Saturday, December 6, 2014

computer games

The only computer game to which I dedicated a serious amount of time was Lemonade Stand. It quickly became apparent that I lacked the requisite hand-eye coordination when I accidentally starting selling mugs of steaming, hot Bovril on a day when blistering temperatures were predicted. I did the sensible thing and put my stand under voluntary administration and vowed to never again go into retail.

These days, the closest I get to playing a computer game is when I try to defrost something in the microwave.  And it's a good thing too because, as far as I can piece together, modern games are all about hurling frozen chickens at stolen cars.

Alas, it seems that there's more diversity in the market than I expected. Take, for example, Far Cry 4, a game where the objective is to find a salon that will do a decent head of foils before your roots become too noticeable.  I've even heard that there's a secret level where you're offered a treatment to lock in the colour.

All I have to do now is decide whether I want to play as the hairdresser or as the blonde, chicken hurler. It will all come down to which role requires less hand-eye coordination.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

hot Sunday news

In light of the fact that at least one person's reading this (and a heartfelt thanks to you, Cardinal Pell), I thought I might as well keep putting the bog in blog.  

So, let's start with an update on my MS.  I've still got some symptoms from the attack, but they're gradually lessening.  It's not all bad news, though, because I'll be able to whip out (metaphorically speaking) my gammy leg as an excuse to explain why I can't do something.  Been asked to attend a women's only baby shower? Forget about it!  I've got a gammy leg!  Been asked to desist from sending threatening letters to the PM? No can do!  It's my gammy leg that's been writing them.

To help prevent further attacks, I've been prescribed an aggressive drug called Tysabri.  It works by preventing the naughty immune cells from crossing the endothelium, and it comes with a very low probability of a fatal brain disease.  Given that the initial attack got me 3 weeks off work, you can probably guess what I'm thinking of developing.

Now, let's discuss the more interesting topic of the G20, which is being held in Brisbane this weekend.  For starters, has the government considered trying to recoup some expenses by offering sight-seeing trips in the ever-present helicopters? Or what about something for the latte-sippers like me?  Perhaps the opportunity to dress up like Uncle Sam and get your photo taken with the Grim Reaper.  These are just some of the ideas I sent to the offices of Campbell Newman. And yet time after time they were returned to me marked "not known at this address - return to sender", which is bullshit because he'd compulsively marked them with his royal seal.  (It's made of red wax and looks very much like an arsehole.) The only time they listened to me was when I saw some banners being prepared and I commented that it would be easier to read if they wrote"G20" instead of "GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG".  

I was thrilled that the UQ's maths department was commissioned to organised the excursion for the spouses of world leaders. And based on these photos, I think every meeting like this should have koalas.  Hand on my heart, those are some of the most genuine smiles I've seen from a photo opportunity.  A big jacket might keep out the cold, but only a koala can warm the cockles of your heart.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

the hirsute of happiness

I recently started reading Practical Ethics by Peter Singer, and it has made me think about how I would defend some of my decisions. For example, can I defend choosing to eat meat?  And yet nothing I've yet read prepared me for the dilemma with which I am now confronted.

Upon finding the dark hair on my chin (edit: it was only one hair, but you tell that it had ringleader qualities), two choices were immediately apparent.  One involved plucking it to preserve my culturally appropriate sense of femininity. (Admittedly, a more pressing threat to my femininity comes from the MS attack, which has left me with the kind of gait you'd expect of a man with balls the size of watermelons.  Fear not, however, for the recent course of IV steroids should shrink my testicles back to their normal size, if not smaller.) The other choice involved purchasing a bottle of beard oil and truly embracing the hipster aesthetic so pervasive around our neck of the woods.

I told you this was a real humdinger.  And I don't yet have an answer.  Would you excuse me a minute while I ponder the problem over a glass of organic pear cider?  Thanks, I knew you'd be accommodating.

52 minutes later....

Woooooo! Youse are the best.  And can I just say that I've had an epipanny?  Hang on, let me try that again - an epiphany.  There, did it!

Between you, me and PRISM, James has an aversion to wearing showy clothes.  By his definition, this includes tshirts with any writing or any graphic design. Hell, he's even refused to wear a tshirt with a v-neck collar. For the purposes of exaggeration, I'm going to diagnose him with a phobia and, as loving partner, I'm going to help him overcome it with some sneaky exposure therapy.

I'll start by using my superfluous hair to do some fancy stitching around the hems on the back of some tshirts.  Then, assuming he hasn't had a hysterical reaction, I'll move onto bigger things.  What I've got in mind is to take his favourite, black tshirt (round collar, standard cut), and I'm going to embroider a 3D kale motif on the front. I think we can guarantee one thing: I'm going to blow his mind.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Reality purees

After publishing my previous post, I spent some time contemplating my remarks regarding a fatuous stint on reality tv. I quickly came to the conclusion that my ultimate goal should be aiming for the 15 minutes of ads, not the 15 minutes of ads masquerading as a show.

If I'm not mistaken, I've seen a masterchef winner hocking laundry detergent. Now there's someone who's opting for longevity and brighter whites and I like it.

So, while labouring to fall asleep last night, I asked myself "is there a product that I would refuse to promote?", and the answer hit me like a bullet... a nutribullet, to be more precise. Yes, I do think it's one more unnecessary appliance to clutter your house, but that's not the reason for my decision. The truth is that I just can't act that badly.

If you hand me a glass of puréed prawns, prunes and the gonads of the actors who failed to exhibit sufficient enthusiasm (i.e. people who have long known about the existence of blenders and are grappling with finding their character's motivation), then you'd better be prepared to be wearing that drink (edit: nutriblast). And this is where we come full circle because that masterchef winner has cornered the detergent market with a product so magical that it will remove the toughest of nutribullet stains.

Friday, September 26, 2014

Health news featuring the letters I, U, M & S

Earlier this year I underwent an intra-uterine insemination procedure. Whether it was successful or not is a matter of opinion; it did not result in a pregnancy. What's more important, however, is this example of Jamie's dry sense of humour.

dr: James, you've got excellent sperm. It's red hot. I don't suppose you've heard that before. 
James: Mmmm, Mary has never complimented my sperm. 

Prior to this exchange, the doctor probably thought that James was mute. (edit: He was now wondering "Is this guy British? Surely, not.  His teeth are too nice.")

In more recent news, I have been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.

In our house we enjoy the odd bit of black humour. The cats especially come out with some hilarious, albeit dark, things. On this occasion, Jamie took on the burden of lightening the mood.

James: An auto-immune problem would suit your personality.

It's true. I have a habit of attacking myself, all in the quest to have self-esteem low enough that I might consider applying for a spot on a reality tv show to be a worthwhile pursuit. 15 minutes of fame, interspersed with 15 minutes of ads is all I want. (Not true.)

Anyway, here I lie in hospital, suffering from a wakefulness that might be due to today's infusion of steroids.  Instead of counting sheep, I will count down the average number of minutes my phone stays charged.