I love nature; really I do. It's all natural and stuff and the absolute best thing about venturing into nature is that it is largely devoid of annoying humanoids, probably the same ones who insist on using supermarkets and highways the same freakin' time as I do. But as much as I love being in nature's aura, I refuse to spend the night with it, because that's what houses are for.
I write of nature because today I saw my seventh hissy snake of the 2012-13 snakey season. I regularly walk up a mountain - think Everest, and then decrease the enormity just a fraction - so I am accustomed to a world of creepy, Jurassic Park-type creatures and their crazy, creepy ways. I wonder if there are any type of snake or lizard that all the other snakes and lizards find weird and creepy? Only us humans, probably.
Me and snakes get along just tickety boo. When I say tickety boo, I mean we tolerate each other. Like most marriages. Like ebony and ivory, we live togther in perfect harmony. Until we don't. In actual fact snakes are shit scared of me and I must admit that my heart rate goes through the roof when we encounter each other. I'm not scared of them as such, but I would be okay if they didn't always throw me a surprise party whenever I showed up on their mountain. That's all.
It's not like I don't plan ahead and practice good mountain etiquette. A few years ago I decided that I would warn my snake buddies of my arrival on the mountain by basically stomping along as I walked up the mountain. It's just good manners. They are supposed to feel the vibrations and stay the fuck away from me. These were the rules. They were good rules. Everyone knew the rules. But apparently a new family of snakes have moved into the neighbourhood and don't know about the body corporate.
Why are there so many snakes? I think they need to implement a one child policy in the reptilian world. Why the hell would anyone want 40 children anyway? It's not like they get a baby bonus. Or do they?
That is all. Good day.
Friday 21 December 2012
Wednesday 19 December 2012
When Christmas and Zombies Attack
It's that wonderfully special time of the year, where everyone you meet is tired and crankypants and just wants to go home and not play with anyone anymore ever. That's Christmas; the most magical time of the year. Every year I forget that the year before I swore to myself that I should not work the week before Christmas because it totally, totally sucks, but here I am, yet again.
It's completely draining. I'm pretty sure I had a microsleep on the way up in the elevator this morning somewhere between floors six and ten, and every hour of the day feels like a lifetime. It's like being forced to watch a whole season of Keeping Up With the Carcrashians in a day, except no-one wears baggy leather slut pants and, according to my corporate directory, there are no men called Kanye in the house, yo. Although sometimes my life feels like a reality trash carcrash.
Shopping centres are also hardcore at this time of the year, but imagine how Santa feels? The man's gotta be a sadist, willingly inviting all those little terrorists to sit on his lap all day. Who does that? Fortunately for us suckers enduring this last working week before Christmas, it'll all be over by Friday, when the day of reckoning is upon us and the zombie alpacas will come and suck our brains out. I can't imagine that anyone will be able to tell the difference, to be honest.
It's completely draining. I'm pretty sure I had a microsleep on the way up in the elevator this morning somewhere between floors six and ten, and every hour of the day feels like a lifetime. It's like being forced to watch a whole season of Keeping Up With the Carcrashians in a day, except no-one wears baggy leather slut pants and, according to my corporate directory, there are no men called Kanye in the house, yo. Although sometimes my life feels like a reality trash carcrash.
Shopping centres are also hardcore at this time of the year, but imagine how Santa feels? The man's gotta be a sadist, willingly inviting all those little terrorists to sit on his lap all day. Who does that? Fortunately for us suckers enduring this last working week before Christmas, it'll all be over by Friday, when the day of reckoning is upon us and the zombie alpacas will come and suck our brains out. I can't imagine that anyone will be able to tell the difference, to be honest.
Monday 10 December 2012
You Only Live Twice
I've been posting about the big J-Bondo a bit recently. I'm not obsessed. I'M NOT. Although I have recently watched all of the Sean Connery era flicks again, because someone has lent them to me and they are not going to just watch themselves.
