My aunt is rearing an Antechinus – AKA marsupial mouse.  He’s a little over two weeks old and sweeter than a candy-coated kitten.  Since we’re not sure if he’s male or female, his name is Piper.  Actually, for his own sake we’re hoping he’s a girl. 

Apologies for the poor quality antiquated camera phone photos, but I think I’d need a very professional set-up with rapid shutter speed to do him justice.  He skitters around like Speedy Gonzales after sampling a new shipment of Columbian Marching Powder.

After a feed. His tummy is so hairless and transparent you can see it’s full of formula.

Antechinuses (Antechini ?) are best known for their mating marathons, as a result of which males only live for 11 1/2 months.  In September, they stage a frenetic fortnight-long orgy, mating with as many females as possible.  Because of the stress, aggression and endurance involved, all males die.  Consequently, all Antechinus females are single mums, rearing 7-10 offspring in a sort of open pouch, dragging their bubs along the ground for 5-8 weeks.

I think human society could learn a lot from the Antechinus.  Footballers, for example, enjoying Mad Monday, would be much easier to take if you knew they’d all cark it by the end of the week.  And who wouldn’t enjoy the Gold Coast Indy, if you knew only the ladies would make it past the finishing line?

Well, what a fabulous couple of days.

My modem blew up on Wednesday afternoon. Apparently an incoming call… my “landline” is sort of VOIP… was all too much and the phone rang a couple of times and then the modem went an ominous shade of black.

Virgin – my ISP – couldn’t have been less help if they’d come around and sabotaged the thing themselves. Apparently they’re trying to get out of the wireless broadband business by a process of attrition. The help desk bloke had two solutions:

(1) Plug it into a different power point – thanks mate, I tried that before I called

(2) Get a new ISP.

*Sigh*

I was pretty sure it was the power pack, not the modem… I happen to have three Virgin modems, let’s not go into why right now… and none of them would power up. Still, I thought, if Virgin can’t be bothered helping me, I might as well change service providers. Perhaps I might find one who, oh, I dunno, might actually provide me with some service?

I have to leave town to buy socks, so signing on with someone else meant a trip down the motorway. Thursday morning and the Optus bloke couldn’t get anywhere with his computer. It seems that Terriblestra rules the phone lines in my part of town, and the only way I could get service from Optus was wirelessly. All well and good, but his computer was telling him to give me a modem and he had no modem to give me.

Short trip to Major Computer Retailer where the more dynamic bloke at their computer desk was quite confident Optus would post me out a modem… but he couldn’t find the plan listed. In their brochure or on line. It took so long I had to leave to get to a lunch date back home.

Returned to Optus Bloke #2 this morning where it turns out the only way to get a phone and broadband bundle from Optus is via some complicated scheme whereby my mobile becomes my landline and my computer connects to a new mobile phone and gets data that way.

Me to Optus Bloke:  ”No, thanks. It’s entirely too Machiavellian. What you’re suggesting seems to me like plugging in a double-adaptor, attaching it to an extension cord and then wiring in a power board, just to plug in a kettle.”

Optus Bloke:  ”I don’t really understand what you’re saying. But I can tell you, if you go with Terriblstra, they’ll want your first-born child as a down payment.”

However, I can’t knock Optus Bloke #2. He tried his best, and when asked if he could refer me to a shop where I might buy a new power pack for the existing Virgin modem, he was right on the money. $12.95 later I am back in business… until the modem itself fails, I suppose.

Dawn Montesdeoca, 60 was arrested and charged with domestic battery in Chicago on Sunday, following a… erm, sticky… altercation with her husband. She allegedly pelted him with cupcakes.

I don’t understand Seppo legal terms – surely you should only be charged with battery if you hurl uncooked cake mixture?

In the Chicago Tribune’s nail-biting account we hear:…she reached for the box of desserts and directed a fusillade of snack cakes at his head and body, her husband told police. Several of the confections apparently hit their mark, as the man’s head and shirt were smudged with icing when officers arrived, according to a police report.

