February 27, 2010

The Shit Kid

A lot of us have siblings.

I would like to say we are all created equal. Our parents would like to say that we are all created equal.

But this is not true.

In every family unit, it seems there must always be the ’shit’ kid.

The shit kid is not necessarily handicapped in any way shape or form. In fact defining what makes the shit kid, ’shit’, is not always an easy task. The shit kid is usually more awkward than awful, more unfortunate than unattractive.

For the purposes of creating a blog post in which I am the hero, the underdog, the likeable self-depreciator; I would like to say I was the shit kid. But I wasn’t. It was my littlest sister, Victoria.

Whoah, Sarah! What a cow! You can’t make fun of your little sister! That’s nasty!

Easy, Daisy! Before I start, I would like to point out that Victoria has moved out of this ’shit kid’ phase in her life, and is now an attractive, confident, intelligent person; and the relentless teasing we inflicted on her during childhood has made her resilient with a wicked sense of humour. We did her a favour. She owes us!

The shit kid always has some minor affliction. Victoria spent her formative years with constant stomach pains. She was always complained about them, we got tired of listening, and labelled her a hypochondriac. It wasn’t till she turned 20 that she discovered she was severely lactose intolerant. That’s a little bit shit.

She also had a lazy eye. Yes, the genetic booby prize, gifted from our alcoholic WW2 prisoner of war alcoholic granddad. She got the operation where they pull out the eye, play with the nerves, and pop it back in. We liked to tell her that the doctors played ping-pong with her eyeballs before putting them back in. She didn’t like to hear the truth. Forever more Victoria must wear glasses. That’s a little bit shit.

The shit kid always seems to be debilitated by allergies, rashes, scabs or acne. Victoria was constantly covered in scabs of some kind. She sat her ballet exam coated in school sores. Well, we think they were, I am convinced it was actually face-aids. A bit shit.

The shit kid always has physical traits that make it harder for them to look attractive. Victoria was painfully white. So white, she would burn in winter. So white, she was nearly translucent. So white, I could see her lungs on a good day. Shit. This was not helped by the curly, mouse brown hair that my mum insisted on getting cut exactly like hers. Shit.

You would think that being the shit kid would be a disadvantage, that society would punish them and discriminate against their shitness.

But the reverse is true. There is a level of unfortunateness that is endearing. Like a pug nosed dog, or a tiger with down syndrome. It is like everyone that encounters the shit kid goes ‘woah, you are just a little bit shit, I bet life must be hell for you, therefore I will be super nice and be the calm in your ocean of discrimination.”

But the thing is, everyone treated her like this. She was treated to lenient bed-times, shopping trips and disabled parking permits.

Being the shit kid is not a curse, it is a blessing. You are mongish enough to get the easy ride, but non mongish enough to be able to enjoy it, and not have to face an actual disability.

And if you ask me, that’s a bit shit.  For me.

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February 17, 2010

DANGER!

Danger is not my cup of tea. I prefer bored. Apathetic. Or even ‘unfulfilled, but not actively disappointed’.

I think my aversion to danger stems from having freakishly high self-preservation levels.

Yes it is, sign. Thanks for the warning!

Yes it is, sign! Thanks for the warning!

I’m determined to grow old and burn around town on a motorised scooter. The concept of a motorised vehicle dominating the pedestrian ridden pavement- without being the target of wavering fists, cussing or fines- is particularly appealing. I refuse to let these plans for pavement domination be thwarted by early death.

Some people genuinely enjoy dangerous scenarios and it is something I don’t understand. I get my kicks by roller-skating around the kitchen holding my niece and a pair of scissors. Or, if I really want to shake my equilibrium, I’ll eat vegetables that have been kept in the fridge on the same shelf as uncovered meat.

Danger is everywhere you look. You cannot avoid it. But many people deliberately chase Old Man Danger, in pursuit of his son, Mr Adrenaline. This thrill seeking can often result in inadvertently finding their evil cousins, ‘Big Bruise Bob’, or even ‘Can’t Walk Anymore Karen’.

