Saturday, July 23

HELP! THEY WANT TO ASSIMILATE ME

There are a few things you need to know about me before I delve into the main topic of this post. Firstly, working in the media is a cut throat business, which means it ain't all love, kisses, celebrities and abundant cash. In reality it is more along the lines of being addicted to some kind of hard core drug and the company you work for is your dealer, they smile and treat you with love and respect but there is an under current of 'fuck us over and your dead'. The minute you get too dependent, start grand standing or become a liability they will cut the supply off and cast you out to fend for yourself and let me tell you the comedown is hard to work through.

A sweeter way to look at it (for the ladies) is this, it is sort of like being a fluffy little bunny, they look sweet, some of them are a bit rough around the edges, have a bit of mange or myxomatosis, and all of the bunnies have some sort of tumor attached that can either grow and absorb its host or can be kept in check with constant medication, more commonly referred to as keeping yourself in check or being grounded. Yes of the course the tumour is also known as an ego. The bigger the tumour the more it drags in the mud, slowing down the rest of the warren and hindering it's owners ability to escape when the bright lights shine in it's face and it gets pressed into the bitumen and remodeled with a tyre tread across it spine. Hmm smacked you around with that one didn't I.

Yeah so in the event the dealer cuts you off or you get turned into some sort of road kill luncheon meat you generally need to find a job. In my 17 year career this has happened to me twice, not bad, all things considered. The 2 times it has happened I have decided to take my limited skills to companies that do telephone research. You spend hours on end cold calling poor, innocent punters and asking them to stay on the phone from a few minutes to a good quarter hour. The level of abuse that you receive from a job like this is immense as most of the calls happen during dinner time and God forbid you interrupt whatever useless reality/soapie/topical/game show/porn they were zoned out in front of to ask them if they think religion should be taught in schools or marijuana should be legalised.

So having spent time being treated like a dribbling freak and abused by faceless morons over the phone whenever someone calls me and asks the question

"Hello Sir, would you mind completing a short survey for us"

I feel morally obliged as I know how soul destroying it is trying to get your quota up and knowing that as soon as the last few people are surveyed you can go home and get paid some shiny beads and a handful of warm spit for your dedication. This happened to me on Saturday last week. A sweet little elderly lady knocked on my door and asked if I could answer a few questions for a survey, thankfully the Scientologists don't do it door to door, so with the usual pangs of sympathy and guilt I agreed.

After spending roughly 20 minutes with her looking at various magazine covers, trying to remember what TV I watched a week ago and sorting through whatever else they needed to know, she wrapped up by saying something about a booklet. I was so wasted and mindless from answering so many questions I thought she was talking about some colour brochure that proves her company is legitimate and agreed that she could drop one at my door the following day. It was waiting for hubby and I when we stepped outdoors the following day and I picked it up and cast it inside and ignored it, as you do. Anyway Wednesday night I get a call asking if I have started filling out my survey and I wonder what the hell this woman is talking about. Then I remember the book on the door step that I have been walking over in the hallway all week, the junk mail that comes back to bite you. So feeling obliged once again I sat down to answer all the questions in the 2 survey boks, that's right, 2 survey books.

Last night while hubby was delving into the Opera world on DVD I started to fill out the first and biggest book, as I kept putting more and more black biro (blue if you don't have back but never a felt tip pen) crosses in tiny boxes and turning more and more pages to be confronted with more and more questions I started to FREAK OUT! Even with all my experience in this industry I have never seen a survey this big. We are talking 118 pages, that's right and each page is FUCKEN over flowing with questions. They cover things like sports you do and watch, toothpaste you buy or have heard about, sanitary napkins (WTF), meat and smallgoods, shopping centres, service stations, telephones, mobiles, gas and electricity, my weight (YOU RUDE PRYING FUCKOS), beer, wine, pre-packaged and mixed drinks, coffee, butter, my height, my bowel movements (actually I made that one up but I would have put my crosses in the boxes if they asked) and the list goes on and on and on.

