May 2007 Archives

As is often the case on a Sunday afternoon - after hitting up the Ryde extension service in the morning, chatting to "Matty T and the infinite combover", and of course eating all the hot wedges in the lounge, a certain group of us often decide to go out for lunch.

By "going out for lunch" what we really mean is that we all have a little talk, and list a number of high class eateries, and after what seems like an eternity, just decide to go back to the abode of Josh and Fi for a bbq lunch, because it is cheaper than almost any restaraunt, and the food actually tastes way better. Seriously, invite yourself around sometime... hopefully the possum won't throw stuff at you. And the neighbor won't wander into their yard pissed as a newt. Hopefully.

Well, one day over some big juicy steaks, Glover casually drops 2 lines into the conversation. Now, Glover happens to do this in a pretty predictable - yet highly effective - way. He has dropped it a few times now... I'll lay out the template for you.

1) "Make some outrageous statement here"
2) *pause*
3) Look confused and say "Oh, I thought I told you already".

This time it was:
"Oh yeah, once I killed a dog with my bear hands..."
*Pause* (Table stares thinking wtf?)
"Oh, I thought I had told you about that".

Apparently back in NZ, where sheep and humans are free to mingle without judgement, Glover was collecting money for a charity, and as he walked down the driveway, a pitt bull ran out and decided to get a bit of Glovers knee meat. Having tasted this knee meat, the dog wouldn't leg go and just locked its jaw on his leg.

Glover did what any real Chuck Norris fan would do... and punched the dog. Once. In the head. Needless to say, a few days later when Glover and the dogs owner met, things got akward....

"How is your knee?"
"Oh, its ok... it will be fine - hows your dog"
"Yeah, umm... it is dead."

The moral of the story is twofold.
Firstly, don't encourage Glover to tell blood filled stories while you are trying to eat steaks. It just doesn't do well for your digestion.
Secondly, don't let Glover near your pets. Unless you don't really like them.

There are many things I do not understand in this world. I don't know why stars and distant lights flicker and twinkle, or what makes the sky blue. I don't understand how taxi drivers can have such a distinct lack of road awareness and can veer all over the road nearly causing an accident and then still give me the finger, and - speaking of screeching tyres - I'll never understand what makes Paris Hilton believe she can actually sing. I am fine with not understanding these things, but my brother is something else.

You might remember my brother Sam from other LOS posts, such as "Oh I fell down the stairs and its not my F$%&ing fault", and "Oh, I got caught out forging hours in my L's test log book... but it's not my F$%&ing fault", or "Oh, I steal your mirrors and hide them in my room, but its not my F$%&ing fault". Now that your memories are sufficiently refreshed, I shall continue.

Here is what I do not understand. I am assignmenting away in my room, and Sam is listening to music in his room - song after Enrique Iglesias' song - with the sound turned to a very respectable 3. He can hear it, I can hear the bass coming through the walls, but all in all its not entirely bad. But as soon as one of his friends arrives, they turn the sound up to 9. Loud enough that all forms of communication involve screaming at eachothers faces. That's not all, this screaming is constantly interrupted by a decreasing attention span, apparently it is illegal to listen to more than 34 seconds of a latin pop song... 35 seconds? No way... change it.

Can anyone fill me in?

I have had this pic rolling around on my computer for a couple of months now, and finally decided that it was worth letting the world see just what Glovers diet consists of. Pieces of meat that are pretty much larger than his head, and in some cases larger than his body. The pieces larger than his body are regulary taken home in doggy-bags for breakfast the next day. This photo reminds me of one funny evening with the boys, talking boy talk, getting our nails done and consuming copious quantities of meat and alcohol. Except for me. I believe I am referred to as a "feather weight" when I drink. So I don't drink much or I end up asleep in some random persons armchair. But back to glover.

Basically, Glover is an old school carnivore. For those of you unsure of what a carnivore is, it is a creature that eats meat. A herbivore is something that eats plants. Omnivores eat both plants and live animals meat. You can see a scale here, Plants / Plants & Meat / Meat.

Think of a herbivore as a hippy who doesn't want to eat anything that might feel a little upset that it is being eaten by something else. Hippies don't like to shower either in case the water gets offended.

