Now, iPhones are all well and good. I assume. It’s not like I’ve actually got one or anything. But I can’t help thinking they’re a bit light on useful applications for the real world.

I’d like to see:

  • iTaze When you push the “fire” button a prong tipped  electrode shoots out and discharges megavolts into whoever you’re zapping. Note: This app would require a battery upgrade… possibly at the expense of portability.
  • iBooze Automatically locks the sms and dial out functions when alcohol levels above .05 are detected, to prevent drunk dialling and drunk texting. iBooze will only allow the intoxicated person to call a cab.
  • iExcuse Generates a great alibi to get you out of anything you wish to avoid. E.g. “No, Susan, sorry I can’t go to your tupperware party. I have to (selects iExcuse app) donate bone marrow that day.”

What apps would you rush to download?


292 Responses

  1. Lie detector.

    PS. Loved the tupperware excuse generator. I need one of those.

  2. Fabulous idea, Stafford. Who couldn’t use an iLie app? By the way, since you don’t have an excuse generator, would you like to come to my tupperware party?


  3. Tupperware party? Really? Where? If you invite me, I’ll bring brownies.

    I love tupperware. As it’s oozing out of the cupboards I probably need an i-app that gives me a few volts (similar to the machine used in my nerve conduction test) every time I consider buying a new piece of berry coloured plastic.

  4. iWed – can detect if the guy chatting you up is married.

    iQ – can calculate the intelligence of the person you’re arguing with, as well as yours, so you know whether to keep arguing, or move straight to the ‘flounce off in a huff’ stage. (or for men, the ‘punch in the gob’ stage).

    iKnow – can answer any trivia question, no matter how inane. Useful during drunken arguments about whether Bonds or Holeproof make the best reggies for wedgies.

    iGo – makes a crackling noise and breaks up your voice, so people think you’re going out of range, and won’t notice that you’re hanging up on them.

    iNo – identifies call centre salesmen and diverts the call to a prerecorded message that says ‘No thank you’ over and over again until they hang up.

    iWrong – explains calmly to husbands and boyfriends exactly WHY they are wrong, and gives the directions to the nearest Darrell Lea so they can buy Apology Chocolate.

    iPMS – emits a whooping alarm so that everyone else knows to put down any chocolate they’re holding, and run away.

    iControl – overrides your TV remote, so you can change the channel to something decent when your man/kids/flatmate take over the television.

    iEat – plans the dinner menu, orders the ingredients from the supermarket, has them delivered to Nigella Lawson’s house, and arranges for a courier to pick up the cooked meal and bring it to your house by six. A Jamie Oliver version would be nice, too. But not a Gordon Ramsay one, unless our prison system decides to outsource catering.

    iStyle – tells you if your outfit really is smokin’, or if you should instead set your entire wardrobe on fire. Has an alarm function, automatically set to go off if you attempt an unwise impulse ‘sale item’ purchase ( it cancels your credit card if you try to over-ride the alarm). Also has a ‘does my bum look big in this’ function.

    iCare – makes sympathetic noises when someone you barely know (and like less) calls you up to whine about their troubles. Why pretend to care, when this app can pretend for you? Automatically activates when the Mother In Law calls.

    iWait – makes you a cup of coffee and presents you with sudoku puzzles, funny jokes, and interesting short stories to keep you occupied when stupid government departments put you on hold for an hour.

    iSing – karaoke function that electronically modifies voices so that anyone can sound good. There is a desperate need for this app, especially at post-match football celebrations, and ATO Christmas parties.

    I have more, but there’s washing to be done, and I don’t have an app for that. So I’ll have to go put the smelly stuff in the machine myself. Stupid iPhone.

  5. No worries, Quokka – there’s a lovely new Oriental line that’s all shades of stone. You’ll love them – not a berry colour in sight!

    Now we need iAmaze – the app that provides an appropriate response to a lengthy and hilarious response from Catty. If only I could get iEat in time for dinner. Who wants pizza?

  6. I had pizza last night. And Homer Hudson. Back to the vegetables tonight. *sigh*


    I want a grilld burger for dinner and may yet persuade the Bloke that this is his only hope for eating any dinner at all.

    Can’t decide between the Zen Hen and the Garden Goodness.

  8. Enjoy your veggies, Catty. The only ones I’ll be having will be resting on a bed of herbed tomato sauce and blanketed with mozarella cheese.

    How about the “Simon Says”, Quokka? It’s got chicken AND bacon.

    Mmm… bacon.

  9. How very odd! I have never heard of this restaurant before, but today I got the menu in a wad of letterbox catalogues. And now Quokka mentions it!

    It’s a sign…

  10. You might not get a controlled taze, but we could probably get one to overload.

    • Fabulous, Charlie. I’ll leave it with you. When can I expect a protype?

  11. Yes.
    Its a sign you need to try the herbed fries. With the special sauce.

  12. MM the cyberpixies have been playing with the posts here again, amazing how things pop up that weren’t there before.

    I wound up going for the Zen Hen. Satay Sauce, yummy yum.

    I’d like to see the iWarmUp, which heats up your bed before you crawl into it at night.