Mr Adrenaline may be handy, in that he can pull you out of allergy-induced anaphylactic shock (if you get a bit carried away with bees or peanut butter), but the pursuit of it can also lead you to do things that might make you a little bit dead.

It seems where some people see adventure, I see danger.

And it is not just the lion tamers and base jumpers of this world who are pawns in Danger’s master plan for world domination- it’s the seemingly wholesome family activities that lure a would-be safety-monger into it’s trap. None more so than the water-based varieties.

You may notice that humans have a distinct lack of gills. Then why, pray tell, are so many people flailing about the oceans, on various devices designed to cheat the natural order of things?

I saw the documentary ‘Final Destination’, and it’s sequel; and I can say it is not advisable to mess with Mother Nature’s plan. Jet skis, kayaks, and surfboards are extremely dangerous. Have a bottle of bourbon with your prescription medication, it’s much safer.

It’s just Planet Earth has some pretty big land masses. Designed specifically for land mammals. Like us. So with this abundance of land, I don’t see why people prefer to poke a finger in Mother Nature’s eye and invade the domain of the fish.

I hope the tables don’t turn. I would not like sea creatures suddenly finding ways to enjoy leisure time on land. I would feel uncomfortable if fish started making elaborate devices that extracted water from air, forced it through their gills and allowed them to venture out of the ocean, and into the realm of men.

I think we might start feeling rather imposed on if there schools of fish with aspirations to visit Fox Glacier. Sharks on CBD hunting Trips. Crayfish taking their kids to Te Papa.

Call me paranoid, but I have heard whispers that the Land and the Ocean have a pact where they trade off lives. Every time Land gets to beach whale, Ocean gets to drown a human. Afterwards they have a laugh at the futile walking aspirations of whales, and the underwater-breathing dreams of people. It’s obviously a weight-based trade off, and I don’t want to be a part of it. My ego couldn’t handle finding that my life equates to half a Minke Whale.

I don’t think man’s lust for danger is a new thing, but something primordial, deeply ingrained within the human species. Maybe has something to do with the fact that in modern times, the chance of falling prey to a giant eagle, or a buck-toothed big cat, has subsided somewhat. The recession may have felt like a saber-toothed tiger hacking into our achilles, but in reality our day-to-day survival is almost guaranteed.

Even as a child, we are taught that the pursuit of danger is the only way to lead a fulfilling life. The stories our fathers recalled with the greatest affection were always brushes with death, never witty office related anecdotes.

My childhood was laced with yarns of dangerous predicaments- always involving beer, sometimes sharks and occasionally decapitation. Tales from the dark ages, when drunk driving was a way of life and the subsequent car crash, an hilarious anecdote.

While I have respect for this innate desire to get a bit ‘gambley’ with life, it does not mean I understand or condone these actions.

I may sound like your mother. If that is the case, your mother was right. Your mother was a genius. I want to sit down with your mother, eat shortbread and stage an intervention that involves a lot of cotton wool.

Find ways to be risky that don’t endanger your life. I don’t know if you have heard, but handicrafts are cool again, and are a very acceptable hobby for the modern gentlemen. How about knitting a doily that clashes with the carpet? Or, for a real thrill, wait an extra week before giving your dog it’s flea medication. Now that’s life on the edge.

The modern human should learn to find excitement in the newly formed buds on their rose bush, or in an awkward conversation with a socially inept neighbour. Take a risk with the quantity of garlic in your hummus, not your life. Let’s encase you in a bubble and roll you down a hill.

Live a life of moderation! You are here for a long time, not a good time. Sure, you could lead a life that pushes your mind and body to the extreme, gaining the admiration and respect of your peers- but if it all turns to custard and you end up with a massive mole on your lip from spending too much time outdoors, don’t say you weren’t warned.

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January 27, 2010

Dead Dads Club

Yesterday, it was the 12 year Dead Dad anniversary to celebrate the deadness of my Dead Dad.  It was a great day in history, as I made my fabled ‘Dead Dads Club’ public to the world in the form of a Facebook page.  You are most welcome to join it here.

