Last week I had occasion to enter into a building on Swanston Street, Melbourne. On my way in, I noticed there was a rough-nut slumped over a wheelie bin. He had flies circling, but appeared to be quite comfortable. I thought he was probably a bit tiddly and having a rest while he regained his composure. Lord knows, I’ve had to do that.
When I walked past again some 45 minutes later, my booze-hound mate was still there. Concerned for his welfare I yelled, “mate are you ok?” There was no answer. I yelled again and I gave him a tap. No answer, no movement. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. “Mmmmm,” I thought, ”maybe I should call an ambulance.”
Two very handsome Ambos came and I explained to them that he had been there for quite some time and was un-responsive. Big, beefy Ambo (OK, they are all quite hot and I do fancy men in uniform) walked up and thumped the guy on the back. He came to quickly and looked really startled as he was obviously legless.
When he stood up I remarked to one of the ambos, “Oh look, he’s wearing an ETU T-shirt.” Ambo replied, “John Howard warned us about this.”
Recently I was the victime of a most appalling crime. Some fucker had spat chewing gum onto the street and I stood on it, covering my very new and very shiney Hush Puppies in rancid gum. With this in mind I now propose a new law that would put Singapore’s ban on chewing your cud, err gum, to shame.
I propose that people who spit out gum whould be removed from society and force fed Juicy Fruit until they shit Wrigley’s pellets or die of a bowel obstruction.
I will soon be out of a job as the Big Oil Company I work for has decided I am superfluous to requirements. I am very excited that I must look for a new job because I now have the opportunity to expand my skillset with another caring and sharing company who will screw me senseless and spit me out onto the scrap heap of Big Issue selling.
Finding a new employer to bend over for has meant that I have spent quite some time searching the job search websites. I wish I hadn’t because recruiters write rubbish like this:
“This is a one off opportunity if you could see exactly how awesome your new place of employment is you will have already sent your resume to the link below”.
Umm, yeah like whatever, I like watersports and riding horses.
It gets worse though. Just have a read of some of the shit that they write when devising key selection criteria. As someone who has spent quite some time responding to key selection criteria I am over it, because they in no way predict a person’s ability to do the job. This is why my good friend CP and I have devised selection criteria for the modern office slacker. The nine key criteria are;
- Do as little work as possible and constantly distract colleagues.
- Productively use company IT facilities to create world-class blogs.
- Respond to all queries in a timely manner, somewhere between five and six working days.
- Go to work hung over and late every Friday (I already do that).
- Participate in team meetings by telling your superiors how crap their latest policy is.
- Violently attack managers whenever they use clichés, like “at the end of the day” and “we really need to hit the ground running on this one.”
- Contribute to process improvement by saying how much better it was when we did things the old way.
- Blame people who have left for everything that goes wrong.
- Participate in workplace flexibility by working flexibly at the pub or bar.
Good God, I think I have found a new job.
Brain meltdown of the week from Miss South Carolina at the annual Miss Teen USA pageant.
Question: Why is it that one in five Americans cannot find the us on a map?
“I personally believe that US Americans are unable to do so, because, is that some people out there, in our nation, don’t have maps, and I believe that our education, such as South Africa, and the Iraq, everywhere like, such as, and I believe that they should, our education over here, in the US should help the US, or um should help South Africa and should help the Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future, for our children.”
She came third!
Filed under: Actors, Australia, Existential Crisis, Fiction, Hillsong, Humour, Morrissey, Music, Neighbours, Religion, The Smiths, Toadfish Rebecchi
I am going to put the fun back into fundamentalism.
Regular readers of oneplanetmikey will be aware of my ongoing Scarlet O’Hara issues. You know, those terrible existential questions of ‘where shall I go, what shall I do’? Well finally, I have the answer.
I am going to join the Hillsong Church.
It is a perfect plan. There is a men’s group where I can meet my husband. The church-goers share an intense sense of community. And finally and most importantly; there is singing and dancing.
The singing and dancing is what sealed my decision for me to put the fun back into fundamentalism.
This is because I am an excellent lounge-room Sinatra and no-one can sing Sugartown quite like me. With that said, I just know the boys of Hillsong will love my tunefulness and sunny presentation skills. They boys are also going to love my incredibly groovy dancing which was perfected atop many a dancefloor podium while pilled-up to the eyeballs. (Please note that when dancing that I do keep my shirt on. I may be a trahbag but I still have some decency and propriety left).
So all I need to do next Sunday is go straight (ain’t that the truth) from club to church, and sing sweet Jesus. After all, coming home with the Lord would have to beat coming home with some of the mange-ridden mutts I have picked up at the Peel.
On a Hillsong Desolate. Or why I want to be Morrissey.
