Thursday, December 30, 2010

A fairytale for suicide bombers

I have taken four interstate flights in a little over twelve months with both Tiger (oh, the horrors) and Jetstar. And I have never been asked for ID despite frequent peace offerings of identification to the airport staff. They just really didn't want to fucking know who I was.

Clearly the moral of the story is that suicide bombers and terrorists who want to target Australia should come into Australia normally, then can go nuts once they are inside.*

*No really, I'm just trying to highlight our country's terrible sense of anti-terrorism measures and security.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Please read this before you ever mail me anything

I cannot fucking stand it when people put glitter in envelopes with their greeting cards. No, it's not cute or magical. It makes you a douchebag. It means that I open my mail in the kitchen, and everything in the vicinity (including my face) is covered in a fine shiny mist of glitter. I then look like a transvestite. I did not think it was possible for a female who looks like a female to look like a male pretending to be a female.

The next time anyone sends me a glitter filled envelope, I will send them a single sheet of paper with the word "ANTHRAX" in the middle, and put a handful of talcum powder in the envelope.

Yeah, that's how it feels.

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Dirty talk... literally.

I was at a bar the other day, and after downing a few beverages I found myself on the way to the amenities where I was discovered a yuppie couple (suits, very posh looking, mid-twenties) openly going into a cubicle without any shame or any hint of trying to be inconspicuous. At which point I could not only hear their lips smacking, saliva noises and the sounds of bodies slamming against the cubical walls, but also their dirty talk. Which really is "dirty", filthy talk considering that they were about to mate in a public restroom.

"Oh, I'm going to fuck you so badly." "Yeah, fuck me badly. Yeah, mmmm..."

Maybe it's just me, but "fuck you so badly" translates to "I have terrible copulation skills, let's have really sub-par sex in an extremely unromantic setting."

Ummm, no thanks.

Side note: Maybe it's just me, but sex in public places just reminds me of being a teenager who can't/doesn't want to have sex at home with their parents next door.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

A Public Transport Exercise Regime

Here are some healthy tips on how to lose weight by catching public transport:

  1. Get off a stop earlier and walk the extra distance. Works really well on regional train stations that are about 10 kilometres away from each other. Imagine all that exercise! You may want to schedule in another 4 hours into your travel time.
  2. Pretend you're surfing on the tram. Don't hold on to any railings, keep your knees bent and roll with it. Works best if you are wearing a bikini and humming the song from Pulp Fiction
  3. Don't have a valid ticket and run when you see the ticket inspectors. Jumping off moving trains is fantastic exercise.
  4. Don't have a valid ticket and stay. The ticket inspectors will give you the beating of your life, and you won't know what hit you (well, it was a ticket inspector). And you'll lose heaps of weight when the doctors have to amputate one of your legs, post Metro-brawl.
  5. Do an aerobics routine on the tram. The handles are great for exercising your arm muscles, and the freestanding poles on the 96 trams are a perfect substitute for the workplace if you are a stripper.
  6. Don't bring snacks. When your train inevitable breaks down in between Richmond and Flinders for an hour, or when your lovely bus driver kicks everyone out for no reason, you'll be far from any convenience stores and you can finally start that diet.
  7. Loiter around unmanned suburban train stations. There are great place to find new sparring partners if you're into boxing. Amateurs are advised to stay away from suburbs with high concentrations of Asians or gang activities unless you are a black belt and/or own a bullet proof vest.
  8. Carry your groceries and watch your biceps grow. Simply do arm curls with your bags for the duration of your ride. May be painful if you are travelling from Frankston to the city.
  9. Jump the platforms. Going from platform 1 to platform 10 at Richmond Railway Station? Reawaken your long jump skills from high school. Railway stations like Richmond, Flinders, South Yarra and Dandenong are great for this.

    Send through some before and after shots.

    Sunday, December 19, 2010

    A sad story

    My grandfather recently passed away. He was a wonderful, amazing, loving, generous and kind man who lived a very full life, and is greatly missed by his wife, two children, four grandchildren and countless friends.

