For Her
29 August, 2012

Seriously, Bic?  I know the biro was invented by a bloke – but it’s hard to understand what the smurf the people… well, I say people but I think we can safely assume that they’re men of a certain age… at Bic were thinking.  This is the sort of crap that leads to this:

and this:

and then this:

And, ultimately, this is why women still fail to recieve equal pay for equal work.  The same sort of mindset – admittedly at several removes – is directly linked to idiocy like Representative Todd Akin and ‘legitimate rape’ .

I’ve never been so glad my kids are both boys.  As much as I revile the facts and wish things were different, they’ve got a better chance of achieving their goals than their friends who are girls.  Not because they’re smarter or stronger or morally superior, but because their dangly toilet parts put them first in the queue.

Over the last few days I’ve admired the merciless lampooning dished out to this product by comedy sites such as Regretsy and some of the Cheezburger offshoots – but the funniest material are the “product reviews”  submitted by thousands of pro-feminist well-wishers. Make sure your Depends – and let’s hope they’re floral pink, ladies! – are in place, follow the link – if your soft, girly ladybrain can coordinate clicking your mouse (it’s the little pointy thing) – and enjoy comedy gold:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/BIC-For-Amber-Medium-Ballpoint/dp/B004FTGJUW

Georgia On My Mind
12 April, 2011

Hayastan Shakarian, Freedom Fighter.

 

In part two of an accidental series on inspirationally deranged crones, allow me to draw your attention to Ms Hayastan Shakarian, the 75 year old Armenian woman and Georgia resident. Armed only with the rusty saw depicted, Hayastan killed the internet in Georgia and Armenia for more than 12 hours on the 28th of March this year.

Although it would be fabulous to report that Hayastan pulled off a deliberate act of sabotage, rumours that she had been motivated by the thirst to revenge herself on duplicitous lover Julian Assange remain unsubstantiated.

In fact, Ms Shakarian claims that the incident was completely inadvertent and occurred while she was scavenging for scrap metal in the forest. Indeed, she denies any knowledge of the Internet at all.

There’s so much wrong with this story I hardly know where to start.

Authorities who insist that Hayastan has made a full confession refused to address concerns that their evidential documents had been ratified several hours before the actual outage. When questioned they blamed the discrepancy on power surges caused by the cut cable and on more in-depth questioning they deported this reporter.

Surely a post-menopausal woman roaming the forests of Central Europe should be seeking small children to devour, rather than scrounging to eke out her subsistence existence? Why has evil witchcraft become so unprofitable in harsh modern times?

Most importantly, though, it’s an absolute  disgrace that this pensioner doesn’t have better scavenging tools. I can’t help feeling that a DitchWitch would be perfect for the job and am currently acting for Hayastan to  negotiate a spokesmodelling deal with the manufacturers.

Now we know what Hayastan can do, I say we should harness her destructive powers for good. After our meeting with DitchWitch office, I’m unleashing her on a certain Government office with a can of energy drink and a manicure set.

Wish us luck!

Growing Old Gloriously
24 March, 2011

Helen B. Staudinger, role model

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be old. No, that’s phrased poorly – I don’t give a damn how old I am, as long as I can look after myself while retaining enough mental faculties to refrain from stripping off in the supermarket dairy aisle. Having visited many nursing homes, I’d rather chrome a carton of HopStop than wither  in a puddle of my own urine, mumbling around my dentures about how marvellous things were in the 80s and whatever happened to that nice young man, Sting from the Police while waiting for my kerosene bath.

But now that I’ve read about the exploits of one lass, 92 year old Helen B. Staudinger, I’m  feeling much more relaxed about my twilight years. Hell, I’m looking forward to them.

http://www.ocala.com/article/20110321/ARTICLES/110329941/1439?p=all&tc=pgall&tc=ar

Helen is currently languishing in a Florida jail, facing charges of aggravated assault with a firearm and shooting into an occupied dwelling. If she can raise $15,000 in bail, she’ll still have to stay more than 150 m away from her next-door neighbour, 53 year old Dwight Bettner.

What happened? According to Helen, Dwight is a smooth-talking liar who doesn’t pay his share when they dine out. When he moved to the neighbourhood she’d cook for him and he’d kiss her, but she tired of the stream of girlfriends through his next-door house.

Dwight says Helen cursed at him and the only time they’ve ever eaten out was once, after purchasing a part for her stove. He says – and this is the crucial bit of evidence that incriminates this young scoundrel as a heart-breaking gigolo – Helen once cooked him “dinner or breakfast” and he kissed her on the cheek by way of thanks. “Dinner or breakfast”, hey Dwight? The only men I’ve cooked breakfast for – other than family – have earned their bacon the night before, in the traditional way. Busted!