Well, the Hillsong Church thing didn’t work. I sort of had a few health issues when I woke on Sunday. There was this awful feeling of illness and dehydration, accompanied by projectile vomiting and a reasonably nasty headache, which may or may not have been a migraine.
Lord knows what brought on that sudden illness, because I was fine when I stumbled into bed and passed out at 3am Sunday.
Anyhoo, now that I realise organised religion aint for me, I still need to do something about my ongoing and endless Scarlet O’Hara questions. You know; “where shall I go, what shall I do?”
I think the first question can only be answered after the second is, and I done answered that one while walking to work this morning. What am I going to do? I am going to be Australia’s first professional Morrissey impersonator. It is a bit like impersonating Elvis, but Mozza ain’t dead and I’ll have daffodils poking out of my arse while singing about charming men, and hillsides desolate.
I came to this conclusion after spending several hours over the weekend listening to Manchester’s greatest band, The Smiths. I have long admired Marr and Morrissey as one of the finest and funniest musical partnerships ever. And now this hilarity will continue as I sing “There is a Light that Never Goes Out” at weddings, warble “Some Girls are Bigger than Others” at Fernwood Fitness Centres and croon “Still Ill” at hospices and infirmaries.
For me, the saddest thing about The Smiths was how soon it was all over. Five years, four studio albums, two compilations, one live album, several wonderful coverstars and me……the boy with the thorn in his side.
Just be glad dear reader that I don’t write bloody awful poetry.
Visited by a vision splendid.
I was so very excited about my new-found career as Australia’s first professional Morrissey impersonator that yesterday I left work early so I could buy some Daffodils and practice my singing at home. Slight problem though, once I got home I realised can’t fucken sing. Well, I can a little bit, but I sound more like a drag queen with an electronic larynx than the divine Mr M.
My unfortunate discovery that I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket even if it hd handles caused me to reach for the bottle, which was fine because I ended up being quite happy in the haze of a drunken hour.
Anyway it was rather fortuitous that soon after opening the second bottle, my good friend Kennel Cough* called and asked me to go to the Neighbours trivia night at the Elephant and Wheelbarrow in St Kilda. She has a thing for backpackers and has spent many a night there, often ending up under the table. I duly gargled some Listerine and sprayed Brut on my pulse points as I ran out the door and walked to the bus stop.
I had a great night, but unfortunately for my partner in crime her luck was out and the only offer she received was a promise from a spotty Kiwi that he would be a great root while once he sobered up and wiped the vomit from his shoes. Dejected, Kennel Cough retired and left me to my own devices because she had an early morning meeting with her probation officer. I was going to follow her out, but soon saw that a man had left his gin and tonic on top of the cigarette machine, and knowing as I do that a free drink is a free drink, and free booze is the best tasting booze ever, I stayed for anothery. It became four. And when I fell on the floor ……I drank more.
It was then I ralised that I had been visited by a vision splendid, a hunk of spunk named Toadfish Rebecchi. Yes, yes he of Neighbours fame and method acting ability. Soon we were gripped in intimate embrace as we danced the light fantastic to Aga Do, by Black Lace. I really do think I am in love. Again!
This morning with a smile on my dial and with a date for tonight already lined up, I am remembering the words of my mother, who told me as a small boy; “Michael, just remember you can marry more money in five minutes than you can make in your entire life.”
I’ll let you know what happens as soon as it happens.
* Name changed to protect the reputation of a trashbag who works at the Australian Tax Office.
It wasn’t Toadie, but a real life toad.
Obviously my search for meaning has hit a few snags because by the time I arrived home from work yesterday and started coming down, I realised that not everything which I believe happened on Monday night, actually happened. If I have misled any of my readers; then I sincerely apologise.First up, after security at the Elephant and Wheelbarrow asked me to leave for allegedly stealing drinks, I decided I would make the short stroll home from St Kilda to Thornbury. Unfortunately, I must have been quite tiddly as the attempted the 20 kilometre walk in my new Jimmy Choo’s, not realising that I already had blisters from when I crawled up Hoddle Street the Saturday night before.
Anyhoo, this is where my problems started as I had to sit down and rest my blistered and aching feet. While sitting, I now believe that I mistook flashing traffic lights for disco lights.
As for the vision splendid which appeared on the dancefloor in the form of Toadfish from Neighbours – I now believe that was an hallucinogenic toad I met while actually resting and handjiving at the lights on Hoddle Street. (I do hope that this explains some of my ongoing problems with perception and reality). Please note that despite my vision splendid being a toad, I am not too upset as this toad was nicer and a better conversationalist than the last toad I picked up.
We did have a nice time, however I am slightly embarrassed about being a trashbag on a Monday night. As such, I have decided clean up my act and attend a twelve step programme. Because I find the idea of any organised group therapy horrendously ghastly, I will tonight institute an informal get together for bad people over drinks and spliffs at my place.