The time has come for me to explain the rules of engagement and philosophy behind this secret society!

1.  To be a member of the Dead Dad’s Club, you must have a dead dad.  Either he is physically dead, or he is metaphorically dead in your eyes.

The Healing Power of Art

2.  The object of the Club is to provide therapy in the form of inappropriate comments- and relishing in the stunned silence and awkward foot shuffling of those with fathers.  Yes, this is a club where non-members will squirm and question our mental health, but be too scared of upsetting, or offending us to stage an intervention.  This is the equivalent of a group of Jewish people making anti-semetic jokes.  They can say it- you can’t.  Hah!

3.  A helpful tool is to draw a picture of your dead dad in the state of decomposition you speculate he is in now.  For example, my dad died 12 years ago, so I have depicted him as a mere skeleton with a few tufts of hair.  Which is handy- because when he had only been dead a few months, I found getting the shading right on rotting flesh to be quite difficult.  Oil pastels were handy for this, as the various shades of brown blend in beautifully.

4.  You must pick an ironic theme song to honour your Dead Dad.  My cousin’s dad died of a heart attack, so she chose ‘My Heart Will Go On’, by Celine Dion.  No, Uncle Terry, your heart will not go on.  Not at all.
My dad died of a sucide attempt that was very successful (Yay!  Go Dad!  You achieved your goal!).  His theme song is ‘I just Wanna Live’ by Good Charlotte.

5.  When referring to ones father, one must always preface his name with ‘Dead’; ie: Dead Mike loved the rugby, my Dead Dad used to eat lambs testicles; or my Dead Father is a bit dead on the inside and outside.  This is to avoid confusion with Non-Dead Dads, and the unfolding of the scenario mentioned later on.

You may wonder how I got the genius inspiration for such an amazing socitey. The truth is, I found myself consistantly being put in the situation where someone would ask about my dad; and then the hideously awkward conversation that followed always left me feeling terrible.  Not because I was upset about talking about my fathers death, but because I felt bad for making the other person feel uncomfortable, and being a ‘buzz-kill’.

Here is a classic example of the regular social murder I would commit, then feel guilty for:

“So, what do your parents do for a living?”
“Mum is a cop, but she is quite keen to move into child abuse.  Prevention.” (Note- I am giving the question asker the opportunity to change the subject, and save them from the hole they are digging)
“Cool.  So what does your Dad do?”  (Damn!  they didn’t take my diversion!)
“Ah, he use to be a fitter welder.” (Last ditch attempt to save situation)
“What does he do now?” (OK, I tried my best, but you wouldn’t stop pushing…)
“He died.” (Atmosphere destroyed)
“Sorry.”  (I bet you are)
“It’s fine, you didn’t kill him!  Did you?” (Trying to make light of situation)
“Oh. haha…. How did he die?” (Fear has paralysed your ability to change subject)
“Suicide.”  (BOOM!)
“Why?”  (Really?)
“I don’t know.”  (I have a fair idea, but am in damage control.)
“Ohh….”  (Situation has been brutally assaulted, and no amount of skin grafts or plastic surgery can make it look pretty again, both parties feel hideous, and will do anything to change the subject)
“Remember the Venga Boys?  They mixed some sweet aerobics competition beats.”  (Nice save, Sarah!)

So after years of apologising and feeling bad, I have found the best way to tackle these situations is with the spirit of The Dead Dads Club.  This is my new Scenario:

“So what do your parents do?”
“Mum’s a cop, Dad committed suicide 12 years ago, but it’s OK, one of those things that was shit at the time, funny in hindsight.”
“Sweet!”

And that is the beauty of the philosophy.  Simple, brutal, non-victimised honesty.

The goal of Dead Dads Club is to disrupt the self indulgent, self pitying mindset that we are encouraged to wallow in after the death of a loved one.  Death is an inevitablitly, not a failure of the health system.  If people want to be all precious about death, let them be the ones left feeling embarrassed, not us!