On one occasion, Helen tried to strangle a woman she thought was Dwight’s girlfriend. He didn’t involve the police, though, until one day she refused to leave his house until he gave her a kiss. An argument ensued, Helen stormed out and returned with an adjudicator – her .380 semiautomatic handgun – firing four shots into Dwight’s house. One shot came close, breaking the window of his bedroom, but three others thudded harmlessly into the side of the house.

I’m sure we’re all on Helen’s side and I’m looking into starting a fund to help pay her bail. I’ve emailed Julian Assange for some pointers, and as soon as he gets back to me I’ll post the link.

Meanwhile, its been a long time since we’ve had such a good news story. Damn, if I can make my 90s with the energy to chase after men four decades my junior and the moxie to exact payback when they cheat on me, then maybe old age won’t be so bad after all.

I just hope the Goddess grants me better aim than Helen.

Sensitivity Spray
2 May, 2010

Check this out:

http://www.couriermail.com.au/entertainment/weird/scientists-develop-spray-to-make-men-more-emotionally-sensitive/story-e6frep26-1225861283409

Scientists… bless those quirky labcoats, our world would be a drab and far less amusing place if scientists weren’t constantly conducting stranger-than-fiction research and development… have come up with a nasal spray that makes men more “emotionally empathic”.

What I want to know is – how exactly is this supposed to work? Have a snort in the car on the way to date night, perhaps.

Or – does anyone remember the old Palmolive Gold commercials?:

Bruce “Bloody sheilas and your stupid whining about feelings”

Sheila gives a ‘silly Bruce being a sexist caveman again’ smirk and throws Bruce an oxytocin nasal spray

Theme music blares “Don’t wait ’till you’re gray – you need Sensitivity Spray!”

Total Control
16 March, 2010

There’s been hoo haa on the interwebz and crusty media overnight about this little number, a “novelty” marketed by one of the big seppo chain stores that’s been devouring our local book shops. My initial thought was, “Well, it gives the wankers who’d but something like that something new to play with – geez, their tiny little appendages will be relieved.”, closely followed by “It’s good, in that they’ll waste $15 on it that might otherwise have been spent on home-brewed crystal meth”.

But then I reconsidered. I wouldn’t mind having a man remote, but the buttons wouldn’t be wasted on trivia like beer and stripping. Who wouldn’t love a “Your career is just as important as mine, so I’ll stay home with the kids” function, or perhaps you could amp up “Who cares about the footy? I’d rather have family time.”

If you could remote control your partner, which button would get the most wear?

Women Who Do Every Damn Thing
10 February, 2010

In the last couple of weeks, a prevailing theme has emerged from my interactions with other women… we’re all exhausted. Drained. Tired all the time. Rooted – and not in a good, covered in chocolate sauce and licked clean by Jason Statham way, either.

It doesn’t take rocket surgery or elaborate time and motion studies to work out why. We’re all scheduled within an inch of our lives, straining to meet unrealistic expectations.  And I’d love to insert the phrase “society is to blame”  here somewhere, but you know what? Ladies, I’m inclined to think WE’RE the ones to blame.

Look at men, bless them. For the purposes of this illustration, make him a fairly able-bodied and at least partially employed bloke. Having put in a day’s or week’s work, what does he do? Either he spends his leisure time amusing himself –  salsa dancing, mountain biking, re-imagining Aztec tapas in his gourmet kitchen, fishing – or he just plonks himself down in a recliner to watch his huge plasma screen until next called to gainful employment. He doesn’t agonise about whether little Johnnie needs a NINTH extra-curricular activity to round out his holistic development (note: Little Johnnie just started prep THIS YEAR). He doesn’t try to amend injustice, from tuckshop overpricing to the suffering wrought by the Haitian earthquake (unless he works for Red Cross, in which case he will address these issues… in office hours). He doesn’t keep in touch with 42 close friends and family members, and take it upon himself to make THEIR lives hassle-free and beautiful.

Nah, our bloke relaxes. Amped as a cattle dog or leisurely as a stoned koala, he knows the value of “me” time and the joy of unstructure.

Women can’t have it all, can’t do it all, can’t BE it all. And I don’t even care anymore. This is what I’m going to do about it… get more sleep. Eight hours a day, thanks, more if I can swing it. So don’t call me after 9 p.m unless you ‘ve  got a crush on  my answering machine robot and, unless either of my children is acutely unwell with more than just a sniffle or a graze – DON”T WAKE ME UP!

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