    Normally this function is left to the cat, and I push it out of the way and steal the warm spot, but lately they’ve been on our laps while we watch TV and have been remiss about their Bed Warming Duties.


  13. Ha!
    I’ve thought of another one for those days when one’s powers of telepathy and telekenesis let you down.


    For days such as today when one wakes up and realizes that you’ve foolishly booked a 1.5hour horror dental appointment which coincides with the anticipated arrival of Aunt Irma.

    Got the call from the dentist’s receptionist to say that his wife has gone into labor so he won’t be there to much out my rotting (and as yet pain free) molar.

    Whoo hoo.

  14. I don’t think we can blame pixies, Quokka. It’ll be those damn faeries again.

    I could use iWarmUp… nights have been FREEZING up here. So, are you going to the Ekka to infect as many children as possible and stock up on Bertie Beetles?

    BTW, everyone, wish me luck. We’re launching the anthology with a reading this morning and the stupid Stomach Faery has filled mine with butterflies.

  15. Muck, not much.

    Maybe we need the i-typo app, that automatically corrects our little faux pax.

  16. Ha! Listen… I have a daughter in law who sells TW as a part time thing. That’s bad enough, but she is a cop and has an ugly big Glock automatic. What persuasion can you offer? Thanks for the generous comment. XX

  17. Hmmm…now I’m worried that your DIL is the very aggressive Tupperware Lady that I have tried many times to blow off and have listed as ‘TupperStalker’ in my directory.

    I have a really nice tupperware lady who is so laid back that I have to phone twice before she remembers that I want an order.

    If somebody’s gonna do tupperware stalking, I’d prefer that it’s me.

    Good luck with the anthology, MM.
    And remember to post us a link.

    Not sure about the Ekka. I had the urge to go and watch the animals – show jumping and sheep dog trials and such – but I’ve curtailed that by googling Flyball classes at the RSPCA.
    I figure if I enroll the dog in that, it might get my need for Competitive Animal Interactions out of my system.

  18. iVF – activates the dimmer switch on your lights, and plays Barry White tracks, to get you in the mood.

    iEnd – gives you a list of perfect comebacks – you know, those ones you always think of half an hour after you lost the argument.

    iCecream – tells you where the nearest open Homer Hudson supplier is.

    iRma – warms up your iPhone so you can use it as a heat pack, and makes soothing noises while you curl up in a ball of misery and hatred.

    iSpy – diverts all your teen’s texts to your phone, so you can see what she’s really up to.

    iVote – a crap detector for politicians. Calculates the crap factor during election campaigns. Results will be presented in a bar graph, so you can vote for the least crapulent candidate.

    iWin – will find out who is judging a 25-words-or-less competition, then determine how pretentious and humourless the judge is, before supplying you with the half-witted banal response most likely to score you the prize. If iWin supplies you with a little poem, give up. No prize is worth stooping that low.

    iTax – does your tax return for you. In purple crayon.

    iMute – point it at annoying people, and it sends out an electrical current that paralyses their larynx, so they HAVE to shut up.

    iTroll – an online app function. Sends a worm to the troll’s computer via their ISP, so that every time they try to make a comment on a blog, their computer logs itself out.

    iEmo – gives you an electric shock if you smile.

    iRun – warns you if someone is approaching that you don’t want to talk to. Useful for avoiding people you owe money to, people who keep trying to borrow money from you, people you’ve been slagging behind their backs, Mormons, political candidates, council inspectors, mothers-in-law, friends who are moving house, and that annoying little kid who wants you to sponsor them in their lame-arse school walkathon.

    iBargain – tells you if the item you’re about to buy is 20% cheaper at KMart. I NEED this app.

    iSniff – scans any can/carton/packet in your fridge and tells you if it’s off. Saves you from the inevitable vomiting that occurs when you stick your nose into the yoghurt that once was milk.

    i’M shutting up now.

  19. Catty you should be working for Steve Jobs.
    Maybe JB should pimp you out, for a small fee.

    I think I need
    i-Bitch – a service that dials the council to complain about the Irish Back Packers when they leave their 9 assorted garbage bins on the street.

    And, for those occasions – like today – when they only remember to put three of them out for garbage day, they probably need the ‘i-dispose’ – an App which would shoot a few volts into their nether regions at dawn, and yell, in a voice just like dear old Ma’s ‘Put the Fookin garbage out, ya lazy little terd.’

  20. And, dear readers, you do understand that by ‘on the street’ I mean upside down and overflowing garbage into the oncoming traffic.

  21. That iBitch would come in handy on our street. They appear to be letting the apprentice practice for his garbage truck licence. About one in five bins falls off the lifter, and lands spewing on the road. The garbage truck then drives on to the next house for another go. This has been happening for the last month.

    It’s not that big a deal for us, as our bin only closes because the Boss climbs onto the rubbish and jumps on it. So the refuse is too tightly packed to spew very far. But outside the school (just down the road), the wheelie bin/spilled garbage obstacle course makes an entertaining display come school pickup time. Except for the Bitch Brigade and their Toorak Tractors – they just drive over the top of any bin, rubbish or crossing guard that gets in their way.