Oh, the patisserie!

Bail was set at $10,000, which by my calculations, assuming poor Dawn started with a box of a dozen delicious weapons of mass tastiness, is more than $833 per cake. She’d be thanking her lucky stars by now that she didn’t go him with a pavlova, or something really dangerous.

But the frosting thickens. Despite 56 year old Mr Montesdeoca’s claims that he was scared for his safety, he has been arrested three times since 2003 on domestic violence charges, which were all eventually dropped.

Sounds to me like he got his just desserts.

Brave Florida resident, Alice, aged 11, confronts an invading Giant African Snail.

Flee, Floridans! Fire up your mobility scooters and wheely-walkers and flee at your own pace… the Giant African Snails are coming!

http://www.news.com.au/world/giant-alien-snails-spark-panic-mass-eradications-in-miami/story-e6frfkyi-1226158458802

Just kidding – they look more like this:

My favourite bit is when the snail gave Mrs Hernandez  a migraine and she had to have a lie down. Really, Mrs Hernandez – after one 13cm snail? I’d love to confront her with a paddock-full of slime mould or a nasty outbreak of feral armpit fungus and see what happens – spontaneous combustion is my working hypothesis.

But it’s not just snails invading Florida. They also have terrible problems with Gambian pouched rats, pink hibiscus mealybugs and Burmese pythons. I know it’s wrong, but that news just makes me want to crate up several thousand cane toads and ship them over to add a bit of hop to the mix.

Still, serious biosecurity issues demand a reasoned response. Stop panicking, Florida. I’ve got several solutions to your “crisis” and so far I’ve only had one cup of coffee:

1. Slimearama  Start a snail-based takeaway franchise. Sauté in garlic and red wine,  and serve in their own shells. Tastier, healthier and better for the environment than McDeath.
2. Snail racing  Florida is America’s retirement capital, and seniors appreciate a gentle tempo. Paint numbers on the side of their shells, raise State revenue by taking bets on the… erm, sliders, close off a few main roads and let them rip. Hell, you could start a whole snail racing carnival. Fascinator sales would skyrocket.
3. Exploit the Food Chain  Feed the pink hibiscus mealybugs and giant African snails to the Gambian pouched rats. The plumped-up pouchies may then be offered to the Burmese pythons. Sated and bloated, the pythons should make easy targets. Skin the pythons and make orthopaedic shoes, or colostomy bag covers.

Florida, no need to thank me – just send me a pair of python slingbacks, size 8.

Steampunk Urinal: somebody is taking the piss

It seems that Brisbane’s favourite nightclub and random glassing by inebriated strangers precinct has a wee problem: http://www.couriermail.com.au/news/queensland/you-wont-believe-where-some-people-go/story-e6freoof-122613822441

People are going out, going hard and then… well, just going wherever they feel like it. A Mr Mergard said the problem was so bad that “There is a toilet in which people urinate outside and people inside get urinated on.” Don’t worry too much about that one, Mr Mergard –  I think it’s in The Beat, and the patrons actually like it that way.

Other instances of public tinkling are non-consensual, however, and it’s a bigger problem than you might think. Up to 30 people a day are being fined under a Police public nuisance blitz. 30 a day? Makes you wonder how many caught-short scoff-laws are whizzing undetected.

Not to worry, though, I’ve come up with some workable solutions:

The Garden Bed 

Add a little spider, and couch man can now get his own damn beer without having to put the remote control down.

I note with interest that an American genetic engineer and a Dutch artist collaborated to weave a lattice of human skin and spider silk, extracted from genetically-altered silkworms, for want of sufficient mutant goat silk.

http://www.couriermail.com.au/entertainment/weird/artist-uses-spider-goat-silk-to-create-bulletproof-skin/story-e6frep26-1226119545

Sadly, the resultant textile of terror proved quite permeable to normal-speed bullets, but it does raise some fascinating scenarios. If you had a nice whack of research funding, and a lab-full of gene shears and incubators, what would you like to hybridise?