So draw a picture!  Pick a song!  Experience liberation from social faux pas- with the ‘Dead Dad’s Club.’  Join now!

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January 25, 2010

Gamers- Modern Day Heroes

Today I read a teenage boy in Italy stabbed his daddy in the neck for interrupting his FIFA playstation game.

Fair call.  Harsh, but fair.  Interrupting an imaginary game of soccer is grounds for a good stabbing if I ever heard one.

It’s like running up to a sleeping dog and vigorously rubbing it, while singing the instrumental riff of ‘New York New York’- BA Da dada dada! Ba da dada dada!  It is just asking for a chunk of flesh to be removed.

Wholesome Fun for the Whole Family!

Gaming is an intense, noble art.  The hours perfecting the opposable thumb grip, the looming risk of RSI.  These guys should be given medals.  The strength in their thumbs alone, is enough to make a me weak at the knees.

Oh the mental prowress!  The stamina!  The risk of square eyeballs!  I am quivering with excitement.

I am also quivering with sarcasm.

Now, we all have hobbies we indulge that are not furthering the development of ourselves as individuals, or the human race- maybe you like juggling chainsaws or are a dab hand with chatter rings or yoyos.  Maybe you like reading trashy novels or watching Shortland Street.  That’s fine.

But computer games are possibly the biggest misdirection of energy I have seen in my long, soul searching, wisdom gathering 27 years on Planet Earth.  I am not referring to those who occasionally have an XBOX binge on the weekend, but throw up afterwards so it doesn’t count.

I am referring to the addicts.  You know who you are.  And I don’t have to worry about you getting cross with me, because you will never read this because your imaginary world of breast-plates and slave sandals satisfies you more than reading my self-righteous rants.

Avid gamers are like crack addicts, they actually feel justified in their use of time, in that they will tell you it is enhancing their lateral thinking, strategy and ability to plan a massacre on annoying neighbours.  It is also enhancing their social retardation, and likelihood of obesity.

I do see the appeal of gaming.  But I also see the appeal of heroin.  I don’t want AIDS, or GAIDS (Gaming AIDS).  Hepatitis would be shit.  So would Gametitis (OK.  I lost it.)  That is why I stay away from both.

I will admit I am a bit of a freak about it.  In that I over empathise.  When I play Grand theft Auto, I try and take the hookers to self improvement seminars.

I don’t like games where you need to kill to get ahead.  How is that a preparation for life?

I don’t see a life devoid of violence as a boring thing.  I see it as pretty choice.  If I wanted to play games that divulged some kind of weird fantasy, i wouldn’t be carrying explosives.  I’d have a jigsaw puzzle and an arrowroot biscuit.  Maybe a while a Koala bear watches and plays with himself.

Or maybe not.

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January 14, 2010

Cat on a Milk Carton

My Teenage cat child, Bok Choy, is still missing.

I don’t know what to think.  Had she been a sensible teenager, who never ran off with 40 year olds, or got pregnant at one year of age; I may have raised the alarm earlier.

MISSING

But miss Ungrateful Choy has had patchy attendance in the family unit this past year, and 4 week stints gone AWOL are no rare occurrence.  So it is hard to presume she is dead and move on in this instance.

I am positive she is with another human.  That she’s been promising him for weeks that she’ll finally leave her family to live with him.  The other human thought she would never actually go through with the emancipation.  Neither did I.  She could have at least told me.

But there are other, far more sinister, options out there.  It is possible that the ‘other human’ knew that she would never leave her family for good.  That the bonds of adoption through the ‘Trade and Exchange’ magazine are thicker than the promise of higher quality cat food.  That she would never really burn that bridge, and become a one-human cat.

It is possible that knowing this, the ‘other human’ has fashioned a cat sized dungeon in the bowels of their home, and that ‘Emancipated Choy’, is in fact, ‘Captive Choy’, or even ‘Consitently Raped Choy’.