  22. Ah, Catty, you raise a good point.
    We need the ‘i-Squash’ app, which alerts the Soccer Moms to the fact that they’ve just reversed over a toddler in their Commando vehicle.

    All in favor of footballers being forcibly issued with such a device before being handed the keys to a 4WD, say ‘Iy Yi Yi YI! before reporting to emergency for ex-rays and organ transplants.

  23. It always amazes me that professional football players can tie their own bootlaces, let alone pass a licence test.

  24. They can’t.
    That’s what the cheerleaders are for.

  25. Stafford, I’m scared to death of your DIL. Tupperware with extreme predjudice. Please, tell me she doesn’t know where I live!

    How about iDiot: computes whether your IQ is low enough to consider a professional football career?

  26. Hey, Madam, how did your reading go?

  27. What Catty said.

    Although I did have another iDea.

    Took the dog out for a walk through the UQ lakes at lunch time and observed a pair of spotty teenagers going through each other’s hairs in what I can only assume was a Search For Unwelcome Life Forms.

    Which made me think of the:
    -a small device which, when run over the scalp and hair, will enable you to identify any unwanted nesting creatures.
    * For bonus points, it should have a calculator attached which can assess the apparent population on each head examined, and calculate how many other human beings the Infested has Infected since they left home that morning to catch the bus to Botany Class. It will then administer a small electric shock for each person they’ve contaminated and a warning ‘Next time check your head BEFORE you come to class.’

    Is it obvious I used to work with children, or what?

  28. I’m itchy. Really itchy.
    Is anyone else suddenly itchy?

  29. You’re itchy, Quokka. Madam is itchy. I am itchy. Scott is itchy. I think we’re all allergic to politics.

    I wonder how Greybeard and Mayhem are doing? Perhaps I should offer them portfolios and see if they start scratching.

  30. Yes, Quokka, but there should also be a related application: iFry. It delivers a short focused blast of microwaves to exterminate each parasite it detects.

    The reading went pretty well, thank you all for asking – we managed to flog off a couple of copies of the anthology. Fronting up again tomorrow to some community shindig… I’ll know this piece by heart by the time we’re finished!

    And yes, I am itchy. Very itchy. Has anyone else broken out in oozing wheals?

  31. Yes, but that happens every time someone mentions Gordon Ramsay. Not sure whose responsible for bringing him to my attention lately but I can usually pin culpability for that on the Curious Snail.

  32. What I hate most about nits is those stupid government pamphlets. They are lies. Lies, I tell you! There’s a conspiracy there, I’m sure of it. And if I ever work out why the government persists in perpetuating their lousy propaganda, I shall expose their evil conspiracy over at the Corner. But not right now. I’m due for a nap.

  33. Ministry for Parasites and Paranoia.

  34. Now there’s a portfolio I could get my teeth into.

  35. Here’s an idea. If everyone, everywhere in the world, treated their hair for lice at the same time, we could eradicate them. For those who can’t afford lovely toxic chemicals, shaving themselves completely bald would be a viable option. What do you reckon?

  36. Sadly, it won’t work. Louse eggs can lay dormant for months in classroom carpet. (A fact you won’t find in the government brochures.)

  37. Speaking of contagion, I caved and went to the Ekka after class today.
    Class today was a prac on learning how to take pulses.
    Having established by the end of the 2nd hour that I no longer had one, I decided I may as well nick off to the show.

    I saw the horses, the cats, the dogs, and a lot of rednecks.
    Carny folk are still a breed apart, I’m sure they’re all bred in a special enclosure in the Western Suburbs of Sydney and released from Juvey just for the occasion.

    The good news is that someone in charge of the showbag pavilion seems to have been reading your blog, Madame, because the Pavilion was awash with Bertie Beetles.

    And A Wash is what I had when I got home, smelling of Fairy Floss and Dagwood dogs, despite the fact that I ate neither substance. Funny how the smell is the one thing about the Ekka that doesn’t change.

    Well, that and the Carny Folk.

  38. Classroom carpet, Catty? How do they get from there to childrens’ heads? No, on second thoughts, don’t tell me. I want to be able to sleep at night.

    So which bags did you invest in, Quokka? Other than a brace of Bertie Beetles, obviously. And did you go on any rides or buy a dolly on a stick? (showing my age, here – do they still HAVE dollies on sticks?). We’ll await the next seven days with interest to see what germs you’re incubating.

  39. I lined up for the Shetland Pony rides but someone noticed I was over 40 and shooed me away.
    So I had to make do with staying behind the yellow lines and admiring the horses in their pens. Most of which were so disgusted with Day 2 of the show that they were presenting their rumps or their genitals to the viewers, and others which were lying in the straw playing dead.
    Well, either that or you should put dibs on Hendra Virus to take me out before the next full moon.

    I looked at the Dagwood Dogs and thought about eating one. Then I thought about spending the next four hours writhing in digestive pain with No Bloke to grumble at and to fetch me peppermint tea.
    Then I thought about eating fairy floss and I remembered that I’m seeing the dentist next Thursday.

