Google Uranus, Slippers, Slappers and Bikies

I watched The Truman Show last night, the 90's Jim Carrey movie about a man whose entire life has been broadcast on cable television without his knowledge on his very own dedicated channel, kind of like Keeping up with the Kardashians should be on a dedicated moron channel.

All of his family, friends and his wife are paid actors, albeit not very good ones. Kind of like Keeping up with the Kardashians. I'd never seen this flick, so I though it'd be worth a look. It really wasn't.  Kind of like Keeping up with the Kardashians.

The movie came out before reality shows became ubiquitous in mainstream televisionland, but I imagine the makers of Google were busy taking notes during this flick back in the day - in between their kindergarten naps - for their future gargantuan project of mapping every nook and cranny of earth for their search engine giant. I wonder if Google are thinking of mapping other planets, like a version of Google Uranus*. Hmm, probably not.

What else is going on? Today Aussie PM Gillardo finally threw the Slipper and the Slapper into the cesspool; I'll leave it up to you to work out which daft fool is which.

Throwing out two trashbags - who have swindled the Commonwealth, amongst other charming exploits - for the price of one (election) sounds like a wise move to me, but me and my political preferences would say that. Slippery Pete, Slapper Craig - for fucks sake that party is a disaster.

On another note, I'm so bored with the stupid bikie gangs in this country. Do they really call themselves bikies? Sounds a bit girly to me, like a rampaging horde of 10-year-old girls prancing down the road on their bedazzled pink wheels with ribbons on the handle bars and catfighting it out with semi-automatics outside their local shopping centre.

If these bikie dickheads come anywhere near me while I'm in my current state - that being with massive toothache - it'll be the last thing they ever do. Forget police dogs, just let me loose on them before I've had a kick of Nurofen into my bloodstream. But it needs to be before next Wednesday. The Day of Wisdom Extraction.  The police have no powers to stop them, so just let them shoot each other willy-nillly at a pre-arranged meeting point.  Like Afghanistan.

* Please don't sue me Google.

Mud, Sweat and Tears

I am currently rereading Bear Grylls autobiography - Mud, Sweat and Tears, which is a personal account of the real-life GI Joe's life adventures thus far.  While Grylls honourably discharged himself from the British Special Forces in his early twenties due to injury, he delayed his autobiographical career until he had achieved quite a few more amazing feats.

Which is preferable to many of the celebrity autobiographies we are subjected to these days, written by some journalist who is trying to make a name for themselves in the publishing industry and thinks ghost writing the life story of a boring model / actor / tree humanitarian who starred in a kid’s game show that was axed after two shows and then got their big break on Neighbours is the best way to go.

As it turns out, Grylls had already penned eleven books, and has thrived in achieving numerous completely insane feats that defy human ability, so kudos to the big fella.

Mud, Sweat and Tears describes the gruelling training Grylls underwent to be chosen for the British SAS. He leaves no stone unturned, give or take some names, details, places and SAS operational procedures that cannot be released for security reasons.

I can't think of a better word to describe the selection process than gruelling, although this term doesn't even come close to a fair and appropriate account of the intensity of the program.

I love the positive messages that are ingrained in military training; camaraderie, skill, humility, endurance and character. Technically parents should be ingraining these messages into their kids, but what do I know.  I guess many parents didn't get the memo, or maybe it's just the places I frequent that are replete with bastard children causing all manner of chaos.

Special Forces are renown for their ruthless efficiency and professionalism, and anyone wanting to join them has to be mentally and physically unflappable and resilient, as the selection process ensures that only the soldiers with a lotta ticker make the cut.

These soldiers are deployed to locations and situations that the rest of us don't even want to imagine. And they somehow endure it, because they have evidently been exposed to awful, worst case scenarios in the selection process and training procedures, which makes the stories in Australia's military history of inexperienced kids heading off to war all the more heart-breaking.  My dad went to war when he was too young. They were all far too young backin the day. But it is what it is.

A few years ago through my family history I found out about 21-year-old Alfred Ernest Tarrant, who was sent to Gallipoli.  He wasn't a soldier, he was a school teacher.  None of them were soldiers; they were just young men.