First out of my petri dish would be a male of the human species, with the ability bred into his willy… stay with me, it’s not what you think… to aim at and hit the inside of the toilet bowl, every time. I’d just extract the unerring accuracy of a frog’s tongue, or perhaps the directional capacity of a homing pigeon, and whack it into the offending organ.

There’s a scientific advance that would benefit womankind, people.

Now we can cross chooks and pigs, to produce bacon-flavoured eggs. Or how about pigeons and their fellow travellers, engineered to produce poop that acts as a fabric conditioner and deodoriser, putting an end to clothesline blight and rewashing syndrome?

Over to you, science.

I love the Courier Mail – better known, to a whimsical friend, as the Curious Snail. There’s often sniggers to be had. Sure, most of the laughs come from misuse of the beleaguered apostrophe, abuse of grammar or complete clause failure than from any attempted comedic content. Still, a chuckle’s a chuckle, in these troubled times.

However, in commenting on poor literature you might think they’d be extra careful to get things spot on. And you’d be wrong. Behold, the link to the 2011 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest:

“Think you’re writing is bad?” (as derped on the pre-dawn home page of the e-edition, 27/07/2011 – one can only hope they will have fixed it up by the time the normal world wakes up.)

Luckily, the derp link leads to some absolute gems. Like the first prize winner, a woman from Oshkosh, whose opening sentence reads, “Cheryl’s mind turned like the vanes of a wind-powered turbine, chopping her sparrow-like thoughts into bloody pieces that fell onto a growing pile of forgotten memories.” What a shame she didn’t take the opportunity to work the name of her home-town in somewhere.

http://www.couriermail.com.au/news/world/bulwer-lytton-fiction-contest-winner-named-take-a-butchers-at-some-bad-writing/story-e6freoox-1226102017932

Meanwhile, another link leads us to the tragic tale of Eddie, a red kangaroo who nearly killed a 94 year old woman in Charleville. She was hanging out her washing… has anyone else noticed, old ladies who are attacked and nearly killed are always hanging out their washing just prior to the assault. Bugger set-top boxes – if the Federal Government gave every woman over 80 a tumble dryer they’d slash assault rates to next to nothing and free up hospital beds, too.

http://www.couriermail.com.au/news/victim-pleads-for-life-of-eddie-the-boxing-roo/story-e6freon6-1226102333723

Anyway, just like most delinquents, turns out poor Eddie comes from a broken home and has been misunderstood. Hand-raised by wildlife carers, he was released into the wild only to break a hip. Unfit to fend for himself, he’s been living in captivity. The man “minding” Eddie – the evocatively named Darryl “Dobbo” Dobbin – claims he’s gentle and tame. Dobbo also reckoned he has no idea who left the gate open, allowing Eddie to escape.

Two things spring to mind. Firstly, for a disability support pensioner Eddie is fit enough to rip strips off an innocent laundry lady. Secondly, is it just me or does this story sound eerily familiar? I’m pretty sure the mother of that kid who tried to steal a bike, winding up bashed by the bike’s lawful owner for his trouble made identical comments about her son. Down to the doubt about whose fault it was that he was out at night, breaking into people’s houses to steal their bikes (allegedly).

Still, the Courier Mail could misspell their own masthead and I’d be back for more. They’re much more fun when they get it wrong than when they allegedly get it right.

By now, you’re all well aware of my feelings about tourists: they park out the library; they stagnate the supermarket aisles; and often they have heads straight out of H.P. Lovecraft.

So, I’ve got nothing but praise for the new signage Council have plonked down the front. Isn’t it perfect? We call it “Four Ways To Die At Coolum Beach”. All it really lacks, in tourist-repulsion terms, is a big arrow pointing north that reads “Noosa That Way: Open All Hours”.