    Then I saw the dolls on sticks and was tempted to buy one and install it as a toilet roll cover so that this would be the first thing the Bloke sees when he gets back from Hobart (where, I was happy to tell him, it was 1.7C when he phoned me earlier this am). Then I realized that they really are nasty little ugly trolls and I wondered why nobody has ever given one a starring part in one of those Chucky movies. So I moved on.

    I went through the showbag pavilion searching – in vain – for the return of my all time favorite showbag, the one that had the honeycomb and coconut ice in it. I don’t think that’s been there for at least 20 years but I looked, anyway. I found Hannah Montana bags (no pole to dance around and no beaver skin knickers so no point investing in that) and Better Homes and Gardens bags and Werewolf Masks and detergent bubble blowers, but not wanting any of these things, I left, Beetle-less.

    I figure that I know where Bertie Beetles live and as it’s a few doors behind the Chocolate To Die For shop, I’ll need an excuse to go there. Soon.

    I don’t do rides but I did wander down there to see if they’ve managed to clone the Carny Folk from 1971 (they have) and to watch teenagers screaming in fear (the trick seems to be to swing them upside down. Oh, to be ten times bigger) – and then I realized I was hungry and I was surrounded by food that seemed utterly repellant.

    So I found a gourmet pizza stand and I ordered vegetarian pizza, and then I found a lemonade stand (made with real lemons) – and then I realized I was getting cold so I headed home.

    I only went to see the horses, and they had welsh ponies and carriage horses in the ring when I was there, so that was good.

    Are your kids interested in the Ekka, MM?
    There weren’t many people there yesterday and the Carny Folk were complaining it was a slow day.
    I’m thinking that the current crop of kids probably prefer Dreamworld.

  40. Quokka, with the prices for rides food and entry I’m not surprised at low attendance. See Catty? That’s real evidence that you are getting old complaining about cost! and I’m only in my early thirties.

  41. I thought that too, Scott, but the Bloke pointed out that folk will fork out a fortune for Mudford and Splendour in the Mud and the Mud Dreaming so clearly people are willing to fork out the cash. I guess there’s some sort of exotic appeal in rubbing shoulders with ferals with Dreads and Tatts as opposed to the Rednecks that come in from the Bush.

    I think they might have to jazz up the show with more feral attractions if they want to keep the numbers up. It was definitely looking a little slow. Might pick up today, though, seeing what a glorious day it is.

    Aunt Irma got your tongue, ladies?

  42. I used to love the show. I had my little rituals.

    Buy whatever the gimmicky theme is for the year (last time I went, it was glitter baubles on springs, attached to a headband).

    Wear gimmicky thing.

    Wander around looking at animals. Compare them to people I don’t like.

    Wander around looking at CWA displays of quilting, knitting, and baking. Snicker at the faces of the women with red ribbons as they death-stare at the women with blue ribbons.

    Have a ride on the ferris wheel.

    Put half my money in my shoe before going into sideshow alley, then spend every cent in my pocket on laughing clowns and claw machines. Leave when my foot starts to hurt (a sock full of coins will do that).

    Eat one of those revolting cream-filled waffles.

    Have a ride on the gravitron.

    Throw up the revolting cream-filled waffle. They taste better the second time round.

    Check out the displays – preferably the synchronised driving, but cowboy whipcracking will do. Mmmm… Cowboys…

    Hang around the beer tent with a XXXX and a steak sandwich.

    Find out what time the rock band is due to start playing.

    Decide I’m not waiting around for the rock band to get drunk enough to start playing (Hunters and Collectors left a lasting scar on my psyche).

    Pull my sock off and buy as many showbags as my remaining funds will stretch to. By now my socks were a bit sticky, so I’d have to peel the notes off and hand them to the vendors. You’d be surprised how often they’d wave the money away and give me the showbag.

    Stagger out to my car laden with show bags.

    Spend three hours sitting in my car while I:
    A – wait for my brother to come and help me rock the car off the railway tracks. (This actually happened. I will never own a low-wheel-base car again).
    B – wait for the RACQ to come and give me a jumpstart. Or petrol. (I can be a little forgetful when it comes to switching off headlights, and fuelling up).
    C – wait for the tosswad who has blocked me in to come and move their car.

    Not that this mattered, as I always got the fudge showbag. I’d eat ALL the fudge, then puke. Usually on the tosswad’s windscreen. Then I’d curl up for a little nap on the back seat.

    Ah, good times. Maybe I should mortgage the house and take the kids this year?

  43. Well, that’s a detailed game plan if ever I heard one, Catty. Seems like a shame to waste all that fudge, though.

    I haven’t really mentioned the Ekka to Magic Man and Elf Boy, Quokka. I’ve got residual PTSD from the year I took them when Elf Boy was still in a pram. As soon as I managed to open up a bit of space to manoeuvre said pram into, some fool would take advantage of the lovely open space and cut me off at the pass. But, I hear you cry, Elf Boy no longer needs a pram! Why not go, spend $600 and enjoy yourselves? My answer, in two words, is The Flu. We’ve only just got over the last lot of germs.