Tarrant's 12th Battalion was part of a landing party that arrived at Anzac Cove at 04:30 on 25 April 1915.  He survived. His Battalion fought in the bloody Battle of Lone Pine in August and Tarrant was killed in action at Shrapnel Gulley on 11 November 1915, just weeks before the Anzacs were evacuated. He is buried in the Shell Green Cemetery in Gallipoli, Turkey. 

I write of this because it’s ANZAC Day, and it’s important to be thinking about and commerating and never forgetting all those men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice for us.  We all try to understand what those kids who went to war experienced, and what all the men and women who go to war endure; but we’ll never understand. What we can do is never forget it.

Wisdom Toothectomy

I don't have any scientific evidence at all to support this finding, but I'm pretty sure Canberra's recent 'earthquake' dislodged one of my wisdom teeth.  One of those small, whitish structures that are impaled into my jawbone has been causing me considerable distress of late.  Since the earthquake-ette, in fact.  I guess you could call it tectonic teething problems. 

'They' say you shouldn't mess around when it comes to your tooths, eyes, and something else; I really don't remember.  I probably should listen from time to time to those mystery people, whose identities elude me. The winner in this whole teething brouhaha is my dentist, of course, and the jolly shareholders of the pharmaceutical giant that produce my best mate, Nurofen.  I huge shout out to Ibuprofen.

Stupid wisdom teeth have absolutely no point whatsoever.  They come up whenever it bloody suits them, and you can't get rid of them even if you ignore them, plus they really don't have any job description except to be completely annoying and extremely painful and just generally get in the way of the proper order of things.  They are the Kardashians of the dental world. 

Today I went to the dentii (there are six in my practice) to get some advice on the way forward, but dentists only really offer one option when it comes to pointless molars. Extraction, extraction, extraction. Dentists are far too comfortable and confident in discussions regarding removing things that are attached to your face. I find it most unnerving, but I suppose it is far better than an apprehensive dentist.

I should have had the darn thing pulled on the spot, but I heard the word extraction and tried to make a beeline for the exit.  Who knew the dental hygienist at my new practice had such good defensive door-blocking skills. 

So instead of having the procedure there and then, I now have to wait another few days before I head once more into the breach, dear friends, which is another few days of anxiously wringing my hands waiting for the day of extraction.

Another added benefit is that I will need fork out for another consultation fee, but I will happily do so, merely as a way of thanking the dentist for sending a shooting pain through my entire central nervous system.  I think dental practices should have one of those alarm systems connected to their front door, that helpfully chimes "ka-ching" as you enter the establishment, to alert the inhabitants that their next victim has arrived and is ready to have their bank balance drained.

And then one as you sit in the chair, and one when the dentist engages you in conversation, and one when you spit bloody saliva into a suction sink, before the final tone at the reception desk to alert you to the fact that it's time to pay off your tab.

FBI Reality Barbie

I was watching The Amazing Race the other night, in all probability because my brain was enduring some type of psychosis that meant it couldn't unearth the remote to flick the channel to something more appealing, like 'mute' or 'off'.

One of the teams in the latest series of this fast-paced global backpacking reality game show are a pair of female FBI agents, that look and sound a lot like FBI barbie would if she were involved in law enforcement and crime prevention and could bend her fingers to clasp a glock.

While this pair behave like they have the IQ of a plastic doll - harsh, but true - I figure they must have some manner of skill or attribute working in their favour or the Bureau wouldn't have hired them. Of course, there is always affirmative action, the technique some women rely on to get to where they want to be in life. Winning on merit is, like, so passe.

In this particular episode, all teams were required to erect a fairly complicated and problematic tent structure thing, replete with approximately 80,000 tent poles and throw cushions (seriously), under the direction of a slew of completely incomprehensible instructions. It is my understanding that the more complex a task, the simpler the instruction booklet should read.  However, that's called common sense, which really has no place in the world of instruction manuals.