The thought of this is very upsetting to me.  Mainly because I was planning on doing this myself, to cause the ‘other human’ the same kind of confusion and lack of closure I am currently experiencing.  If I can’t have her, no one should!

I am tempted to find this person.  I have been through the cat’s credit card statements, and there has been surprisingly little activity.  She is obviously not buying food.

I am tempted to out this cat-stealing-asshole by sending a flyer throughout the neighbourhood, telling of the disappearance and subsequent rape of my son’s little sister.  I might even shave my son’s head, hook him to a drip and photograph him crying to up the stakes a bit.  Maybe he needs a kidney, and the cat is the only compatible donor.  Yeah.

There are two things stopping me here.  One is my laziness.  The other is my lack of a printer.

Of course, there is always the option that she was hit by  a car, and for the past 4 weeks she has been loyally clawing her way back home with her front two legs, as her back legs are paralysed and dragging lifelessly behind.  That she is surviving by eating moths and bird poo, but nothing can break her spirit and will to reunite with her real family.

This could be awkward, as we have moved on embarrassingly quickly as a family, and replaced the vacuum she left with Johnny Cash, the lop eared bunny.  I can only imagine the hurt in her eyes, and the shattered image of our family she held in the forefront of her mind to inspire her back from the brink of death.  The stilted integration of the paraplegic cat back into our hearts, as Johnny Cash, athletic and nimble leaps onto her favourite spot on the couch and dares her to stop him with his molten chocolate eyes.

I don’t know what future I am hoping for, for the cat.  Her captor has probably committed suicide and she is living off his decomposing flesh, while experiencing symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome and planning the release of her ‘tell all’ autobiography and TV chat show.

Or maybe some old lady down the road has flasher cat food.

Who knows?

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January 5, 2010

Single White Computer

I got a new MacBook.

After 6 and a half years of listening to what sounds like men in steel capped boots running up and down stairs to retrieve files in real-time; I have decided it is time for a computer upgrade.

Can I afford it?  Probably not, but I have an amazing skill that enables me to twist the circumstances of any purchase, legitimate, or otherwise in my brain until it is totally justified, to the point of necessary.

Hence the Bison on my lawn.

A Woman Scorned...

The problem is, my old PC houses a shit-load of archive material.  Most of it is junk, but the hoarder in me cannot bear to part with it in case one day I wonder where the picture is I made in ‘Paint’ of Obama sodomising kittens while John Key looks on, enchanted.

So the old girl (I shall call her Jennifer Aniston.  ’Janiston‘) is a constant presence in my lounge.  It is unnerving.  Out of respect to her, I try to downplay the fun I am having on my sleeker new mistress, but my efforts to stay cool are thwarted by the feature that allows me to take photos of myself- in front of the Eiffel Tower.  And then make it look like an Andy Warhol original.  Amazing.

Janiston is blinking back the computer tears as she fondly recalls my excitement when I first bought her.

Janiston feels stupid for ever thinking our love would last longer than six-and-a-half-years.  The sales guy at Harvey Norman said our marriage wouldn’t last the distance.  He gave it three years, tops.  He even talked me into an extended warranty.

She got cocky at the three-year mark and assumed I would keep her forever.  That the sentiment would win on the day.  That functionality was not the only feature I looked for in a computer.

Call me shallow, but it is.

Things got boring and excruciatingly slow, so I had to spice things up a bit. Janiston was trying to teach me the art of Zen. I guess I was not open to said lessons.

Karmically, I guess I am doomed to be replaced by a newer model in late life.  And I will have no one else to blame.  It will be my own cold-hearted fault.

Janiston will laugh at me; possibly spit her virus ridden, old-computer saliva into the open wound of my heart, infecting me with the viruses she caught from the midget-porn-watching sins of boyfriends past.

But for now, I will relish the honeymoon period of my new romance as Janiston slowly poisons herself with her toxic feelings of jealousy and resentment.

Sure, it’s a bit awkward, living under her hateful glare, but as long as she doesn’t have sex with my boyfriend, then drive a stiletto into his skull, I don’t really care.