  44. I managed to get in and out of there only spending $33.
    That includes the $24 entry admission but the Carny folk either gave me a $2 discount for being short or else they don’t know how to subtract 24 from a 50.

  45. Hmm… I suppose 22 from 50 is only an easier subtraction than 24 if you’ve got Carny blood.

    That was a bargain trip, Quokka, for sure. But you didn’t get any sample bags. It’s not the Ekka without bringing home garish plastic bags full of junk food and crap that breaks as you’re pulling it out of the bag for the first time.

    I’ll miss the fireworks. That, and the wood chopping. Mmm… burly men in singlets sweating. Come to think of it, sheep shearing would be worth a look, too!

  46. Stare at this for a while:

    That always makes me feel better.

  47. Hello, handsome!

    Where can I buy the sample bag?

  48. I have slated my perve-lust. (temporarily, at least). James Bond was on last night – the Timothy Dalton Bond. I was stirred, not shaken.

  49. Nope.
    I like my men paranoid and battle scarred.
    If they don’t have a few plasma burns and a steady neurotic edge how the hell are they going to spot the T888 trawling for you on the disco floor?

  50. Hairy and dangerous looking.

    Not hairy like a hobbit, just not excessively metrosexually smooth.

  51. The only man worth having is the one who returns from trips to far off lands bearing this stuff:

    Now if you’ll excuse me, I am feeling rather sick.

  52. Tasmanian fudge… oh, the humanity.

  53. Its your fault, MM, I was unaware that such a thing as Tasmania Fudge existed before you mentioned it the other day.

    It is truly, deeply, provocatively Evil and more-ish.

  54. I want fudge. I don’t have fudge. I am not happy. I am going to bed now, to console myself with Gold Lindor White Chocolate with Whole Almonds. I am not going to chase the crumbs that fall into the sheets. That is how sad I feel.

    Tomorrow I shall make my own fudge. It is very good fudge. I like my fudge. Tasmania can take a long running jump. And they can take their smooth, creamy, delectable fudge with them. I don’t need it. Bah humbug.

  55. I would happily trade my Tasmania Fudge for the loss of my early morning Fetch My Tea service, who was of course in Tasmania, procuring the fudge.

    The Bloke said that of his school year, only about 12 of the 60 or so boys turned up.

    I’ve always felt rather disinterested in school reunions.
    I suspect that the people I’d be interested in seeing again are those least likely to turn up to a reunion.

    An older friend from the same school went to her reunion and when I asked how it was she said ‘Tedious. A lot of thin women in suits.’

    If I had my own blog – which, having much in the way of scary assessment to do, I do not, I’d probably start a poll on this. Seeing as I don’t I thought I’d distract the rest of you fudgeless miserable folk with asking your thoughts on the topic.

    So here’s my official thread hijack for the day – what are your thoughts on school reunions?

  56. I was never that keen on attending school, Quokka – the thought of attending a school reunion fills me with no enthusiasm whatsoever. If one wanted to be in touch with people from school, one would be, reunions notwithstanding.

    I’m about 100 times less keen on school reunions than I am on, say, Tasmanian fudge.

    So what kind are you making, Catty – chocolate or caramel?

  57. And is it the sugary sort or the gooey sort?

    MM, I’m inclined to think the same way.
    And I tend to think this is what Facebook is for.

    The attendees at The Bloke’s school reunion all seemed to be the successful ones with business empires and holiday homes in scenic locations. (Present company not included).

  58. I am going to make soft caramel fudge with cashews. I was going to make the chocolate sugary sort, with pecans, but I’ve decided that chocolate chip pecan biscotti is a far, far, better use of my pecans.

    School reunions make me feel ill. Even the thought of getting an invitation brings me out in hives. Anyway, I’m too old for all that nonsense.

  59. Mmm… cashews.

    Yes, I don’t think you see many recovering heroin addicts who sleep in their cars at school reunions. They’re very much more for people who want to show off how glamorous and successful they are.

    Gee, I’m bitter. Must be Aunt Irma.

  60. How about chocolate addicts who sleep in the gutter outside Cadbury’s?

    No, only kidding. I’m not quite that bad. Yet.

  61. Mmm… Cadbury’s gutter. Would it be full of creamy, delicious chocolate run-off, do you think? I’m there!

    BTW, Magic Man has aquired a Furby. I think I’ve discovered something worse than GoGo Pets and Pokemon combined. Pray for me.

  62. Gees, where’d he find that?
    Miley Cyrus’s dirty laundry basket?

  63. Naughty, Quokka! Very, very funny, but naughty.

    Good news, Madam. Assorted family members have owned 5 furbys over time. Not one of them has lived more than two months. (One lasted a mere week). Prayers are not needed – just let Magic Man do his thing. Furby is doomed. Mwahahahahahaha!

  64. MM your options are clear.

    1. 90 minutes in the spin dryer, followed by ‘Whoops, I thought that was a biggish sock’ or:
    2. A double feature on the widescreen TV this Friday night. Gremlins, followed by Hardware. Tell them that the prototype for the Mark 13 was a Furby.