Trashbags-not-so-Anonymous will take anyone. You do not have to be sober or pious to join and we will not make you apologise as part of the healing process. It will be an informal and supportive group for people with dependence problems.
If you are coming tonight, please bring your own drugs as sharing is good and we don’t want to run out.
I seem to have founded my own cult.
It really is quite weird how life turns out. Just last week I was going to attend the Hillsong Church as part of my search for meaning. Today I find myself elected the benevolent leader of the democratic cult of Trashbags-not-so-Anonymous. I had never really fancied myself as a David Koresh type character; more of a wonder-man like Kim Il Sung or Ho Chi Min.Anyway, there I was last night, at home with my real and imaginary friends hosting the first meeting of TNSA, when my dear friend Horse Flu, suggested that the mystical ways of the Trashbag should be celebrated, and that we should continue to celebrate and I was the one to lead people further into temptation.
Reluctantly I agreed, on the proviso that all members of Trashbags-not-so-Anonymous, participate in my wondrous new ten percent plus GST tithing scheme.
All agreed, and I am now democratically benevolent.
If there is anything to be learned from my adventures over the past few days it is that the power is within.
Filed under: Death, Humour, Jeanne Calment, Murder, World'd Oldest Person, Yone Minagawa
Yone Minagawa, who for eight months was the world’s oldest person, has died. Her untimely death at 114 follows the death of the Emma Tillman, who was the world’s oldest person for just four days. Tillman took the record from Ms Emilano Del Toro who reigned for forty-four days. Ms Del Toro claimed her title from Ms Elizabeth Bolden who managed to hang onto her record for almost four months.
These deaths now make Ms Edna Parker from Shelbyville, Indianna, the world’s oldest person as she has clocked up 114 glorious years. And if I were Ms Parker I would be worried, very worried.
So why are these people dying?
Is it “natural causes” or is it something far more sinister? I would suggest that there is evil in this world, and that these people are being bumped off at an alarming rate by the second oldest person in the world. My reasoning is simple; since January 2000 none of the world’s oldest people have held the record for longer than twelve months. These long living runners-up have the motive and what a motive it is; fame and having your name published in the Guiness Book of Records.
So today I am calling for an Interpol investigation into the murders of the world’s oldest people. The killing must stop and must stop now.
I am amazed, appalled and alarmed that worldwide, not one police service has discovered the link between these murders. Why is it that I am the only person who can see these things?
Filed under: Humour
A dead man was found in my suburb yesterday. He had WeetBix stuffed up his arse.
The police are hunting for a cereal killer.
In news from the Iranian press agency IRNA, Iran has arrested 14 squirrels for spying.
An un-named official said ‘the squirrels were carrying spy gear of foreign agencies, and were stopped before they could act, thanks to the alertness of our intelligence services.’
I wonder if the squirrels were CIA operatives, or worked for the Israeli agency Mossad.
Perhaps if the Australian Defence Forces recruitment drive falters, they might hire some possums
Filed under: ALP, Australia, Bono, Daniel Johns, Humour, Liberal, Malcolm Turnbull, Music, Peter Garrett, Politics, Silverchair
There were two events in Australia recently which had people decending into apoplexy. The first loccurred last Sunday night when Peter Helliar during the Rove television programme on Chanel Ten, made a joke about Pamela Anderson having Hepatitis C. It wasn’t a particularly funny joke, but the reaction to it was hysterical. Helen Tyrrel, chief executive of Hepatitis Australia, decried the joke as ‘irresponsible’ and a ‘cheap laugh’.
Later in the week, Silverchair’s lead singer Daniel Johns made a joke on Triple J radio about sharing a joint with Bono and Peter Garrett. It did not happen. But even fantasy is now reported as news, with environment minister Malcolm Turnbull’s office adding petrol to the fire by sending an email to journalists in the Canberra press gallery alerting them to John’s misfired joke.
To be fair, Turnbull’s office recalled the email citing ‘keyboard error’, but it was too late. The pot had already been smoked, err stirred.
These two incidents have created a media storm in what surely must be the smallest teacup ever. They were off the cuff comments that made national headlines. Australia, you’ve lost your sense of humour.
Today I look like little Linda Blair in The Exorcist, but with more snot and additional chunky bits being coughed up and spat out. But I am at work because I am a martyr and I am a good patient. By the end of the day, you will not be able to see my desk due to the piles of contaminated medical waste. Even now, having only been in the office for ten minutes, there are puddles of snot lapping at the feet of my co-workers.
I will get better, but not until I have infected everyone in close proximity, and made them feel better with my sunny attitude and requests for voluntary euthanaisa.
My friends and colleagues should be pleased that I am a such good patient and don’t complain.
Now if I could just find a doctor who would prescribe morphine for the common cold, I’d be really happy.