An omnivore is pretty much the rest of the human population, we take showers and drive cars and eat pretty much whatever happens to cross our paths, be it animal or vegetable. We are the mid way people.

Think of Glover the carnivore as a meat eating dinosaur dressed in a velvet dinner jacket with good manners. Honestly, that is the most sincere way of describing this man, for reasons that I will go into over the next few days. For example, we went out to dinner, and he ordered a mains meal as his entree. A massive massive burger, and he downs it like it is a little French bread roll. And then moves on to MORE meat. Seriously. Dinosaur.

Anyways, I was searching over my site, and realised that for some reason a few stories about Glover aren't appearing on my site. Either they were deleted, I never wrote them, or I just cannot find them. Either way, expect a few funny stories from Andrew 'Good times' Glover stories to feature on LOS this week.

Now, in the spirit of all things being equal, I have decided to post about the "cultural massiveness" of another great individual, that of Mr Chrishan Jeyaratnam - recently married and now on his way to the city congregation of Hillsong. Good luck to you sir!

But the real reason for this post, is that an anonymous video was sent through of Chrishan busting some little superstar dance moves at a beach house last summer retreat. And when I say busting some moves, he obviously busted so much he shrank a little. But I still think the similarity is uncanny, and it leads me to believe that this is infact an authentic video of Chrishan, shaking his groove thing to a madness 80's dance track.

This hidden video is obviously a little short on quality, but I am positive you will agree that this is indeed Mr J getting his groove on. Without a doubt. Consider it a gift from Chrishan to LOS to you. We are a generous bunch.

Those of you that are regular readers may remember my humble post a few days ago, essentially informing the entire world (as if they didn't know) of how much of a titanic figure I happen to be on campus at Mac Uni. A huge image was erected in the student Enquiries office, in my honour - basically it is pretty much their acknowledgement of my extreme cultural significance to the university. And safe to say, I accept their plaudits.

But it appears I am not the only one who's image is being displayed by the university to honour cultural *massiveness*. Massiveness is totally a legitimate term by the way, don't argue with me, I'm a pretty big deal at Macquarie...

As I was saying, the face of another person has been splashed across the interweb world in honour of cultural massivness. I'm sure you are all just shaking in your blessed little cotton socks, wondering who that other cultural icon of Mac Uni happens to be...

Her name? One Miss Pamela Lee. Honoured in the way only Macquarie University knows how, through unauthorized exploitation of your image. Check her out at theMacquarie institute of innovation website, and make sure you let her know all about her cultural massiveness.

I'm really not the best at getting out of bed in the mornings, you see I am less an early bird than a night owl. Lately with my uni work I have found that my most productive hours are between 10pm and 3am, so it goes without saying that come 8am there is no way in hell that I am going to spring out of bed like a hyperactive child on Christmas morning. Ever. There is more chance that George Bush Snr will win the swimsuit challenge in a Miss Universe poll, than me actually enjoying getting out of bed.

I have a case example for you. I was asleep, and the nameless one knocked on my door to wake me up when they were leaving for work. I jumped out of bed like a frightened cat and opened the door. I stared at the nameless one for a few seconds before scratching my head and saying one of the most intelligent things I has ever graced my lips.

"Why is there a chocolate house?"

The nameless one laughed.

I pleaded, "But it will melt!"

Nameless one laughed some more.

I got all stroppy for two reasons and angrily climbed back into bed. Firstly I was stroppy that I was being laughed at. Secondly, I was stroppy that although I knew what I was saying was messed up and not real, it came out anyway, I had absolutely no way of making those random words stop.

So yeah, call before 11am and my phone won't answer.

So here it is... the (unofficial) Macquarie University Challenge. This may sound like pure boasting, but I assure you that is not the case, those that know me know my absolute humility is utterly amazing in every possible way. However truth be told, it would not be too much to say that I am quite a legendary figure around the Mac Uni campus, so much so that an image was erected in my honour. They were initially planning on putting my face on a yellow golden calf in the main courtyard and dancing around that, but I felt that may have been a little over the top - perhaps if they were going to use white gold I would have consented, but yellow gold just doesn't suit me.