    Slinks off to youtube to find trailer for hardware…

  65. And there it is.
    Guaranteed to give the Little Folk nightmares and cold sweats for years to come.

    The R rating?

  66. Catty, I have mixed reactions to your news. What if Magic Man still loves the Furby desperately in a week to two months when it goes terminal? Perhaps I should see if I can teach it to sing a funeral dirge. Or get it to make a confession – just in case.

    Never seen Hardware, Quokka, but it seems disturbing enough to do the trick. And I love Gremlins! Off to track it down at Video Sleazy.

    Once again, you ladies have come through. Much appreciated.

  67. There’s worse to come, Madam. You’ve made it past the GoGo pets. You’re navigating the Furby. Next, you will face Mighty Beans. Then there will be Star Wars/Transformers/Ninja Turtles (or something equally as toxic). Followed by MP3 players/iPhones.

    Then there will be girls. Hopefully, Magic Man will meet one who isn’t too vile, and settle down to raise a family.

    This is where it gets better. All those revolting gimmicks they stuff down children’s throats? I.e, Furbys? You can give them to your grandkids! Yay! Make sure you give them lots of red cordial, too. There. Now you have something to look forward to.

  68. Meh.
    I have been out in the cold and the wet getting edjamacated.
    Its all a bit much.
    I think I need a valium, although a rocket launcher would do.

    I just had to go to two different parts of West End where they have those horrible metre parking things that demand to know your car’s reggo number and whether or not you are driving a car or a motorbike before it’ll take your money.

    Which means that I have been rained on at three different parking metre stations today. Meh.

    Where’s the rum?

  69. We had some Mighty Beans. The strangest thing happened to them – they just evaporated overnight. Completely. Vanished. I assumed they manufactured them like that so you had to run out and buy some more… so I didn’t.

    I think Catty’s got all the rum, Quokka. She came through grabbing bottles wildly, muttering about pirates coming. She snatched sesame seeds, too, for the parrots.

    I’ve got a virtually untouched bottle of tequila, though. Want a margerita?

  70. Eee….ew. Tequila was my drink of choice when I was at uni. I have made many, many poor life choices under the influence of Tequila.
    However seeing as there are pirates on the way, make it a pitcher.

    I think I do have a bottle of rum but its in the top shelf of the pantry behind a 20kilo sack of Hill’s oral care biscuits for dogs.

    I found the last of the Tasmanian fudge, so I think that will tide me over the Life Crisis that seems to be induced by my Tuesday 8am class.

  71. Madam! Doctor Mummy ordered you to dunk Tim Tams in that tequila! Don’t you want to get better? We need you fit and well for when the Pirates arrive. Aren’t you the Minister for Pirating? Or have I just had too much rum?

    Hehe. Silly me. As if there’s such a thing as too much rum!

  72. Ahoy me hearties! I’ve conducted extensive research and Baileys is by FAR the best thing to dunk Tim Tams in. We can use the tequila for Molotov cocktails to repel all boarders. Hehehe… funny phrase, that. remind you of school at all, Quokka?

  73. The thing that repelled this boarder was the Boys across the lane. No amount of booze could ever make one of those seem even passably acceptable.

  74. Did your research include white Tim Tams, Madam? Because I’m strongly tempted to conduct a little further research….

  75. Mmm… white Tim Tams.

    Maybe Kaluha? Or perhaps they’d go well with something fruity like Midori. Catty, you’d better investigate this and report back.

    Quokka, it’s been years since I’ve given those boys a thought. You’ve nearly put me off my croissant.

  76. Almond croissant, Madame?
    And how’s the Big Wet up your way?

    I confess I’m not a big fan of Tim Tams.
    I prefer those chocolate coated wafer things, the Gaiety biscuits.

    Meanwhile, I have woken up with a yen for Banana waffles and peanut icecream, so I’m off to google the Jetty Cafe at Bulimba and see if they’re open and willing to feed me.

  77. The New Zealand Ice Creamery in Townsville used to sell chocolate ice cream with chocolate coated peanuts mixed through it.

    We have a NZIC here in Melbourne, but they don’t sell that flavour. I’ve complained, but they just offer me free whipped cream and syrup on my macadamia ice cream waffle cone, to shut me up.

    It works.

  78. This is a strange recipe, but a goodie. Mash peanut paste into plain vanilla icecream. Suprisingly delicious!

    (Plain croissant, Quokka – with blackberry jam. How were the waffles?)

  79. Meh.
    Jetty Cafe closed.
    As was the French Twist Patisserie in Melbourne Street.

    We wound up in Lock n Load so I can’t complain, unless its about having a stomach full of wholesome food.

    It seems so wrong…

  80. There, there. Never mind. Another day there will be waffles. Many, many waffles.

    And until then, maybe you’ve got some Tasmanian fudge left? Or if not, at least you know where to get some Bertie Beetles.

    Speaking of BB, any symptoms developing yet, post-Ekka? Maybe you should take your temperature, just in case.