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December 28, 2009

It’s All About Context

In life, I don’t think there is such thing a good or bad.  It depends on context.

Take hair, for example.

Loads of hair on head- good.  Loads of hair on back- bad.

Facial man hair- good.  Facial lady hair- bad.

Facial man hair on chin, upper lip and eyebrows- good.  Facial man hair cascading out nostrils and earholes- bad.  (Yes, earholes are not technically on face.  Close enough.)

A Poignant Illustration

I am sure you can see where we are going with this.  It’s all about context.

I parked on a loading zone and got a $40 dollar fine.  Forty dollars!  That is insane!  Forty dollars!  I was only there for five minutes!  Forty dollars!  That is enough to buy 40 one dollar coins!

But- if I had parked on a toddler’s head, $40 would have been a very light sentence indeed.  I’d be joyously running down the steps of the courthouse to burn the orange tracksuit I was saving for my jail sentence.

It’s all about context.

Yesterday, I was driving along a country road in my small town, when I was shocked to see a van with a trailer pull out, and start driving on the wrong side of the road towards me.

I had to drive into a ditch to avoid a head-on collision.  The driver continued on his distracted path.

I was pretty shaken, and was about to call the cops.  I asked a witness if she has seen it.  She had- and told me who it was.  Turns out it was an old friend of mine.

The near-death experience which gave me so much rage became a funny story that I will now bring up every time I see him.

It’s all about context.

Pregnancy.  I was a pregnant teen.  In that situation, pregnancy is bad (unless you are Keisha Castle-Hughes and the media can twist the story to make it sound like a good thing).  I still find it hard to shake that neuro-association.  When I see a pregnant woman, no matter how married, successful and ‘proper’ she is, I still laugh to myself and think “LOSER!  Your dad is going to spew!”

But if I was 50 and got pregnant, the same act would make me a legend, and would probably secure me an article in ‘Womans Day’ called ‘My Little Miricle’.

Context.

Puppies are cute.  Dead puppies are not.

Old men are sweet.  Old men leering over small children- not so much.

I don’t have a climactic point here.  I just think if you can twist the circumstances of any situation to make you feel a certain way- then you can untwist it.

So there is never any real reason to get your knickers in a twist, because compared to an orphaned burns victim with ginger hair- life is just dandy.

It’s all about context.

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December 22, 2009

Backward Evolution Revolution

I bought my son a lop-eared rabbit for Christmas.

He wanted an alpaca, but I knew he’d only get sick of it by March, and I would never be able to fit an alpaca in a sack with some bricks.

Johnny Cash says 'Make love, not war!'

This rabbit (named Johnny Cash) is so cute it is messed up.  This rabbit could stop war.   Just throw him out in the line of fire, and people would be too busy crying salty tears of rabbit induced joy-mush, that they would stop fighting.  And possibly start making sweet love.  Not to the rabbit.  That is illegal (and yucky).

But something happened to the rabbit when he developed lop ears.  He lost the will to live.  There is no passion, no fight in him.  The erect (grow up) eared counterpart still has that paranoid edge, waiting to hear the battle trumpet of oncoming stoats or the war-cry of unrestrained dogs.

Stay off the P, mate! You trippin!

Johnny Cash, however, lops about aimlessly, content in his ignorance about the dangers of the outside world.  He may be happy, but he is missing out on a large chunk of the rabbit experience- fear, with a side dish of fear.  Maybe some fear for dessert (two forks, please).

Domestic dogs have evolved from wolves.  It would seem the sacrifice they made for an easy ticket, is to be inbred to the point of Mongoloid.

They were once majestic creatures, sharp, astute and fantastic conversationalists at posh dinner parties.

Now they have hair too long, noses too short, ears they trip over, skin so loose it falls over their eyes and all the natural instinct of a mung bean sprout (a bean foetus).

My neighbour has a bichon frise, if you throw him a lightbulb- he will eat it.  Probably shouldn’t throw him lightbulbs.

