling mid-sentence are waived. It saves you going back, deleting everything and retyping it.
I seriously own this term. I searched for it in google and it exists nowhere else on the internet. So it's mine.
™ Motherfuckers

In other news, my decision earlier this month to make an effort to be more positive has paid off.
At 5pm today, I received an email out of the blue from my boss with the subject 'Salary Review'
Fuck... I presumed bad news.
I read the email...
."..blah blah blah... We're very appreciative of your continued efforts and would like to offer you a 15% payrise, backdated to January 1st 2008."

Fuck yeah. So now I've worked myself into a position where my main repsonisbilities are the upkeep of our new IT systems and the development of our marketing strategy using a new corporate blog I've created.
The boss thinks what i'm doing is revolutionary. It's not. It's called Wordpress. But I'm gonna take all the credit I can get, cos it doesn't come around very often.
My boss also suggested I may want to maintain the blog after I've left England, which would be awesome. Getting paid in pounds while I'm back in Australia would be super awesome.

Will be interesting to see how it all pans out...

Good times... Things seem to be on the up for a change.

Opinions?

Help!?
I'm trying to decide on which blogging platform to use for previously mentioned work blog...
I'm very familiar with blogger and feel comfortable with it, but I'm not sure it looks professional enough. And not being particularly well versed in CSS, I'd be using a standard template with a custom header for the time being.
Aside from templates and what not, blogger seems to do everything I need to do: supports third party code, embeds media, and is flexible enough to allow things like Post Pages etc.

The other option I'm considering is WordPress.
The templates seem cleaner and less obviously branded than blogger templates which I like as it makes the blog look a little more independent and professional, which it needs to be.
The cons to this is that I don't have any real working knowledge in WordPress, (although i'm sure I can pick it up without any dramas) and that i'm not sure it supports some third party codes, especially any java in the template (sitemeter java code for example). Am i right that WordPress does have built in stats based on Google Analytics?
What's it like usability wise?
I don't want to create my own template yet and want to keep things simple initially so I can show the boss how effective the concept is before getting into nitty gritty template changes, so...
Nerds unite!!!
And provide me with some guidance, please!?

New and Improved. Now with 20 percent more awesome in every bite!

It's a good day!
I made my mind up last night that from today, I'm going to make a conscious effort to be more cheerful and not be so negative about things. I'm also not going to be as sensitive to little things that usually piss me off and get me mad and I'm generally going to try to be more fun to be around. Like I used to be. Before I became a scrooge.
So I'm thinking positive!
And everything's sweet. Just talked myself into a new job at work. Convinced our Chief Executive the best way to market our new stuff is through a blog, which is going to be super cool to set up and run, due to the sector i'm working in. So that makes me happy.
It's also Friday which is good news.

The only downside for me at the moment is that I'm having more pants issues, in that my blue jeans, which were also suffering from a faulty zip have also now become crotchless with a sizable hole in the err... crotchal region.
Luckily you can't see the hole normally but I'm going to have to be careful to mind my manners on the tube and keep my knees together.
But it's going to take more than that to shake my new found high spirits. Although I still reserve the right to hate on people that walk diagonally or that tow around stupid wheelie bag things.
If I become one of those obscenely happy people that reply to everything with "Oh, wow! That's so awesome!" or "Totally amazing" or "Good on you!", then you have my explicit consent to backhand me into a healthier state of cynicism and apathy.
Also, if you're on the tube tonight and can see a guy's boxers through a hole in his jeans, politely let him know as you could be saving me heaps of embarrassment.