Pressure.

Wednesday, May 31st, 2006 | Idiocy | 4 Comments

I’m not a fan of pressure.

When you haven’t blogged for quite a while, there’s an expectation that you will break the droubt with a feast of entertaining and witty comments about why your life has been too interesting. In these instances, Life should be way to interesting to spare the time to do dull things like blog about the really interesting things that you’re so busy doing.

Sadly, this is not the case.

My life isn’t all that interesting at the moment. Except for small moments of unadulterated joy when I wrap my hands around a fresh brew of colombian coffee and inhale the perky goodness.

Which leads me to the next point: the coffee machine is broken.

Doom! Woe!

To illustrate this point further: I work in an office with 20 caffiene addicted geeks who are now trying to survive without several shots of short black. Tensions are raised. Blood pressure is all over the shop.

I am in a zone of chemically induced stress, combined with the pressure of non-blogging.

Woe! Woe is me…

If anybody needs me, I’ll be with my therapist.

Blog, damn you

Sunday, January 15th, 2006 | Idiocy | 1 Comment

Probably the most difficult thing to do in life is to tell a joke when somebody asks you to.

“Say something funny.”

There is no adequate response to this, other than to grimace and actually say “Something funny?”. This usually gets you the deserved groans and eye-rolls that is fitting for such a crap response.

Following on from this, it’s also very hard to blog on demand.
“Please blog, Jac. I’m sick of reading about Poop.”

I understand this, but also feel the need to spell poop with a capital ‘P’. It’s an important and vital part of human meta-biology, in the same way that meta-descriptions are vital for internet search engines. Pooping is the antithesis of eating, and we all know that eating or thoughts of eating take up roughtly 78% of conscious hours. At least, it does for me. And many members of the Teamsite Brigade.

If you dont know who the Teamsite Brigade are then it’s highly likely that you’re not one of them.

In response their request for bloggage, I say;

I blog. Therefore I am.

I think.

Cracked!

Tuesday, December 20th, 2005 | Idiocy | No Comments

I have a ‘heel fissure’. It sounds like some gaping black hole. Some terrifyingly demonic blot on the world, where fanged creatures escape through the vents of time and space. A slippery, and slimy stain on all that’s good and wholesome in this world, emanating evil smells and nasty gurgling sounds.

Or, it could just mean that my feet are in mortal need of a good old pedicure.

The dried up skin on the bottom of my feet that I take for granted, and literally walk all over, has decided to give me an early Christmas present.

By splitting itself in twain.

Painfully.

e-Podiatry is telling me that I need to rub oil into my feet. I’m going to modify this slightly, and tell Mr Frog that he needs to rub oil on my feet.

The strangest thing is that my heel split while I was sleeping, not while I was running or putting undue pressure on my fissure. I remember waking up through the night with this twang in my foot (not a pleasant experience) which corresponded to my dream of walking over a bed of nails, barefoot.

As a result, I’m no longer going to be taking my feet for granted. I shall engage them in meaningful conversation and treat them with respect. While my toes are painted prettily, my feet will now be lathered in the finest quality oils and treated to caviar and champagne.

It seems my purpose in life is to serve as an example to others - Do not neglect your feet.

I only hope that they ‘heel’ quickly.

Les Ballets Trockadero De Monte Carlo

Thursday, November 10th, 2005 | Cyclone Joan, Idiocy | No Comments

When I spied the newspaper ad that claimed that The Trocks were coming to Brisbane, I fired off an email to Cyclone Joan. You see, she’s got a fond spot for these lads since she saw a TV documentary on them back in 1996.

So, when I spied that they were going to be in town, I fired off the email, then I leaped on the website and booked three tickets.

Smack, Boom, Bang - Job’s a good’un.

One for Cyclone Joan, one for me, and one for Mr Frog. I did this without thinking things through. Mr Frog and I have been attached at the hip for so long that I didn’t hesitate to book him a ticket.

In hindsight, perhaps I should have taken more time to think about the situation. The Trocks are an all male dance company that perform classical ballet - in drag. Something that I find highly entertaining. Not so Mr Frog. However, the fact that Mr Frog is going to see The Trocks is highly entertaining for our friend DJ Carey.

His wounded macho pride asside, Mr Frog is coming with us, and he will enjoy it. Even if I have to bribe him with whiskey.

Will one bottle of JD do it, sweetie???

Smells.

Tuesday, November 8th, 2005 | Idiocy | No Comments

I’ve started gymming on a semi-regular basis at my local fitness centre. It’s not the first time I’ve had the urge to become healthy. I’m a serial gym-addict with an on-again off-again relationship with fitness.

To clarify things, the relationship is back on. I go to the gym a few times a week and pay people to yell at me, to scream at me, to make me jump around like a spastic, and to make me so knackered that I cant even lift my head from the pillow at night to give Mr Frog a good night kiss. I do this in the name of fitness.

If I stop to consider the fact that I enjoy this type of abuse worries me, so generally I dont stop to consider it. I just keep going.

Last night was the same type of abuse fun, as Mr Hyperactive “I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS” Gym Instructor strolls in to start the night. I think everything is fine, until I got a waft of the incredible B.O that was hovering around. These smells aren’t uncommon in gym environments, so I continue with the class.

10 minutes, 150 push ups, 45 sit ups and 90 star-jumps later, the smell hasn’t gone. I get B.O-phobia and start smelling myself at any given opportunity - Was it me? Shit… It’s hard to look inconspicuous when you’re trying to shove your nose under your armpits in the middle of star-jumps.

It wasn’t me, it was my gym towel. My neglected towel that travels the world with me. To say that it stank is equivalent of saying the Pacific is a puddle. My gym towel’s prime goal in life is to exist in my gym bag and not smell. It was so smelly it literally hummed with pong. And once I’d figured out where the pong was coming from, I had pong shame. I kept looking at the people around me, to see if they could smell it too….

But, if nothing else, my pongy gym towel gave me so much more incentive to push myself up and off it - to get my nose further away from the ground!!

blurup

Wednesday, October 12th, 2005 | Idiocy | No Comments

Mr Frog and I lead a fairly average sort of life, really. Sure, we have our moments, but aside from those we’re just like any other couple.

We kiss the other person good bye - We go to work.
We get home - We cook dinner and we spend the evening commentating “Dancing with the Stars” before stumbling into bed.

It’s all rather domestic, I hesitate to say ‘bliss’, (nobody has invented a self cleaning saucepan) but we both enjoy each other’s company.

We had the idea of creating some home brewed beer a little while back. We got quite giddy with the idea of having 30 bottles of hand crafted amber liquid gold, so we threw caution to the wind and bought ourselves a Home Brew Kit.

As this is our first ‘brew’ we’re taking everything just a little bit too seriously. I dissolved my left hand while cleaning the brewing vat in insecticide/pesticide/anti-fungal/anti-nuclear brewing detergent. Mr Frog measured out the required 25Lt of hydro chemically purified water to the nearest mL.

We’ve got devices that look like high school pipettes with all sorts of calibrations on the side. I dutifully used said instruments with all the reverence of a Wizards Apprentice. Topping the brewing barrel is a water filled pressure release, which measures the rate of fermentation by way of making gloopy blurupy sounds periodically. Beer Brewing is surely a dark art.

It has changed us fundamentally. All of this has certainly changed the way Mr Frog and I view our humble glass of beer. Once, we would walk around the house carrying out intelligent adult conversations regarding a variety of subjects. Now, we walk around the house speaking to our brewing barrel in a series of unintelligible and un-spellable ‘blurubs’.

What makes me realise that I love Mr Frog more than anything in the world is the fact that he is just as crazy as I am.

Blurup