Humans will eventually take a leaf out of this book, I guess.

The down syndrome child will become the genetic prize, revered for its rarity, consistent physical traits and loving temperament.

“This is Alfie, he is a very well-bred child, half Autistic, with a bit of cystic fibrosis thrown in to slow him down a bit.  Very creative, chilled out.  We are hoping to breed him with Stacey, our friends dwarf.  We think it will make a fantastic grandchild.”

There are also humans who have not progressed in the evolutionary sense.  They are not always so easy to spot in winter, but in Spring they rear their inferior, inflamed heads.

I am referring to victims of hay fever.  I know it is not their fault, but they drive me mental with all the sneezing and the weeping face holes.  I just can’t shake the feeling that I am genetically superior to them.

Hay fever cannot serve any evolutionary purpose.  Be allergic to real threats.  Like murderers.  Or ABBA.

The only way hay fever could ever benefit out species would be if, one day in the future, we go to war with the plant kingdom:

“Sneeeeze!  My super senses tell me there are enemy flowers approaching!  By the look of this rash, it’s Daphne.  Mother trucker.”

At the end of the day, life is not about being the fastest, or the best hunter- it’s about being happy.  And if evolution and mutated genes brings inner peace and happiness, who am I to say it is wrong?

Next pet, a kitten with no mouth.  Quiet and cheap to feed.

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December 18, 2009

Sun Drama

If the Sun was my son, I would want to have a few words with him.

“Easy Daisy,” I would say, “no need for the melanoma.”

The sun has got us in a bit of a chokehold.

We need the sun to survive.  We need the sun to be able to see during the day without the aid of a torch.  My tomato plants need the sun to grow and people need it to… not die.

But too much- and we end up with chunks of flesh cut out on a good day, or cancerous cells road-tripping to our liver on a bad one.

It’s just so complicated. What do want from us, Sunny boy? How can we appease you? We look hot with a summer tan, but not so hot when our skin turns to leather!

What is it you want? Why do you tease us so?

We spend our lives spinning around you!  You are indeed the centre of our universe. We know it. You know it.

Do you expect us to return to our paganistic past, and give you the rampant praise you once received?  Grow up!  We have jobs!  And kids!  And stuff!

No, offence, Sun, but what kind of ‘big-ball-of-hydrogen-and-helium-gas’ are you- if you need the prayers and rituals of tiny little monkey ants (humans) in order to feel good about yourself?  Hmm?  Find self-love, Sun- then the adulation of others will not be needed in order to make yourself feel whole.

Giving someone cancer is a big call, mate.  Is it necessary to do this? (It would seem everything gives us cancer.  It’s a tricky thing to avoid; impossible not to slip up on at some point.  I avoid petrochemicals in my skin care products- but neutralise said action by eating the plastic sticker on my apples.  I have eaten about 12 in the last week).

I don’t want cancer. Cancer is an asshole!

Oh! But if cancer is a living, or at least growing thing, who am I to say it doesn’t deserve a chance to breed and multiply?  It is such a moral dilemma.

Who am I do say that my melanoma doesn’t deserve to experience the joy of reproduction?  Or the thrill of travel?  To my liver.

Poor Melanoma, just trying to survive. If melanoma had vocal chords, it would break into a dramatic musical theatre piece, entitled ‘Cancer’s Lament’…

My Name is Melanoma
I reside on Sarah’s back
I was borne from endless days out in the sun….

My mother was a skin cell
My father UV rays
After 20 years I am their only son….

For months I’ve laid here dormant
On Sarah’s leathered back
Living like an ordinary mole….

But now I start to mutate
It’s my time to grow and learn
I may be cancer, but I too, have a SOUL…

Whoah Melanoma!  That was compelling!  I never thought about things from your perspective before, I mean, wow!  I really feel your pain!  You really are a growing, living, thing-  I’m still cutting you out, asshole.

Maybe the Sun just needs some positive reinforcement.  Lets start praising Sunny boy for his good work, and ignoring the cranky-pants stuff!  Let’s add him to our christmas card list for adequate vitamin D production- but not invite him to our birthday parties for the crows feet and the cancer.