The all-female FBI pair floundered in their task, not because they couldn't work as a team, but because they "didn't have a male on their team who knows about tents". The words of a couple of FBI agents, not mine.  Which begs the question: when Australia allows women on the frontline - presumably when they have passed the exact same standard of tests as men to earn their place - are they just going to whinge and complain when they don't have a man around to cock their gun for them, because, you know, men know about these things?

Of course there are women in the defence forces who are capable of taking on the same amount of physical strain as the men, but they are few and far between, and they are the ones who just get on with the job without needing to qualify their effort with a gender disclaimer.

What I don't have time for is the garbage I hear from feminists; demanding equality on the one hand, yet special dispensation on the other.  I really can't stand it.  And they constantly bleat about how unfair it is that women are not allowed to do certain jobs, yet they use their gender as an excuse when they fail in the task.  I'm sorry, but I call it as I see it, and this sort of crap just pisses me off.

Bogan 'Moth' Pride

What is bright orange, about three stories high and has absolutely no point whatsoever? Just another of the utterly frightful artworks that the ACT Government in Canberra has commissioned, that’s what. No-one knows why these dreadful arty (see: ugly) things keep popping up all over the city, but one thing is clear; the local government is deadset keen on making this entire city one of the leading eyesores of the world.

Talentless artist, Alexander Knox, is responsible for the latest shrine to all-that-is-wrong-with-the-art-world. His work on the side of Drakeford Drive in Tuggeranong pays homage to the bogong moth community, who annually choose Canberra as a stopover on their journey to somewhere more interesting, probably due to the excellent rent on roof crevices, the low crime stats among moth youth and the fact that our major public buildings leave a light on all night.


Intepretative moth dance

Creating a monument that celebrates a major pest that causes significant damage to the economy and infrastructure is an interesting approach to roadside artwork. I don’t know why they just don’t put up a big photo montage of Julia Gillard and save everyone any confusion.

Although I imagine the only damage this giant mutant insect will cause will be a couple of car accidents. And car accidents never hurt nobody. Oh. Wait a minute. I don’t think that’s right.

Why do they keep erecting mammoth artwork that will cause a fucking car accident? Even a person from Queanbeyan would know this is a dumb idea.  Texting while driving is illegal, but ginormous, brightly coloured insects with mutant eyes placed on the side of the road is perfectly fine, apparently, because they’re not fucking distracting at all.

The ACT Government continuously shove road safety campaigns down our throats, yet they continuously commission artwork throughout the city that takes our eyes off the road. I would have thought the most effective way to avoid an accident is to keep your eyes on the fucking road. But what do I know; I’m just a voter.

Unfortunately, I don’t think this profane tribute to icky insects is going to turn into a butterfly and flutter away any time soon.

Fashion Fail

There are many valid reasons why I do not blog about fashion, makeup, handbags, hairstyles (well, very occasionally, but only about my own locks), and other style-related topics. The main reason is that I haven't a clue about any of it really. Another reason is that I haven't any interest in it whatsoever, which is likely the more compelling explanation for why these things very rarely get a guernsey on here.

I ventured to a local shopping centre today to find some work clothes, because I've heard that wearing clothes is important and not wearing clothes is possibly a little inappropriate in my line of work.  And, you know, I thought I'd find something wearable in a clothes shop.

To be honest, I am a little mortified by the current approach to fashion. I expect it’s not the fault of the youth of today; I mean, I wore eighties fashion once too. In the eighties. Which is where it all best belongs. I do tend to convulse a little when I see ra-ra skirts, stonewashed jeans and anything at all made from taffeta.

I am still trying to forget the racing green taffeta ensemble I wore to my Year 10 prom formal thing, in the very, very late eighties, mind you. I’m not that old. My mum made it – which was a fairly popular method of attaining the formal dress back in the day – and I still have it, and it is absolutely hideous, but I adored it at the time. So I’ll let the teens have their moment wearing stuff I wore twenty years ago, but then they must shift along to the 21st century.