What was freaking me out the most is how much they will know about me once this thing is completed. They could quite easily being growing a little me clone next to all the sheep named Dolly1, Dolly2 etc., and just program all my info into it and I am totally replaced. Oh and yes I will complete the surveys (sometime in 2007 at this rate) as they have a draw to win $10,000. As far as I'm concerned I should be given the cash for even bothering to answer the questions, let alone that I am actually answering all of them truthfully. Why am I such a fucken goody, good? Oh that's right, because I used to do this job and I know how annoying it is when people don't do it. If I was a nastier man I would use each page to wipe my friggen hairy butt on and then send it back C.O.D. with a couple of house bricks thrown in so they have to spend maxi cash getting it out of the post office only to find it repugnant when they open it.....GRRRRRR.

Wednesday, July 20

PROOF THAT NOTHING HAPPENS TO ME

So walking to work this morning and decided to grab a loaf of wholewheat which is this bullshit amazing organic bread from what has to be Melbourne's best bakery, Baker D. Chirico, read about them here:

http://danlepard.com/content/pages/dchirico1.htm

Anyway this bread is quite literally a mind fuck, I love going to the shop before 9am as they usually have a pile of this wholegrain bread covered in sesame seeds and most mornings its only a few minutes out of the ovens so it is super hot and soft and doughy inside. It just rips your nostrils apart with all these amazing mouth watering smells.

So to go with my hot, just baked bread I run across the road and grab some organic crunchy peanut butter from the IGA (that's a supermarket in case your thinking it stands for International Groping Academy or Internal Gut Analysis or some fucked up shit like that). I love my organic food as much as life itself, in fact, I can't understand why you would buy souless, dead supermarket food when you could have the amazing flavour of real organic food.

So before I get any further side tracked, train crashed, hundreds dead etc., this peanut paste is $5.67 a tub, fair enough, run to the counter and run it through with Miss 'Oh Look What You Eat You Pig' Checkout Lady and it won't swipe, so she says

"Um, do you know how much this is?"

and inside my head the good me is going

"Ya huh it is $5.67"

and the bad me is going

"Lie, say no I don't, go on, I dare you, make them work for it, make them work for it fucko, what are you the gayest of the gayest guys in the world?"

so without a moments hesitation I say

"Um, no I don't sorry" (LIAR, LIAR, LIAR!)

So she just shrugs, types in a price she pulls out of her arse and hands it to me in a plastic bag with all my other groceries. I was so excited I almost tore the sales docket out of her hand in my rush to get out of the shop and check how much I saved.

This is where it gets sad, I mean really, is my life that pathetic that the highlight of my day so far is how I stole from a reputable business? Am I that old that I get excited about something as sad as getting a breakfast spread for below suggested retail. Could I be sad enough to run to work, grab my phone and ring hubby to tell him in detail about my adventure and brag about how much I paid for 375 grams of organic peanut butter? I think we can safely say YES to all those questions. I did run to work, ring hubby and brag about it, I am excited I got a product worth $5.67 for $1.50. I mean seriously who charges $1.50 for a tub of organic peanut butter, what is she retarded? Therefore, regardless of how sad I am, I still feel I deserved my little bonus...I don't know why but hey serves them right for being stupid.

Wednesday, July 13

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!

Yah, I am older, so now I can start to think about acting my age, as fucken if. That would mean I should be married to a woman who pretends to love me but secretly fantasies about running off with anyone who shows her any interest and have a bunch of shitty sprogs that eat me out of house and home, think I'm a tool and cost me a fortune in peer group pressure buys and school fees. Phew sometimes being a 'mosexual rocks even more than you could possibly imagine.

So woke up this morning to hubbies birthday wishes (he is so cute and sexy in bed...well he is sexy anywhere, but I love his messed up hair, just woke up look the most) and as an example of my creeping dementia (can you get that at 36 or is it just the follow on from rampant drug experimentation) I had actually forgotten about it until he gave me the hatch day wishes. In fact, yesterday I thought I had missed it entirely and no one had bothered to say anything as well, how very Molly (16 Candles) Ringwald of me.