Or wear sunscreen.  Whatever.

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December 15, 2009

Beast Wars!

For a couple of years now, humans and beasts have been hanging out together on planet Earth.

The beasts used to rule the joint- because they were massive, had pointy bones coming out of their mouth and more pointy things coming out their paws.  Plus, they were big, super fit- and could probably bench-press 170 (without the psychological aid of  isotonic vitamin water and protein shake).

Then humans started getting a bit handy with pointy sticks, and took over the role of ‘Boss of the World’ for a while.

But lately, I have noticed an emerging trend of these wild animals turning on the ‘H’ man, and standing up for the indigenous rights of the wild animal.  They have had it with our nonsense.

"What you looking at? Hmmm? Did you get eyes for Christmas? I'm not gay! You are!"

It’s a revolution, baby!

I am delighted by this.

I would prefer to be on the same side as the wild animals, co-existing in peace; but since I was a child, I have longed for an epic, Narnia-like battle between man and beast.  And I am fully rooting for the beasts.  My money is on the trifecta of Elephant, Tiger and Chimpanzee.

Elephants have been taking over villages. There have been many elephant battles. They stampede. They pillage.  (Reports of rape are, as yet, unconfirmed).  If they had opposable thumbs, they would, like totally, shoot burning arrows onto the thatched roofs of the villagers houses.One man got trampled trying to pray to the Elephant, offering it a wreath of flowers.  Ele-boom-boom (the Elephant’s speculated name) was obviously an atheist.  And possibly homophobic (he thought flowers were a bit gay and got on the defence.  He protesteth too much, me thinks.)

I am delighted by the elephants warmongering.  Elephants have for a long time been depicted as gentle, submissive creatures, who will do lame tricks for peanuts, and are scared of mice. But now we have reached the dawn of the elephant revolution- and they are fighting for their right to smash shit up.

In other news- ‘People Keep Getting Mauled by Giant Cats’.

It is certainly helping quash my fantasies of riding a lion bareback through the forest. Sort of.

The maulees must be devastated. Not only by the physical trauma, but it’s probably the only circumstance where you could get your limbs torn off and digested, yet not receive an ounce of sympathy from your friends or the general public.

You can almost hear the cries of ‘Severs him right (see what I did there? Yus! Horrific use of wordplay…)- he deserves to be limbless!”

The families must get pissed off with the pursed lip stares and the rants about animal rights.

Tigers are probably cracking up, laughing their feline hearts out, as the maulings are probably part of an elaborate, 2 generational, 17 year plan to get revenge on the humans. It probably involved a lot of acting, spywifery and covert operation. A sting on the humans. More to come.

How would you break it to a child that their father got chewed to death by a tiger?

I would suggest using the word ‘gobble’.  It makes it a quirky, Roald Dahl inspired back-story, rather than an horrific freak accident.

“Harry- something to tell you… Daddy got gobbled up by a tiger! Silly daddy! Ha!

The third and most suprising of the Animal Army- is the Chimpanzee…

On world news authority, Oprah, we had the experience of seeing a woman whose face was ripped off by a chimpanzee.  This traumatised me greatly, because of all the animals to get a bit faceliftey, the dear chimp would have to be the last suspect.

Remember those advertisements for PG Tips Tea?  Chimpanzees having tea parties, dressed like people.  They have over 98%  identical DNA to humans.  They are only a few chromosomes behind… never mind (omitted down-syndrome joke.  Tempted, but thought better of it.  I am a mature lady now. A woman.  WOMan.  A man with a womb).

They get my wildcard vote, as they are the animal most likely to gain out trust, which is an essential part of tactical warfare.

Let’s face it.  The beasts are fighting back and it’s going to be an epic battle of epic epicness.  I hope to see highlights on pay-per-view in times to come (I don’t really- during my ‘research’ I was stupid enough to type ‘Tiger Attack’ into Google Images.  Not recommended).

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