You Only Live Twice is one of the stupidest book/movie titles, because I’m pretty sure only about 60% of people get to live twice. Although stupid titles are always a useful and credible red flag that indicates the ensuing book/movie is going to be shite as well, and this one is no exception.
But it's James Bond and it's Ian Fleming and it's... James Bond, so you just have to cut them some slack and play the hand you're dealt. There are one thousand and fifty two things I thought were outright ridunkulous in this movie, and here are a few:
There are a lot of opportunities in life where you can wing it, but I'm pretty sure driving a space rocket is not one of them, James Bond.
The Japanese Bond girl gets about in a white bra and knickers for the majority of the flick but is suddenly and gratiously afforded a (buttonless) shirt by the wardrobe department when all hell breaks loose. But she still doesn't have any pants. I don't understand why they can never organise a budget for clothes for the Bond girl.
Later, in the crater, she loses her shirt that she spent all movie working towards, so she's back to her bra and knickers. No clothesure for her then. Bond movies should do a deal with Bonds undies.
At least Sean Connery relinquished his beloved baby blue terrytowelling shorts jumpsuit he so loved wearing in EVERY FILM for this particular movie. And thank goodness the white boyleg shorts that he wore for nighttime deepsea scuba diving reconnaissance in Thunderball didn't make an appearance. They were great camouflage under the flourescent light of the moon, and indeed their genius was magnified when combined with an orange leotard. Yes, an orange leotard.
Thunderball is the movie where the fighter jet doubles as a submarine. The Australia Defence Forces need to dump the Joint Strike Fighter program and focus on the acquisition of flying submarines.
In You Only Live Twice, Bond's crazy arse bad boy nemesis - who is relentlessly mocked in the Austin Powers flicks - has a nice and cosy base-of-a-volcanic-crater loungeroom made of slate, old lava and traditional volcanic floating floorboards, along with an artfully decorated pond full of piranha. Like a boss.
You Only Live Twice is one of the stupidest book/movie titles, because I’m pretty sure only about 60% of people get to live twice. Although stupid titles are always a useful and credible red flag that indicates the ensuing book/movie is going to be shite as well, and this one is no exception.
But it's James Bond and it's Ian Fleming and it's... James Bond, so you just have to cut them some slack and play the hand you're dealt. There are one thousand and fifty two things I thought were outright ridunkulous in this movie, and here are a few:
There are a lot of opportunities in life where you can wing it, but I'm pretty sure driving a space rocket is not one of them, James Bond.
The Japanese Bond girl gets about in a white bra and knickers for the majority of the flick but is suddenly and gratiously afforded a (buttonless) shirt by the wardrobe department when all hell breaks loose. But she still doesn't have any pants. I don't understand why they can never organise a budget for clothes for the Bond girl.
Later, in the crater, she loses her shirt that she spent all movie working towards, so she's back to her bra and knickers. No clothesure for her then. Bond movies should do a deal with Bonds undies.
At least Sean Connery relinquished his beloved baby blue terrytowelling shorts jumpsuit he so loved wearing in EVERY FILM for this particular movie. And thank goodness the white boyleg shorts that he wore for nighttime deepsea scuba diving reconnaissance in Thunderball didn't make an appearance. They were great camouflage under the flourescent light of the moon, and indeed their genius was magnified when combined with an orange leotard. Yes, an orange leotard.
Thunderball is the movie where the fighter jet doubles as a submarine. The Australia Defence Forces need to dump the Joint Strike Fighter program and focus on the acquisition of flying submarines.
In You Only Live Twice, Bond's crazy arse bad boy nemesis - who is relentlessly mocked in the Austin Powers flicks - has a nice and cosy base-of-a-volcanic-crater loungeroom made of slate, old lava and traditional volcanic floating floorboards, along with an artfully decorated pond full of piranha. Like a boss.