My littlest brother tried calling me a few times, the first time I was washing the bits and pieces and the second I had a face full of toast and a cup full of hot water and lemon juice and I'm too old to be interested in running to answer a phone like some kind of tragic teenage fucko desperate for recognition and approval. Then mum got through to send me her love and apologise for being slack with the forwarding of a present which her and Dad intend to deliver to me personally in August.

Wandered into work were the day has been broken up with calls and SMS's wishing me the best. Although not many people at work have bothered to say anything to me and as far as my declaration to hubby this morning that I would be eating cake for lunch it is a good thing I had money in my pocket to buy a pastry case of lips, tits, arseholes and face bits commonly referred to as a meat pie, because this little fuckos cake never turned up. How ungrateful and self absorbed of them to think I wouldn't want one.

As for tonight, well we are off to our mates little cafe so we can sit at the bar with her and hoover a plate full of roast meat and vegies for their $10 roast night, gotta love a cheap, pensioner type feed. According to rumours I have heard red wine will be served and I will be force fed massive chunks of Mar Bar slice....bring it on fucko, I am so bang up for that. Remember it is never too late to give so organise something with a value of a hundred bucks or more and forward it to me post haste.

Monday, July 11

CHILL TO THESE GROOVES NOW FUCKO!

Back again, with a purpose and a mission besides just my usual rants and self absorbed hoopla, time to spread the love to someone else me thinks. Having been so vocal in expressing the limitations of my diagnosed disease (which will probably inspire Tom Cruise to bag me out and babble on like the repressed 'mosexual that he secretly is) it should come as no surprise that I have been meaning to write this entry for ages...doh. Anyway if you're reading this then congratulations, you clearly graduated from some sort of educational institution, now that you have proved your superiority, how about you grab your mouse and rub it over the link below. I could rave for pages about how great Jess McAvoy is, but really, you just need to experience it for yourself.

While some people go ape shit for the incredibly over rated Missy Higgins and her over the top ocker whinging to piano accompaniment, this woman is being ignored. Having purchased her En Masse CD recently I can guarantee she provides more substance and variety from beginning to end of her CD rather than the continuous blah that Missy dishes out. Full credit to Missy for her talents and all, but really, I would rather go my left bollock with a rusty splade (see: a weird arse hybrid all in one spoon, fork and knife that is pointless and rather dangerous considering how sharp the edges are...what demented fucko decided that was a good idea? Have him or her sacked) than have to tolerate her debut album from start to finish. Then again if you are an insomniac it could be just the thing to send you off into the land of ZZZZZZZZZ.

I should point out that this is my blog so my thoughts and theories reign supreme and what I say goes or my underlings see the wrath of Supreme Fucko unleashed. You of course may not agree but hey that is what the comments section is for. All I really wanna say is have a look and a listen, some of her music is available to preview and it is well worth the effort. If you like Missy take the plunge and experience something on a higher level and purchase the CD right now.

http://www.jessmcavoy.com/music.htm

PS: Yes I know Jess personally but even if I was just some sad arsed, waiting at the stage door, crying at the mention of her name, going to every instore, see all the tours, buy every album, set up the fansite, get the autographs, ask for a photo, sleep my way backstage kind of person I would still think she fucken rocks.

Wednesday, July 6

YOU LAZY ARSED FUCKO

I know, I know, I should be shot, but hey maybe I was and all this time I've been wallowing in the bush, fingering my entrails as the life slowly drains from me, wishing I could place one last entry in this blog. Do you feel guilty yet? NO? Ok perhaps I am milking it beyond belief but you get the picture and the truth of the matter is still quite shocking. I've been diagnosed with an incurable disease called....(pause for effect)....LAZINESS.

Shocking isn't it, right now I'm lending my image to a campaign to raise awareness about the disease, we were gonna nominate a day and choose a coloured ribbon to wear but at this stage we are all too....um, busy to get together and organise it. We need to select a place to run the campaign from but, well, there's quite a few good things on the TV and besides who would care. I mean really, if we do go to all this effort would the general public just be so lazy that they'd ignore us? Me thinks so. Fuck them all. I'd actually withdraw myself from the campaign right now if I could be bothered lifting the phone and....ah who gives a shit.