Friday, 9 May 2014

Bits and Pieces Number ????

Thanks for reading this friends.  If you enjoy it, it puts a smile on my face. xxx


Sometimes I suspect that when I was a kid, my parents dropped me on my head and something broke inside my brain.

That thought occurred to me while celebrating Easter this year when a ridiculous question formed inside my head: before Jesus rose again, did he push the snooze button and say “Ah screw it. Ten more minutes, who will know?”

You might think this isn’t such a big deal, but this is the crap that preoccupies me.

Over the years, I have lost count of the ridiculous rubbish that runs rampant through my brain – when librarians die, do they get buried according to the Dewey decimal system?  Is there an easier job in the world than a professional wrestling referee? (Step one, learn rules. Step two, ignore rules).

If you had a mental condition that stopped you from using any form of electricity, would you be known as the Amish Army?  If farmer John is outside SOWing his crops and farmer's wife, Muriel is inside SEWing his shirts. what are they both doing. No matter what colour soap you are washing your hands with, why are suds always white?

It takes only the smallest thing to set my brain off on a flight of fancy, and I can lose half the day.

Recently, for example, I was listening to the radio when the announcer commentated that Bruce Springsteen tickets were selling like ‘hot cakes’.
Really? I thought. Like hotcakes?  Is there someone in this country who is selling 100,000 hotcakes in this country for $150 each?  I’m clearly in the wrong game.

And my brain isn’t served very well by the TV.  I just couldn’t watch Ladette to Lady without thinking that it would be much more entertaining the other way around:  if they’d got a bunch of posh, frigid chicks and sluttied them up a bit.

Speaking of reality TV, according to The Biggest Loser, all you have to do is ‘replace two meals a day’. OK that seems fine, but what about the other seven?

Recently I was in a pie shop that claimed it sold ’award winning pies’.  Clearly I should have busied myself sampling these famous pies, but instead I was paralysed, wondering how it can be that every pie shop I go into seems to sell ‘award winning pies’?

You might dismiss all of this as inconsequential.  After all, what’s wrong with looking at the world in a slightly askew manner?  And I agree, to a point.  I quite liked it when I left a small amount of money in the ATM recently. I didn’t get upset at losing the cash, but decided it was my version of the stimulus package and I was helping to end the recession.

I love it when I see the moon out during the day.  My initial thought is that it pulled an all-nighter and decided to go straight through.

I remember, recently, during an election here, wondering why Shane Warne wasn't running, because at least with him, you know at some stage during his term, he's going to try to screw you.

On the other hand, I do sometimes wonder how much I could achieve if my brain worked like a normal person’s and I didn’t waste my time wishing there’d been a Carry On movie called Carry On Baggage!

Imagine the diseases I might have cured if I’d spent my time studying science instead of doing things like emailing the Australian Football League, suggesting that if they truly wanted to honour Anzac Day, they’d get the British to send Collingwood and Essendon to the wrong ground, and then get them to play uphill in the mud.

Who knows? I could have been the next Stephen Hawkins if my brain was as fascinated by physics as it is by who will get eliminated next in “My Kitchen Rules”.  Wouldn’t it be so much better is my waking thoughts were dedicated to unlocking the key to world hunger rather than what specials KFC have this week, and would they swap the potato and gravy for coleslaw.

Sadly, however, I seem stuck with this slightly offbeat view of the world, and no matter how hard I try, the nonsense continues to spill out.  Just this morning, I walked past a couple of dog owners who were trying to pull their pets apart. A tiny Shiatsu had tried to attack a golden retriever. The owners looked at me in despair, their eyes pleading for help, but all I could think to mutter was “Typical tall puppy syndrome”.

I rest my case.

So I have nothing but admiration for those people who have disciplined minds and engage in meaningful and worthwhile endeavours.

Clearly my brain and mouth – which used to work reasonably well together – have had irreconcilable differences and decided to part company.

The final straw came during a recent blackout when I popped next door to find out if my neighbours’ gas was working.  Well, that was my intention.  But when they opened the door, the first words I said were “Hey, do you have gas?”

I’m not just getting more stupid, I’m getting more emotional too.  After a recent tough patch, I found myself crying at least once a day for almost 2 months.  Put it this way, you know something’s gone a bit pear-shaped when even the dog starts staring at you like ‘Crap, we’re going to have to start building an ark!!  It got to the point where every time a pizza delivery boy arrived at the house I had to pretend I’d just been peeling onions or watching the end of The English Patient.

I couldn’t sleep last night because I was worrying about how much money it’s appropriate to contribute towards a gift for someone you don’t know.  You see, at my work someone is leaving and a card and collection are doing the rounds.  Now I’m all for chipping in, but I don’t know this person.  Plus he’s leaving so I never will get to know him.  More importantly, he’ll never get to know me and contribute to a pressie when I get the arse!  


But the thing that made me feel really old – aside from having to finally admit to myself that I’ll never win Australia’s Next Top Model – was when some of my well-meaning (read ‘idiot’) friends decided to take me night-clubbing.

Now the first thing I need to point out is I’ve never really enjoyed going to nightclubs, even when I was younger.  I’m more of a pub person.
The second thing to note is that these days, going clubbing is not as simple as rocking up to a bar for a couple of drinks. Oh nooooooo – it’s more like an off-your-face amazing race where, by the end of the night, I had so many nightclub stamps down my arm, it looked like I had been sharing a cell with the late Chopper Read.

Although, on the upside, it is really handy the next day when you have a hangover  and a trying to piece together just exactly what you did the night before (and trust me, you will have a hangover. These days kids don’t just sip drinks, they scull them as if alcohol is being banned at midnight.)

And there’s nothing more guaranteed to make you feel old than someone trying to pretend they’re up-to-date with music when they’re clearly not. I remember someone asking me if this was “strong steel” music. Heavy metal dear, heavy metal!!!

But forget the smoke, lights and music, the thing that made me feel like I should be at home waiting for my telegram from the Queen, were the other punters.  Put it this way, you know you don’t quite belong when everyone in the club is staring at you because they think you’re either an undercover cop or have just popped in to pick up your kids.

All the girls seem to be forgetful, too. First they had forgotten that they were not yet eighteen, but had gone out to a nightclub anyway. Then most of them had forgotten to wear pants or a skirt. I honestly felt like telling them to put something on or they’ll catch a cold.

And let’s not forget the boys, who are skilfully able to dance and drink at the same time while keeping the waist of their jeans at the perfect point – halfway between their waist and their knees.

When I looked at these kids, I realized that no matter how hard I pretend, we came from different worlds.  When I was their age, Michael Jackson was black, George Michael was straight and Dannii was the most famous of the Minogues.
In my time, Australians were actually proud to say that Mel Gibson was our countryman.  (Although, let’s face it, he’s drunk and racist: what could be more Australian than that?) I came from a time when the only ice available at a nightclub was sitting at the bottom of a glass of Pimms and lemonade, and an age when the only Hilton a teenage boy dreamed about spending a night in was a hotel.

Ohhhh ... what am I talking about??



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