The Chaosity of Jaipur

With Canberra undergoing a spell of cataclysmically gloomy weather – it was overcast ALL DAY - I decided it was best to go the cinema in an attempt to avoid the ensuing melancholic mood and to try and forget that such bollocks weather has the audacity to exist. So I took my mum to see The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.

The exemplary cast includes Professor McGonagall (aka Maggie Smith), M (aka Judi Dench) and other fine British actors, so I wasn't worried - like I often am - that I will be subjected to a movie that I know I hate within minutes of its onset but have to endure for another two hours.

The flick is set in Jaipur, India and is about a group of retirees who, for numerous reasons, retire to the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, which they believe to be a newly restored hotel. However, the establishment has in fact been rather significantly airbrushed in its promotional material by its entrepreneurial manager in an attempt to 'outsource old age', in the same fashion as companies outsource phone calls to exotic call centres and I often outsource cooking to a local Pizza Hut. They should have just checked TripAdvisor.com, but anyway.

I lived with my family in India for a few years as a youthling, so mum and I sniggered throughout the ‘quintessential India' scenes that are included for comic relief, but actually provide an honest summation of the idiosyncratic chaosity that is India.

When people tell me they are travelling to India, by choice, I do try my best to hide my utter disgust, but I silently sneer at their ignorance of the poverty and smell and disease and suffering and the general pandemonium they will encounter on their journey. I am also confused by the popular movement these days that has convinced some people that India and such places are great to find oneself. India is not a place to go to find oneself. Do the people in this picture look to you like they are finding themselves?

As much as I mock the country, most of my favourite childhood memories were formed in and around New Delhi. I’m thankful that I was a child growing up before helicopter parents started ruining their kid’s childhood, so my parents didn’t overprotect us, but just let us be kids.

Touching things you shouldn’t touch and eating things you definitely shouldn’t eat are a rite of passage for a kid growing up; it’s all just a part of the process of building resistance to all types of bugs and disease.

Sure, there was the time I was bitten by a rabid dog, and the time I grew hundreds of warts on my hand overnight from doing something that I probably shouldn’t have been doing, and the time I grew a tapeworm in my stomach, and I endured every type of Asian stomach bug about five times, but these afflictions are the reason why I’ve never had an upset stomach, food poisoning or gastro since. Lifetime immunity idol. *knocks on wood*

Blogger Grim

Sometimes I really feel like writing something on my exceptionally average blog, but I feel a crushing sense of blogger's block. Obviously it's not that grim, because words are being produced, but it's bothersome none the less. At these trying times, I try to think of the kids in the Horn of Africa. Because they don't even have access to Blogger.  The horror.  Settle down, I'm not mocking the Third World, I'm just a pragmatist.

If I had my way, there would be no leftwingers with any power or authority anywhere in the world - including key posts in the United Nations - as they are completely incapable of handling any international crisis due to their weak ideological dispositions and senseless decision making and, thus, there would be proper policies in place that would mean that no kid in the whole world would be without Blogger. Or food.  Maybe. Well I imagine the situation would be far less dire if we could just find a way to disband the hapless U.N.

And I can think of a whole bunch of world military leaders who just get in the way of anything decent and good, but the United States aren't allowed to 'take them out' because that would make the U.S. the bad guys, apparently. This is just part of The Wonderful World of Leftwing Logic.  When I say 'take them out', I don't mean on a date; I mean the other thing.

Speaking of the world's bad eggs, I note that renown psycho, Robert Mugabe, is dying, but unfortunately it didn't happen years ago in his prime killing days. But fortunately there is a front row seat waiting for him on the rollercoaster to hell. It's a very long front row.  Why have I been so preachy and self-righteous lately? FFS. And why am I blogging about hell and death and starving children and mass murderers? FFS. I am totally depressed now.

Your Hair - That's What Makes You Vaguely Interesting

The other day I called in sick, claiming a long list of illnesses which included a brutally sadistic headcold, a bout of Ross River Fever and signs of a hip fracture. I have been told that I can overplay my hand at times, but I doubt that's significant in this case. I imagine it's possible to contract Ross River Fever in Canberra. You just don't know these days, what with the ways of the internet. That darn thing needs to be monitored for bugs.