Being such a benevolent, humble and wise figure, I have decided to share some of my glory with those around me - to light up your otherwise "mundane" lives, in Paris Hilton speak. So here is the challenge, open to absolutely anybody.

STEP ONE:
Make your way into the Student Enquries office at Macquarie University, and turn left immediately. Find the picture on the wall that shows me studying hard in a lecture like the year is 1999 and backstreet boys were "back" the first time. Perhaps gaze at the image a while, and adore me and think about Nick Carter.

STEP TWO:
Use your camera phone (or other optical imaging device), to take a picture that shows you standing in front of my image. Standing, kneeling, laughing, pointing, filling out a form. Heck, I really don't mind. I don't mind if it isnt even the real student enquries building at uni. Surprise me. You and my image. You will benefit from the experience I am sure.

STEP THREE:
Send the photos to me at will [at] lifeofsuch.com, and I will post them online here. Winner gets* a copy of my upcoming book**.

So get snapping!!!!

*By gets, I mean buy.
**Book not actually written yet.

It is a midweek late afternoon and I am sitting on a bus with my knees tucked up and my head resting back on the ever so uncomfortable metal rail behind me, half foetal position, half trying to maintain a somewhat dignified appearance for those sitting around me. Hat down, sunglasses on and the background noise set to "0" courtesy of some lovely music from my ipod.

Well, it isn't actually an ipod, it is music from my phone, but saying ipod is way easier than saying "music from my phone coming through headphones". "ipod" is even easier than saying "my mp3 compatible phone". For the purposes of this piece, the branding doesn't really matter... all that matters is that I am plugged in, tuned out and ready to snooze away the bus ride home. Of course I could take the ultimate leap and say I was listening to music on my iphone on the bus, because you could easily make the connection between "phone" + "music". But it isn't the new iphone. Mainly because the iphone isn't actually released yet. Oh, and that small fact aside, I think it will be pretty expensive for what you get. Something about Apple being overpriced comes to mind...

Apologies for the diversion, but sometimes the long route is the nicer route... unless of course you are only in fact taking the long route because your passenger cannot read a street directory, let alone road signs. Note : Fi!

So, where were we? Oh yes - me plugged in and zoned out. It is important to note that when one is "zoned out" on a bus it is still necessary to maintain a certain level of awareness, lest you slip from a snooze to a slumber and begin snoring, drooling, and other anti-social bus behaviour. Forcing yourself to open your eyes once every few minutes is essential.

Eye open 1: "Wheels on the bus go round and round" - Good. No issues here... wheels doing exactly what they are meant to be doing, bus heading home and all. Excellent.

Eye open 2: "Children on the bus jump up and down" - Ok, not great, but realistically not really bad either... children are often known for standing up and sitting down on buses to see over the seats in front. Happy enough to let the "up and down" continue.

Eye open 3: "Child on the bus is upside down" - Good, I have absolutely no probl..... what? Wait a minute, wake up. "Child on the bus is upside down". Why is this child upside down? Feet in the air, head on the floor and hands frantically wiping around the floor of the bus.

Earplugs out - lean in for a closer look.

The child had apparently managed to smuggle half a truckload of sand from the playground in his shoes, and for unknown reasons probably decided that this sand smuggling operation was never really going to take off, and decided to dump the sand and start smuggling something else. Like Heroin. Allegedly. See, you can say whatever you like as long as you say "Allegedly", because it makes it all ok.

He decided to ditch the sand from his shoes onto the floor of the bus, and then his conscience decided to get involved. I hate when things get involved. It is the same as when your mother asks you repeatedly to do something, and you refuse, so she decides to ask your significant other to ask you to do something, knowing full well that your other half will force you do appease your mother. Anyways, the child found a little plastic bag from his lunch box and decided to turn himself upside down to pick up each grain of sand with his little fingers. As you do.

After taking a few photos on my ipod/iphone/camera phone/ I laughed, plugged back in and zoned out. Seriously, I don't understand why the bus companies don't employ small children as clowns on all their services. I would totally catch the bus again to see child clowns. I think it would be especially funny if the driver tapped the brakes while the child clowns were juggling knives. That would be fun.

Yes?