  81. Just my OCD.
    I just went into hyperdrive DeFluffing the lounge room.
    Three white fluffy cats – all indoor – and one stupid fluffy dog.

    Come September they will be off to the vet for their Spring Hair Cuts.

    So I have spent the afternoon with Dr. Katrina’s lint roller:
    (Sick, I know, but it’s better than seeing tumbleweeds of white fluff rolling down the polished wood halls)

  82. Why do I not have any waffles?

    Not happy, Jan!

  83. This’ll put the spring back in your step Catty.
    See the Gruen Transfer last night?
    I dozed off during the chaser but apparently there were some good clips in that, too.

  84. I happily channel-surfed onto the Gruen Transfer just as that little gem came up, Quokka.

    According to the experts it won’t do much to attract votes but I reckon it’s solid gold. Surely you’d be compelled to vote for the party that could come up with such a treasure?

  85. Those sparkly trunks would go so well with Camille’s shoes! But, no. I’m stuck with my Solo Lucky Undies.


    Speaking of Camille, I had ‘In These Shoes?” running through my head when I went to sleep, and woke up with the theme from Sex and the City playing instead. Are they the same song?

  86. I was particularly inspired by the budgie that fluttered out of the Mad Monk’s trunks, MM.

    Unfortunately I dozed off at the end of the Gruen Transfer and I missed this on the Chaser:

    Thankfully The Bloke is always happy to tell me what I’ve missed and there’s always someone willing to post it on youtube before I come to my senses at dawn the next day.

    Catty I’ve never actually watched Sex in the City, unless it’s for a few seconds while I’m channel surfing.

    Here’s a shocker for you, but I’ve just never been a girly girl. Horse Face and her friends bore me to tears.

  87. Meh. I have a girlfriend that I go to the movies with about once a month so I was on the lookout for the Australian movie she was interested in, starring Miranda Otto.
    She promised me that it wouldn’t be as miserable as Australian movies usually are.

    I couldn’t find it, but I did find this:

    Tell me, ladies…is it just me and my twisted perspective or is the Australian movie industry packed to the gunnels with tales of horror and misery?

  88. I despised SATC also, which is why I’m not sure if the theme is the same as ‘In These Shoes?’ or not.

    The Chaser are better than SATC, certainly. I missed last night’s episode, as I was, uh, busy with something else. Hint: it involved white Lindor chocolate with whole roasted almonds.

    Fortunately, I forgot to switch off the VCR, so it recorded Spics and Specs and the Gruen Transfer (but not Chaser – ran out of tape. D’oh!). So there will be something to watch tonight. Yay!

    Or I could watch one of those Aussie horror movies designed to traumatise. Strictly Ballroom ought to do it.

  89. Prancing With The Stars has the same effect on me.

    Lindt, yum.

    I’m making chicken stock in a 10 litre pot, it really shouldn’t be said in the same sentence as lindt, but there you have it.

    I haven’t made leek and potato soup yet this winter and its just not the same without chicken stock.

  90. Mmm… leek and potato soup. Served with crusty bread and lashings of real butter, I trust?

    Can’t help on the subject of SATC, either. Never watched it. My favourite shoes are Crocs, I just couldn’t relate. And there’s something about SJP. Not a good something, more of an “She just might be an android programmed to divest me of my face” thing.

    Agree whole-heartedly on the subject of the Aussie film industry. If I wanted to be challenged by a gritty slice of life at the bottom of the barrel I’d just get a babysitter and spend the night down the local pub. The sort of films I want to see are hilarious, or action-packed thrill rides, or gripping dramas set in unlikely locations… escapist, in other words.

  91. Ooooh, SJP – the Stepford Wife! (Gee thanks, Ira Levin.)

    I like films with a tasty bit of beefcake (a-la Dalton, or Clooney.) I also like potato and leek soup with lashings of crispy bacon instead of croutons.

    Mmmmm… Dalton and bacon….

  92. You know, in summer when I designed the computer nook in this breezeway it seemed like such a good idea.

    I’ll have to get back to you tomorrow when my keyboard defrosts.

    Meanwhile I’m deserting you for my air conditioned lounge room, a couple of fluffy cats, and reruns of the Sarah Connor Chronicles on DVD.

    With any luck Brian Austin Green will take his shirt off.
    Not quite Michael Biehn but it’ll do.

  93. My computer is in a sheltered corner of the dining room. Ordinarily. With these freezing westerlies blowing, it feels more like it’s in some aerodynamic test tunnel.

    Brrr. I think I’ll snuggle under the doonas with a trashy novel. Possibly with some bacon.

  94. Oink to that.

    I am off to class, therefore, to freeze.

  95. I’m kinda over this winter thing. When are we due to defrost?

  96. My eyeballs must have frozen over while I was out walking the dog. I read defrost as ‘breakfast’.

  97. Mmm… breakfast. I wish I’d sat down to a selection of fresh Danish pastries served with bacon and a hot cappucino. Sadly, I had a poached egg on Vegemite toast. Nutritious, but not exactly stylish.

    Have you got your exam results yet, Quokka?

  98. There is one advantage to the freezing weather. My lips were so numb from the cold that waxing my mustache didn’t hurt.