Um, anyway. So I was sick, crook, not feeling very well at all and crankypants, and decided to flick on the old idiot box to see what's happening around the globe via breakfast television. This is never a good idea, because I always end up giving a shit about making sure I catch some Rhianna interview or something. They build it up, then let you down, because celebrities are exceptionally good at being exceptionally dull.  You'd think actors and singers would at least memorise a few lines to make them sound vaguely interesting.  Alas, no.

So it turns out the only thing happening in the entire known universe on this particular day was One Direction-related, like whether the band members like vegemite toast (nope), how they can get away with wearing red carpri-style trousers and white sandshoes without being a toddler or a KFC employee (who knows the answer to this one), and how the hell they leave their expensive hotel room with their hair going in every damn direction. I am completely mesmerised by the Hair.  It's fascinating.

So, after a few hours of staring at the hair art on this cute, dimpled barbershop quartet plus one, I knew everything one needs to know to know about Niall, Liam, Louis, Harry and Zane. And I can put a boyband member's name to a boyband member's hair too. Sadly I’m not even joking. And let me tell you, the items for consumption that their pumped-up PR team let you in on aren't all that remarkable, unless you are a brainwashed 14-year-old girl.

The people who create these bands - Simon Cowell in this case - are good. This hair band’s only song - as far as I can tell - is about how girls are beautiful as they are, blah blah blah. Nicely played Mr Cowell, nicely played.

As pretty as they are, I'm sure this band is going to be like all the others, where they summarily break up, although one of them keeps threatening to get everybody back together again to pretend that teenage girls are still going to pay good money to go and watch balding middle-aged men who were once in a hair band.

I'm just super cranky that stupid fucking song is stuck in my head.

Being Sick Sucks

I'm finally rising out of the ashes and mountains of snot-ravaged tissues after a nasty bout of head cold-itis.  I love the moment when you realise it's going away and you feel vaguely human again.  Stupid head cold completely ruined my easter this year. 

Not even the Easter Bunny wants to go near someone with a head cold.  Just because I didn’t have anything more exciting planned this long weekend than having coffee with friends and family doesn’t mean I wasn’t royally ripped off.

I would like to thank all my sponsors who have worked so hard for the past few days - Kleenex, Panadol and Day & Night, the OTC decongestants who made me who I am today and, umm, I'd also like to thank GOD! I'm sorry if I've forgotten anyone, but you know who you are.

Head cold's are pretty sucky.  Women may berate men for whining when they have a blocked nose - and have even coined the infamous Man Cold - but I can certainly hold my own in the war on whinging when it comes to being on my deathbed.  See?  Dramatic much? 

The dreaded Pariah Cough has been trying to rear it's head again - and has been vaguely successful - but it hasn't amounted to anything like it was in it's heyday (about four weeks ago).  Three courses of antibiotics almost annihilated the darn thing, so I guess one more oughta do it.

So I’ve been laying low the past few days, which is quite difficult for me, given my proclivity for moving around 24 hours a day. My body may be exhausted, but my head still wants to do stuff; stuff that my body is not currently capable of doing. Like moving.

Because I'm feeling utterly sorry for myself today, I decided to do one of the things I am most happiest doing; a spot of blogging.  And after 15 minutes I am tired and have a headache and need a nap. Being sick is like being in prison, except without the free internet access, free food, free accommodation and criminals trying to bite off your ear lobes.  Other than that, it's exactly the same as jail.

Daytime commercial television is appallingly bad.  In fact, it should be a key motivator for the unemployed to get a job and for young mums to stop having children.  Oops, possibly hit a raw nerve there.  Hey, it's not my fault they are trapped in their Govvie flats without access to Foxtel.  If you can't afford the little brats, don't have 'em.

Ah, North Korea

If it looks like a missile, and acts like a missile, then it most likely is a missile, and it's probably not going to be used for anything short of blowing something up (perhaps a place that rhymes with Mouth Diarrhea), doing something that is internationally illegal or just more generally pissing off the more judicious nation states of the world.