I am not usually one for posting about upcoming movies and all that, but ever since I saw a poster in the cinema almost a year ago advertising the upcoming transformer movie I have been holding on like a four year old that really needs to pee. This movie looks awesome, and what is more, Optimus Prime still makes the same chirpish sound when he transforms as he did all those years ago in the cartoon.

Anyways, I bring you the absolute LATEST transformers preview to hit the interweb. See below. And salivate.

for Krystal, the Paris tragic...

We're going to the big house... (going to the big house)
I'm not scared! (I'm not scared)
Got my big overalls... (my big overalls)
And my own special cell... (I'm special needs!!)

Ok, so we are not so much 'moving' Paris as making sure she serves out her time in the big house in a 'special needs' unit, a separated section for corrupt police, members of government and important public figures. I wonder what Paris thinks of being referred to as a 'special needs' inmate.

Oh, and her jail sentence was cut by half because of good behaviour. It makes me wonder, what does good behaviour look like? Apparently it looks like expensive shopping trips with mummy, lots of riding around on a pushbike and generally trying to look remorsefull, oh, and the occasional driving around again just DAYS after being given a jail sentence for the whole suspended licence thing. If that is good, I'm a saint!

And speaking of sainthood, christendom and all things worth saving... a petition has been set up, a call to action for 14yo teenage boys and girls everywhere, to sign the petition to Big Arnie, asking for a governors pardon to set Paris free! Part of the petition letter states "She provides beauty and excitement to (most of) our otherwise mundane lives". Um, what? Did you just say I live a mundane boring existence? I'm sorry, but I call that biting the hand that feeds you... I'm a little hurt Team Paris... my vote is swinging...

...to the Jail Paris Hilton petition. Yes, it is true that a rival petition exists, set up to demand that Paris serves her jail time, at the risk of bringing celebrities everywhere to the realisation that they too are under the law.

And for the record, I included the current count of each of the Save Paris / Jail Paris petitions below. Pretty much for every 3 people that want to save Paris, 8 want her locked away, and a further 3 just want her gone forever.

Enjoy voting.

As I sit here drooling into my now lukewarm cup of tea in my codeine-induced state I cannot but help be a little pensive, a little reflective. The big pillows and searing heat pack on my back are my only reminders that the drugs were for a particular muscle in my back that decided to go all Mike Tyson on me. Oh, and if you are counting, I guess the short shallow breathing and ridiculous pain are pretty good reminders too, but at the moment the only counting I am doing is counting pretty little pink pills that make the pain go away. Someone told me if I take too many I would be able to feel my own brain with my tongue, but so far nothing. Liars.

The whole reason I am sitting in front of my computer - as has been the norm for the past month or so - is that I am well into my last 6 weeks at Macquarie University. Pretty soon I will complete my BA DipEd, majoring in History & Geography in secondary education. Now, in all my years at uni (and there have been a few), I have been through a lot of busy periods, but honestly nothing quite this bad. But I am slowly finding that light at the end of the tunnel... very slowly. I only have one Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade population report to write, one Australian population paper to create, two innovative lessons on resource management to invent, a behavioural report to finalise, and then two exams.

Realistically, six weeks is not a long time, unless you happen to be a worker bee, in which case it happens to be your entire lifetime, just six weeks for existence. Which I think goes a long way to explaining why bees work so hard, for so long, under such bad working conditions. "Holiday pay? No thanks sir, I would rather fly around madly rolling in flowers and stinging small children!" That’s the good thing about bees, they work so hard for so little reward.

If only there were more bees in this world, or at least more people working like bees, the world would be such a different place. It would be a case of problem identified - problem fixed. No red tape, no protests and no workers strikes - a world of pure precise production efficiency. Of course I believe it goes without saying that I would not be one of the worker bees. I would be nominating myself with both hands for society’s role of a "Drone". For those uninitiated into the world of bees, a drone is a male bee that hatches from an unfertilized egg, and who exists solely to eat food and get the queen bee knocked up. I guess you could say I would be a combination between a lazy house-husband and Jesus. Work it out.