    I hadn't seen my grandfather in seven years, and I had booked a flight to Singapore for December 23. I was so excited about finally seeing Grandpa. Then I woke up in the middle of the night on November 22, crying and thinking about him (he'd been sick with two types of cancer for months and had a heart attack the day before). I found out a few hours later that he died around that time. He had passed away about one month before I was supposed to see him. I was looking forward to it so much. My mother was about six hours away from landing in Singapore when he went.

    I think the most tragic thing about it all was that I sent my grandfather lots of emails, with the last few about how much I loved him and missed him, and it would all be okay because I was going to see him in a few weeks' time. I later found out that he had never read these emails because he was in the hospital, and this left me so heartbroken.

    I now understand why (some) people are religious. It's easy as an atheist to laugh, and say some people are cowards for crafting a heavily detailed story of the afterlife where everyone gets together and you can play with your childhood dog and drink tea with your relatives. It's a nice little fairytale where everyone gets their happy ending and we can all be together forever. Or that there's an elevator in the sky and we all float about the clouds in white chiffon gowns, happy as clowns. Times like this I wish I could be a Christian and be comforted even though I know I'll never be able to see my grandfather ever again.

    Apologies for this being a sad post, but sometimes life really fucking sucks.

    RIP Tan Bee Chuan, 27 January 1926 to 22 November 2010.

    Fully sick, but in a bad way.

    I recently read American Psycho. I am quite the book nerd - I have over 100 books in my collection, which may not sound that impressive until you realise that I am a renting nomad who has to haul these leather-bound tomes and frail antique hardcovers from apartment to apartment. So when I purchased Bret Easton Ellis' infamous book, unwrapping the shrink wrap (R-rated warning sticker and everything) just added to the normal excitement of cracking a new book's spine. A few pages in, it felt like I was part of some adults' club, delving into a porno. This is a book that earned its author death threats and hate mail while simultaneously scoring rave reviews.

    I will never read American Psycho again. Ever.

    I should clarify. It's an intense, telling view into superficial consumerism of the late eighties and early nineties. I have only witnessed words express a person's character so well like this a handful of times (another great example being The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time). The taut writing style at the novel's genesis slowly gives way to frenetic, maddening twists of language to accompany the Bateman's descent into lunacy and personal hell, bar the occasional cold, disorientating passage about something completely impersonal and separated from his situation to display his complete dis-attachment from normalcy. Add bonus points for a vague, ambiguous ending that's open to interpretation, and this all reads like something from Lev Grossman and Richard Lacayo's All TIME 100 Novels. Sounds like a pretty good piece of literature, doesn't it? And it certainly was.

    The only problem (for me) was Ellis' undeniable brilliance when it comes to painting scenes. I know this is one of those talents that our high school teachers sang praises about, and maybe if Ellis was writing a book on fairies and cupcakes and teen love, it would be just dandy. The only problem is that sometimes I really don't want to vividly imagine a girl with a pipe shoved up her vagina (of course burnt up a little with some good old acid to make the hole wider, and smeared with Brie cheese), with a starved and tortured rat pushed through the pipe. Then of course the murderer has to start sawing her with a chain saw. I also don't want to read about anything involving a nail gun to the hands, or burning eyelids. Shudder.

    There are just some things that you can't "un-remember".

    Trailer of the film based on the book, for anyone who dislikes reading.

    Sunday, December 12, 2010

    Why I bitch to my parents almost everything, and other notes

    The nice thing about pets is that they don't judge. And the wonderful thing about parents is that you can tell them the most outrageous, outlandish and obnoxious things, and all they still want for you is the best. I can literally say something to my mother like, "And the horrible bitch, she is so hideous looking that it looks like roadkill attached itself to her face and got syphilis," without worrying about my mum telling anyone I said that or liking me any less because of it.

    I will probably spend my old age as a crazy cat lady, wild haired and sharing a home with thirty cats they'll just like me because I feed them, not because I flatter them like crazy or there's no one else to talk to. I should probably start stock piling kitty litter, hey?