The secretive lunatics that form the North Korean Government have just given the foreign media unprecedented access into their state to scrutinise the launch pad where they claim they will be shortly launching a rocket that will be putting a satellite into outer space.

When North Koreans allow you to scrutinise something of theirs, it’s always from a distance, with a machine gun to your head. A satellite people, do you hear, it's not a missile! It's a satellite. We have no reason - nope, no reason at all - to believe the North Koreans are telling porky pies.

Seriously, how dim-witted do Pyongyang think we are? Well, I suppose most of the mainstream media are a few fries short of a happy meal, which, incidentally, is something North Koreans are dying for. Food, that is. But that's communism for you.

By North Korea's reckoning, this disclosure to foreign journalists of their wholesome little rocket launcher will appease the world - particularly the United States which, let's face it, is the world - into believing North Korea are just a peaceful little nation that wants to send sunshine, rainbows and smiles into the earth's atmosphere, without any hint of a sinister intent.

They want us to think that their launches will not be used for provocative purposes. Is that like their nuclear missile launches over the years that weren't for provocative purposes? North Korea government officials don't bother getting out of bed unless it's for provocative purposes.

I get tired of all the left-wingers in the west defending nation states that are completely out of their minds, and treat their citizens appallingly, with the line, 'well, it's just a different culture'. Um yes, yes it is, it's a worse one, and one that needs to be eradicated.

Therapy for Road Rage

*Climbs on Soapbox*

How unusual of me to get on my soapbox about something that aggrieves me.  In this case, blogging as a form of therapy is cheaper, smarter and far more legal than road rage.  Because road rage is generally a VBI, that is, a Very Bad Idea.

I was driving along a highway in Canberra today - minding my own business, as much as I ever mind my own business - when a young hooligan in a dumb purple glitter V8 flew up behind me and decided to go around me only at the last minute, and then cut back right in front of me, narrowly avoiding transferring some of his purple glitter dust onto my front bumper.

After cramming my entire swear word vocabulary into a single sentence, I calmly let the whole episode pass over me, even though I am generally a boiling cauldron when bogan meatheads piss me off on the road.

While I didn't want to do him any harm in a moment of road rage madness, I absolutely hoped that he would take care of it all by himself.  It may not happen straight away, but it'll happen eventually.  This is my logic, and the road fatality statistics seem to agree with me.    

As I watched this idiot speed off into the distance, I hoped - as I often do - that I will find his vehicle wrapped around a tree further up the road, thus giving me the opportunity to mock him as he lay trapped in his crumpled sparkly car.  I know that's not very Christian of me, but I have a serious grudge against drink drivers, speeders and other road hooligans for various reasons.

I have held an argument with various people for years about my seemingly nonchalant attitude as to whether I would bother calling an ambulance or the police at this point - I would, because it's the law - and whether I would try and make things more comfortable for the idiot in his final minutes.  I'd like to think that I would, but I would understand if I didn't. 

Psychologists will tell you that boys behave like douches on the road because their brains - particularly the area responsible for judgement - are not fully formed until they are around 25.  Well it looks like we have a friggin' problem then, doesn't it?  Rather than banning them from driving altogether, why don't we play hardball and give some really tough love to the kids who have been caught speeding time and again. 

The only way to get through to these teens is on an emotional level - they have to feel and experience some pain and shock - so what better way to get across the seriousness of the problem than have a staged intervention as a court imposed punishment.  It goes like this.  The police call the hooligan in the middle of the night and tell them that a family member has been killed in a car accident.

Once their shock has subsided, the police can produce the very much alive family member and maybe the hooligan has learnt his lesson.  In reality, it's either going to be them or their parents who get that phone call.  Obviously this solution is rather stupid and not much of a plan, but I don't see any other ideas being produced by the people who get paid to come up with solutions to these things.

You know those people who flash their lights to warn you of a police presence up ahead?  Well the only time I flash my lights at cars is when there are definitely no police cars up ahead, but I just want people to slow down.  I pretty much do this every time I drive at night.