Back to the point, I am finishing uni soon, and decided to share something with you all. I’m a pretty big deal at Macquarie University. I am in fact, SUCH a big deal that they hung a picture of me in the Student Services Building in the cashier’s office. For those of you observing, I have included a few pics for you to check out. Oh, please don't get me confused with Nick Carter from the Backstreet boys, that hair (and the body it belongs to) was from quite some time ago - when that hair was fashionable. Or, at least I thought it was.

Funny though, I still remember those clothes that I was wearing, and even who gave those seriously un-trendy clothes to me. (Mums shoes, Dads jeans and the shirt from a girl called Catherine!) Ironically, that photograph captured the ONLY moment I ever did any work inside a lecture theatre at uni.

What can I say? I will be missed.

Do you ever just have those trigger moments? Something happens, a song or a sound or even a smell, and all of a sudden it triggers a flood of memories that come charging back from the dusty dark recesses of your mind. And I mean 'dusty' and 'dark'. Somewhat like one of those B-grade horror movies, where your little brother decides it would be fun to lock you in the dark cobweb-filled attic with that old life sized clown dummy for four hours on Halloween, and then after about 45 minutes the clowns arm drops to its side without good reason, and you realise you hate clowns and that it might be a good idea to change your pants. Just not while the clown is watching - and what was I writing about again?

Right, Triggers. You see, I heard an old silverchair song the other night, and I'm not sure why, but it brought back memories of year eight maths with Mrs Oi at Normanhurst Boys High School. Now this is going back a few years obviously, but the memories flooded back. Mrs Oi was possibly around 4 feet tall, had a birds nest for hair and spoke with a thick Chinese accent. Obviously, this accent was at its worst when she was angry with us, so we (as multi-culturally correct students) decided to bring out the best in her Chinese ancestry by doing our part to keep her accent strong. Mrs Oi and I had what could be described as a small running feud for the 6 years that I was at school.

It all started when she tried to teach me maths, which I really didn't appreciate. Secondly, she kept giving me lunch time detentions for not doing my maths homework - because I hated it. I mean, you show me a kid that actually enjoys their maths homework and I will show you someone who will never represent the school at anything other than chess, ping pong or dungeons and dragons.

One time, I missed three consecutive nights of homework, and she decided to call my mother. Fortunately she was angry at the time of the call, and so my mother spent the whole phone call trying really really hard not to laugh at her extremely "stwong accent". By the time I got home, my mum was in hysterics and pretending to be Mrs Oi. She was walking around the house laughing and saying "Hewwo... dis es Mssrss OI!! Weeyum has nut been dowing hes homewok!" So I never really got busted for it.

Another time, when I had simply copied the answers out of my book, (and not included any working) she started to tell me that no one could possibly answer those questions correctly without any form of working. Me in all my arrogance told her that it was easy, and implied I was gifted and always did maths without working, and may have implied that if she couldn't do maths without writing down the working she shouldn't be a maths teacher.

She called my bluff and decided to make an example of me to the class. I was dragged to the front of the room, where she proceeded to write up an EXTRA-HARD version of the maths question, and handed me the chalk with one of those "Ok buster - prove it" looks. All eyes were on me, I could feel the class's anticipation. If I could pull this question off, I would totally be a hero in their eyes.

I don't remember what the question was, or the answer for that matter - it just isn't important. But I remember handing back the chalk with all the smugness of a vindicated year eight student. She just stood there - silent as the class laughed and high fived. Not only did I use no working, but the answer, all digits and decimals was exact. After a minutes celebration at the front of the room, I wafted back to my seat, a veritable giant adoring the worship of my people.

Well, needless to say after that effort I noticed that Mrs Oi was out to get me. More lunchtime detentions, more doing maths in the corridor, and definitely more trips to wait outside the maths staffroom, just because I beat her in the classroom showdown. I win, she gets vindictive -talk about triggers!!

Have any other people out there noticed just how many people are actually shopping ON Mothers Day? I estimated that at least 70% of all people in the shop at 11am on a Mothers Day Sunday are fathers and husbands desperately rummaging through the stores. Many of them even look red faced and flustered, and some even have a handful of unhappy looking children running after them carrying all the bags.