But I think the sign should be  more explicit. It is a matter of public record – police reports, death certificates, transcripts from the Coroner’s Court – that our proud beach-side community boasts many more ways to die than those depicted. There should also be a little stick man, hurling over the balcony rail out the back of the surf club – ALCOHOL POISONING. A stylised chalk outline  in the pub car-park, with a halo of blood – GLASSING. A hotted up V8, speeding away from a broken stickman – HIT AND RUN. And a little stick woman, bludgeoned in her own kitchen over a meal she was preparing – ANSWERING BACK.

We’ve all been greatly entertained – thanks,Catty! – over the last week or so by listening to Samuel L Jackson read from the adult bedtime classic “Go The F*ck To Sleep”. Indeed, I’d replay it every time I try to GTF to sleep, only my gurgling chuckles tend to wake the children and send the cats scampering up the Venetian blinds.

So I think you’ll all be pleased to hear that, during our recent outing into the community, I found and purchased the strangest book ever published: an illustrated children’s book by Sylvia Plath. Published – for the first, and surely last, time – in 1996, so posthumously as to be bordering on the archaeological, I’d love to be able to comment on the contents but I’m scared to read it. If I ever wash up on a beach in pyjamas, with my pockets full of stones and used Kleenex, tell the coroner it’s Sylvia’s fault.

On the topic of strange things I did in Brisbane… The Surrealists at GOMA is fabulous. I won’t go on too much, because you pretty much have to go and experience it yourself. However, I’ve developed a huge afterlife crush on Andre Breton – he of the Michealangelo profile and deliciously tortuous mind – and if I can just work out a surreptitious way of sneaking a tonne or so of bronze out of the centre of a fortified, heavily guarded gallery, Magritte’s “Madame Récamier de David” bronze will soon be my new coffee table.

Since it’s school holidays, I think we should have an essay topic: What Strange Things Have You Been Up To? Answers with a double-ruled red margin on one side of a foolscap page, in your neatest handwriting, please. We’re odding it up, old school.

Poultry facilities: Note adequate food and shelter. Water (not pictured) also clean and ample.

I have previously alluded;

http://madammorgana.wordpress.com/2011/04/30/garden-of-unearthly-delights/

to one of my chook’s remorseless attempts to burrow out of the yard.

Chooks aren’t noted for their sharp wit, or propensity for forward planning, or reasoning… actually, chooks are pretty much noted for egg-laying and being tasty seasoned, crumbed and fried.

But still,  I keep questioning the motivation of this chook. Known as “Briana” by her former owners, we call her “Rooster” since she moulted her tail feathers, grew in a new more impressive set practically overnight, beefed up her comb and then turned on “Tikka”, who used to rule the roost.

Inside the yard, there is food, water, shelter, congenial company and plenty of opportunity for scratching, sunning, dirt-bathing and pecking. In case you’re not up on poultry husbandry, that sums up the whole gamut of chook behaviour other than rooting – we don’t have a rooster.

In fact, my chookyard has got it all over a Malaysian immigration detention facility – the only bamboo canes used in my yard prop up the tarp.

Despite her freedom to live a life of luxury, troubled only by wondering how many bacon rinds might be in the kitchen scraps and when they’ll be tossed at her feet, Rooster insists on staging elaborate breakouts.

Pictured is Rooster’s latest tunnel. Note the use of native sticks and garden debris as buttressing.

"Cover for me, you two. Look innocent while I go under the wall!"

Why, Rooster, why?

Is it because, now you’re a drag king, you share some men’s misapprehension that the grass is greener on the other side of the fence?

Do you find it funny when the cry “Chook’s out again!” goes up, we corral the dog and all rush out to round you up again? Do chooks even have a sense of humour?

All I know is, if this keeps up, Rooster will get to experience the novel delights if being inverted in a killing cone… just before I slice off her ungrateful, tunnelling head.