I will never, ever warn drivers that the police are up ahead, because if they are speeding, they will be caught, and thus will not run over your grandmother in a hit and run further down the track.  It perplexes and angers me why people side with other drivers rather than siding with the law.  I really don't get it. 

And then there are the people - from all walks of life - who race through the suburbs like they were Michael Schumacher, except without the talent, money and hot looking ferrari.  If these people want to break the speed limit then they can go for their life, but I hope when they do eventually kill someone it is one of their own family, rather than destroy someone else's, and I hope they are ready to deal with the consequences of their actions.  But of course they aren't, because these people don't think.

God writing is the best therapy...

*Gets off soapbox*

The news, as it happens. Sometimes.

I decided a long time ago that the least irritating method of attaining my ‘news’ is to avoid all of the mainstream media's interpretations of what’s going on in the world.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t actually get any news updates, it just means that I find out what’s news - and the details of any significant events - by reading news blogs online, particularly the comments section, where people argue with each other about this and that, which enables the reader to get an overall picture of what is actually occurring, and are able to come to their own conclusions, without the typical news censoring and agenda setting.

The mainstream media tell you want they want you to know, in line with their particular ideology (ie. George Bush sucks, let’s only print bad things about him. Or, more likely, Barack Obama is left wing, like our news outlet, and therefore we simply must find a way to give viewers the impression that he is the messiah, even though he is hopelessly incompetent).  I'm pretty sure news bosses sit around and say to each other, 'we want this guy to stay in power, what sort of web of lies would work in this segment/column?'

Like it or hate it, this is how most media outlets operate, as much as they bang on about how they report the news as it happens, without bias. Without bias, my arse.  I write of my disdain for the mainstream news stations because I am currently watching Channel Ten’s evening bulletin. Seriously.

Whenever I watch a commercial new bulletin I always feel like I'm the third wheel on a date between the two anchors that will probably result in them going back to her house for coffee after the weather, which always follows an inspiring and brave story of a blind Indian orphan with a tumour or something.

Please stop flirting incessantly when you're reporting on suicide bombers in Afghanistan. I know it happens all the time in those deranged countries, but your batting eyelids and sideways smirks when the cameras are rolling are a little tacky and fairly annoying.  We all know that you're not real journalists, but have some self-respect.

The commercial news stations’ format and choice of stories entertains me a fair bit. I love how the ‘breaking news’ always conveniently occurs just after the main stories of the day or just before the program wraps up. Who knew that motorway-congesting car crashes, bogan-fuelled armed robberies, natural disasters and murders occurred in such a timely fashion, to fit in perfectly snug with the tight news schedule.

Just watched the segment on the slightly delusional British woman who claims women hate her because she is Angelina Jolie-esque beautiful. The gist of the entirely uninteresting and unnewsworthy story is that this woman lamented – on a British national morning show – that her outrageous beauty is why women hate her, and now everyone does actually hate her, which she believes proves her point.

As it turns out, she has not only not been hit with the pretty stick, but I believe the scorn women have expressed in her direction en masse is possibly due to the fact that she is a tad on the arrogant side, in the way that Hitler was a tad on the ruthless side.  While I don’t care about any of it, and I do love watching a good catfight between catty, fighty women as much as you do, it does bother me a bit that the media continue to exploit people with psychological disorders for a good story.

Holy Hulk Triceps, Batman

Before I hit my late twenties and became a knowledge nerd - I was the mature age student at uni who used to tell the young folk to shush with their trivial small talk - I didn't really care for education, and I certainly got up to some interesting and unorthodox chemistry experimentation in high school.

I wasn't trying to be rebellious, I just found the syllabus extremely boring and I couldn't really get my head around the stuff that didn't put me into a sleep-induced haze.  I still don't really do science, or math for that matter.  Now words I understand.  Me and words are like peas and carrots.

It really is a wonder that I didn't annihilate my arms in high school like some deranged terrorist who botched Bomb-Making 101.  Some of those science experiments can cause quite the chemical chain reaction. I wanna get your love all ready for the sweet sensation, instant radiation. Oh dear, I think I've been sprung quoting Diana Ross. No matter, because it's a first-rate song; one in which I will totes be downloading onto my iPod, now that it's trapped inside my head a little bit.