I love how Males don't care enough and forget these sort of *important* dates, yet still care enough to make sure they find an excuse to get to the shopping centre and find some rubbish present like a drill, a rock cd or a plasma television for their wives.

You know, if the wives are lucky, they might even get a brand new carseat cover. One of those ones that massages as you drive, cause Dad's back is a little sore... Happy Mothers Day!!

Paris Hilton will soon be donning her orange overalls with matching orange fake tan, and heading off to jail. Of course, she thinks that the whole thing is a bad idea, and my faith in the legal system has been totally destroyed. I could have sworn that it was a constitutional right for stars to break the law time and time again with no more than a slap on the wrist. Hollywood will burn over this.

For those that don't know, she was sentenced to 45 days imprisonment for repeatedly violating her driving probation. Basically, she lost her licence, and then decided to drive anyway - while drunk. Twice. Hey, I am all for giving second chances and hoping that they get on the straight and narrow, but I think Paris has really overstayed her welcome. She obviously has no respect for the law, and expects that her money and fame will just come to her aid. Oh, and that whole "I was dealt with harshly because I am famous!" thing? Please. Imagine you were a black middle aged man, caught repeatedly driving drunk without a licence... 45 days would be a laugh for them.

Why am I writing about this? I will admit, as someone who thinks she is a little too... precious... I do find it funny that she is going to prison, so 50% of this post is me with a smug look on my face. The other 50% is to head slap some other people out there. Namely those from the christian movement"The Resistance".

Finding Paris' jail time amusing is one thing, but using her jail time to hold a party 'celebrating' her incarceration for religious grandstanding is just plain cruel. Same goes for her cds. Burning them because she sounds like a tortured monkey is one thing, but to burn them out of a political-christian motivation is just stupid plain old grandstanding. "Oh, look at me... I'm so moral because I'm burning her Cds".

What is worse, this isn't an isolated incident. I have received plenty of emails from the christian right groups in the USA (How they got my email I do not know) demanding that all christian Americans protest against law changes in the USA.

What other evil laws are christians protesting about I hear you ask? Well, an equal rights law for homosexuals for one. Another email demanded action over a so called 'amnesty' for immigrant workers, who flee to the USA for a better life. Apparently many christians in the USA believe that they are superior because they were born inside the USA, and the land is for themselves alone... "No room in the Inn, stay out in the manger".

And yet another email from a christian action group demanded that US citizens do their duty and protest the withdrawal of US troop, and that MORE troops should be sent to Iraq, and then on to Iran. What? Withdraw your troops from another country a world away? You are talking madness! Send aid instead of bombs? Lunacy! If the USA spent as much money on aid in the Middle East, as it has spent on its war in Iraq, I think the USA would just about be the most loved country in the world. "You need a new school? - No problems New hospital equipment? - Sure thing!"

Lets be realistic here... the war could cost up to 2 trillion dollars. I for one, happen to think that the money possibly could have been better spent elsewhere. I just see too much negative response action from so called 'christians'.

Before you all get your panties in a knot, know that I am not talking about every christian out there, I know that there are plenty of good ones out there. But really, the fundamentalists need to take a few breaths, and preferably stop talking.

Oh, and stop protesting and demanding that YOUR rights are left untouched while discriminating against others. Being a christian and not liking something doesn't mean you automatically have the right to trample over other peoples rights. Last time I checked, Christianity was about putting others first. And when I say 'putting others first' I don't mean 'putting them at number one on your hit list', like some christians decided to do, sending death threats to the artist of the sculpted chocolate Jesus.

Basically, I'm all for people voicing an opinion. But as soon as you force your opinion onto someone else, it becomes manipulation and oppression. If you want to sculpt Jesus with a penis in chocolate - by all means go ahead. I'm sure he had a penis in real life anyway, and that the chocolate tastes delicious. If you want to write a play about Jesus and his disciples being gay - go ahead. I probably won't watch it, but last time I checked I don't watch many plays on the best of weekends. Oh, and just because someone wrote a note back in highschool saying I was gay doesn't automatically make me change teams... you know what I mean?

So while the original title for this entry was going to be "Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it's Jail for the Hoe", I decided that I kinda needed to take a step back, and realise that sometimes it is more important to love than laugh. Sometimes.