Saturday 1 December 2012
FauxTan - Beyond the Pale
Despite what Nicole Kidman says, pale skin is horrible. Although Kidman was married to renowned professional nutjob Tom Cruise for over a decade, so how good can her judgment be anyway? While I don't generally look to movie star actresses for my health and safety bulletins, Kidman is a great, unintentional role model for the skin cancer cause.
One is not amused by pale skin, the type of which one was distressingly born with. If my lineage had the indecency to thrust pale skin upon me, it could at least have gone full circle and provided it with a translucency that rivalled Nic's. On the plus side, at night I don't glow like a cheap and tacky christmas tree angel with a fur tree pole stuck up my arse.
Having said that, I’m all for avoiding the sun at all costs (my life is full of inconsistencies. I just roll with it). Despite its life-giving properties, the sun really is a massive pain-in-the-arse, with its key attributes falling more into column A (bad) than column B (good) when it comes to human contact.
The incidence of skin cancer stats freak me out a little bit, so I try not to think about it other than always slipping, slopping and slapping before, during and after sun exposure. It really is a burden but, hey, I don’t want to die from sun. Apparently two in three Australians will be diagnosed with skin cancer by the time they are 70, so that’s just great.
The person who brain-washed women into believing a particular hue of tanned skin is more pleasant than white skin should be slapped hard in the face. My desire for tanned, brown skin and my terror of sunbaking do not really correlate.
To get around this, for years I have invested in a good fake tan product that I apply myself. I have never really been that bothered over the years applying this fake tan, but I’ve recently bought a new product – Johnson & Johnson’s Holiday Skin Body Lotion - that alleges to blend a moisturiser with a fake tan, that “gradually builds a beautiful, light tan”, which is proving to be a complete annoyance.
Of course I was sucked in by this nonsense, and I'm sure it works a treat, but here’s my beef. This product says it provides “24 hour moisturisation”, but also says to “avoid contact with clothes and other items until the lotion is fully absorbed”. So if it takes 24 hours to “fully absorb”, when am I supposed to sleep? It would be helpful if the big cheese of this multinational had used the product before marketing it to millions of women who now only get to sleep in winter.
One is not amused by pale skin, the type of which one was distressingly born with. If my lineage had the indecency to thrust pale skin upon me, it could at least have gone full circle and provided it with a translucency that rivalled Nic's. On the plus side, at night I don't glow like a cheap and tacky christmas tree angel with a fur tree pole stuck up my arse.
Having said that, I’m all for avoiding the sun at all costs (my life is full of inconsistencies. I just roll with it). Despite its life-giving properties, the sun really is a massive pain-in-the-arse, with its key attributes falling more into column A (bad) than column B (good) when it comes to human contact.
The incidence of skin cancer stats freak me out a little bit, so I try not to think about it other than always slipping, slopping and slapping before, during and after sun exposure. It really is a burden but, hey, I don’t want to die from sun. Apparently two in three Australians will be diagnosed with skin cancer by the time they are 70, so that’s just great.
The person who brain-washed women into believing a particular hue of tanned skin is more pleasant than white skin should be slapped hard in the face. My desire for tanned, brown skin and my terror of sunbaking do not really correlate.
To get around this, for years I have invested in a good fake tan product that I apply myself. I have never really been that bothered over the years applying this fake tan, but I’ve recently bought a new product – Johnson & Johnson’s Holiday Skin Body Lotion - that alleges to blend a moisturiser with a fake tan, that “gradually builds a beautiful, light tan”, which is proving to be a complete annoyance.
Of course I was sucked in by this nonsense, and I'm sure it works a treat, but here’s my beef. This product says it provides “24 hour moisturisation”, but also says to “avoid contact with clothes and other items until the lotion is fully absorbed”. So if it takes 24 hours to “fully absorb”, when am I supposed to sleep? It would be helpful if the big cheese of this multinational had used the product before marketing it to millions of women who now only get to sleep in winter.
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