Everyone knows that the Hulk appears shortly after his alter ego was "accidently" exposed to the blast of a test detonation of a gamma bomb he invented. I hate it when things like that happen to me.

And I'm starting to think this type of situation did accidently happen to me recently.  I'm retracing my footsteps over the past few weeks to try and piece together the exact time and location that I was exposed to the blast of a test detonation of a gamma bomb.

The cause of my concern is an array of bulging triceps located precisely where my previously uninspired triceps used to reside. Something is up.  Alternatively, they might be due to the fact that I'm working my buttocks off at the gymnasium about 23 times a week.  I must say, my new muscles are comparatively splendid.

I was telling someone at work the other day about my exercise program, and they graciously and diplomatically didn't fall asleep on the spot, so that was kind of them. This person suggested that I keep an exercise diary so I can trace the changes in my energy levels etc and, thus, won't get all concerned when I next grow muscles overnight.

This idea is all very well, but I think I would bore myself stupid writing about my progress, and I would likely have no time to actually exercise. If you hadn't noticed, I'm not really a few-lines-outta-do-it kind of diary keeper. Although I wish I had kept a record when I started at the gym last October, because I was fairly unfit and fairly untoned and fairly unhulk-like, and reading about that now would make me feel heaps toned and Hulky.

I started a new program a few weeks ago - the program I like to call the Hulk technique - and I've really noticed the difference in the appearance and strength of my muscles in that time. Which is ace. While doing weights is kind of becoming a bit tedious, it certainly doesn't hurt that the chap who does my program is fairly hot and, well, *sigh*.

Love triangles and other geometric-type situations

I'm blogging with the telly on as background, which is the only time I tend to write.  I'm multi-tasking the shit out of this situation.  I get very bored just watching telly, apparently.  The program is about the aftermath of last year's earthquake in Christchurch, I think, because they are talking in an odd accent about "keyos iveryweer" and "eets quort skeery" and "ez thet en eftershock?" 

This is going to be one of those posts that I really shouldn’t waste my time constructing, and you most assuredly should not waste your time reading. Oh well, too late; the wrecking ball has swung – like a psychotic pendulum-type disco ball - and it’ll cost a lot of dosh and the weight of many, many strong people with numerous muscles to stop it razing my blog into a desolate wasteland. Although, I imagine it wouldn’t appear much different that it does right now.

It would be quite exciting to be a wrecking ball operator person. You'd never have to spend a day in therapy. But if you hit the wrong building you’d be in muchos trouble and would have to fill in oodles of confusing and pointless paperwork designed to obfuscate the entire issue.  Sounds just like a desk job with the Government to me, except you actually get to watch the train wreck in real time. No, I don’t know what the fuck I’m prattling on about either, but I did warn you.

I didn't actually want to write about wrecking balls or endless paperwork, so this is a good time for an intervention into the progress of this post.  I went to see A Dangerous Method at the cinema this week, which is about Keira Knightley's jawline and it's 'love triangle' with Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud. As far as shapes go, the old triangle has a bit of notoriety, don't it?

It’s unpredictable (hello Bermuda), perplexing (hello Bermuda and Grade 1 geometry) and a bit of a vixen (hello love triangles).  I am currently in a bit of a 'lack of interest' triangle at the moment; torn between continuing with this post or sticking a hot poker in my eye.

Circles aren't very exciting at all; I tend to roll my eyes at pie charts, and when people draw circles it often means they want to place arrows everywhere and try to explain something to you that you are probably not very interested in.  Round and round and round you go; the motto of any self-respecting Government.

Pentagons are five-sided polygons, which makes them slightly greedy and pretentious, rather confusing and the bearer of many wives.  The only pentagon that matters is The Pentagon.  It has five sides, five floors, five ring corridors per floor and possibly a five ring circus.  Don't be messing with The Pentagon. They can make you disappear.