Allow me to paint a little picture for you. It is around 2am, and I am sitting naked on the cold brown tiles on the floor of the laundry with a pair of tweezers in one hand, and a dirty old sock dripping with methylated spirits in the other, frantically digging, pulling and rubbing at a little red spot in my... uh... I guess in my crotch area is the nicer way of putting it.

Somehow, a tick had managed to work its creepy little way up my leg, looking for a healthy meal. Obviously, my crotch was the catch of the day, and the tick decided to dig in, leaving me with a huge itchy, yet slightly aching bite. Obviously the little sucker had to go.

I had heard that ticks lose their grip when you drown them in methylated spirits, apparently their low tolerance to the alcohol content gets them pissed as newts. And after they are inordinately pissed, they obviously can't stand up, or bite flesh, and as such are easier to remove. Allegedly this alcohol consumption also makes them better dancers and karaoke singers too... but I can't back that up.

So I was drowning and rubbing the tick with methylated spirits, digging into my leg and pulling at the damned tick that just wouldnt budge. Oh, and causing myself a lot of pain in the mean time, seeing as though I have rather hairy... legs. Every time I tried to pull the tick out, I only suceeded in ripping out my upper leg / crotch hair strand by oh-so-painful strand.

Eventually, the story ends with me shaving a bald spot on that section of crotch, the tick having a higher blood alcohol level than Boris Yeltsin during a speech, and my tweezers finally tearing the little idiot free.

So that is my story of me sitting naked on the laundry floor, digging, pulling, rubbing and shaving my crotch. And I wrote that line, because in your dirty little minds, I know that you are all thinking bad things, and having images that will haunt you for a lifetime. So I would like to take this opportunity to say, get your minds out of the gutter!

Oh, and a warning to all the guys, you don't know real fear until you have a tick burrowing into your crotch, inches away from your, uh... Lets just say you don't want to ever experience pulling a tick off your....

It happened again... the mosquito girl, that high pitched whine, bubble eyes and trembling lip was at it again.

"If someone says they need space for 6 hours, thats not 24 hours is it?"

"What?"

"If someone wants space for 6 hours, like wouldn't that mean overnight so its like from 3pm in the afternoon till 9am in the morning which is a whole day which is 24 hours right?"

"Thats 18 hours..."

"Oh, yeah... but if you need time off its 24 hours isn't it."

"You know, I can hear what you are saying and everything... and I understand your mouth words and all that. But in all honesty, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about right now. None whatsoever."

It turns out her friends didn't want to play with her at school for the day, and she had decided to try and out-math them and find a loop-hole to force them to play with her. I kinda found that forcing people to play with me was never that successful.

Except for my first ever crush. She was a girl with long hair called Amy. I used to hit her and drag her around in the dirt by her hair, because that is totally what little six year old boys do to six year old girls to win them over.

No roses, no chocolates, just hair pulling and assorted violence. Oh, how I long for the simple days.

Every now and again, something happens in life that makes you sit back and just reflect on how fragile life really is. And at other times, things happen that make you realise how shallow the gene pool must have been getting when some people were concieved, and how that fragile nature of life is set to be destroyed entirely by in-breeding.

In short, there are some strange people out there. Take this conversation I had with a young person recently. To me, she is like a mosquito, I mean - I am sure she has a purpose in nature somewhere, but as far as I am concerned she is just an irritating whine at 3 am. She is useful and annoying in equal measure.

"Um, Will... Did your uncle just die or something?"

"No?... Why?"

"Cause mine did!!"

*Girl bursts into tears*

This was during afternoon tea, and was totally out of the blue. I mean, what would she have said if my uncle really had died recently. Then she would have been in an akward place, halfway through a mouthful of cake and nowhere to go.

And, as it turns out, her uncle really did die, although it wasn't 'recently', it was well over 12 months before hand. But I am totally using her method to fish for sympathy from now on...

"Will, whats wrong?"

"My Dog that was in the family since I was a little baby died!! And it had blood running out of its nose and I couldn't move it or anything!"

"Oh, poor Will -*gives sympathy*- when was this?"

"When I was 13!!!!" *Sobbs"

Please be moving on please. Thankyou.