    Unfortunately, the power went out while I was epilating, so I now have one hairless (albeit blotchy and wrinkly) leg, and one furry monkey leg. The power’s back on, and I should go back and denude the monkey leg, but Madam mentioned poached eggs.

    Brekkie time!

  99. Hehehe. I think I told you all about the time that I shaved one leg, forgot about the other, and found out about it a day or so later.

    Keep the monkey leg, Catty. I’m trying to promote the one hairy one smooth thing as a new trend. Think of the time and energy savings!

  100. Sorry, Madam, Rhianna beat you to it:

    One has to assume the ONLY reason for this getup is that she forgot to wax one leg.

  101. Hmm… but on the bare leg we can see residual hair, so long it’s dreadlocked. Oh wait, maybe those are diamontes.

    Very odd. Still, I was reading that she’s just had “rebelle fleur” tattooed on the back of her neck, so I suppose anything’s possible.

  102. Perhaps the other leg is the one that the boyfriend beat till it was black and blue, and this is Wardrobe’s response to DV coverup.

    And yes, thanks for asking, I scraped a 4 for the horror subject, found out on Wednesday. And as The Bloke says of university ‘If you get more than a four, you are working too hard.’

    I’m doing my final two subjects this semester, which leaves prac over summer school and then, by the grace of Gaia, I shall finally have this bloody degree. And then I can go back to bludging around the house, pottering in the garden, and making veggie lasagne every other week.

    Wasn’t today gorgeous? (not in your world, I’m guessing, Ms Catty) Finally warm enough to get out in the garden. I went out to Bunnings and procured 11 pots of lavender, with which I propose to create a lavender hedge in the back yard tomorrow.

    The first brush turkey that ventures near it will be tossed into the soup pot and fed to the Irish at the next full moon.
    They’re letting out lots of War Whoops next door. Either they’re reliving the Battle of Boyne or else they’re off for a big night at the Pig and Whistle. Fingers crossed they have trouble finding their way home.

  103. No matter how often you cannot put your hands on your carkeys, or miss the turnoff to the street you’ve lived on for 20 years, or can’t find that important thing you put in a ‘safe place’, or trip over your own feet, there are two universal truths.

    1 – When you’re paralytic, you will unerringly find your way home. You won’t remember how, but you will get there. (Unless you get lucky. Which is just as good.)

    2 – You will absolutely, ALWAYS be able to hit the snooze button with your eyes shut, first time, every time. Even when dragged from a deep sleep by Justin Bieber. (Sadistic bloody DJ’s).

    Sorry, Quokka. Your drunk bogdwellers will be there in the morning, sure as flies on a turd.

  104. Yep. They rolled home in shifts between 2.30am and 5am.

    Must go check that I’ve got petrol for the leaf blower.

  105. The lavender hege sounds fabulous, Quokka. In time it will grow up and over the razor wire you’ll have to surround it with to keep the scrub turkeys out.

  106. heDge, I meant… with a D.

    And congratulations on your 4! The Bloke is quite right – more than a 4 is a wasted effort.

  107. Thank you, thank you.

    Yes, someone at The Bloke’s high school reunion came up to him and reminisced about his philosophy of ‘if you get more than a pass you are working too hard.’ Clearly he’s been a source of inspiration to his class mates. Still don’t understand how he managed to become a prefect, but then again, I have met a few of his former class mates over the years and that did go a long way towards explaining it.

    Well, after two days of effort in the garden I now have a lavender hedge. One of the Evil Destroyer Birds wobbled along the 6 foot high fence to see what I was up to but I yelled and threw a shoe at it so it scuttled off into the wilds of Cootieville (AKA the Land of the Green Menace) and I haven’t seen it since.

    The garden will probably prove to be a source of more pain than pleasure over the summer but at least now I have something other than rocks and sticks and bare earth to look at outside my bedroom window.

    Catty – The Bloke wishes to challenge this idea of yours that the Irish can find their way home. He got sick of me jabbing him between the ribs last night saying ‘YOU’RE SNORING AGAIN! ROLL OVER!’ and he gathered up his cat and his ugh boots and slithered off to the front bedroom – the one overlooking the front stairs and the Taxi of Bedlam Collection Point (Fookin Hell, where’s Fookin Aisling? Has she passed out in the toilet again?) – there, so he thought, to snore on his stomach in uninterrupted peace.

    Not so. The Irish came home in about three waves, in the wee small hours of the morning.

    Our property was once a part of the boarding house next door so there’s parallel and near identical stairs adjacent to each other as an entry point. A few months ago I read Aisling the riot act when she adventured up our stairs in the dead of night, looking for a can of beer or such that she’d propelled into the air and over our 4m high hedge of lilly pillies in a fit of high spirits…naturally I sent her packing, minus her missing beer…anyway, at 3.30am she started yelling out ‘Seamus! Seamus! That’s the WRONG STAIRS!’ – thus initiating a loud and furious argument about which of them was going up the right stairs.

    Clearly I’d be helping them if I stretched a roll of razor wire over the entry to our stairs, with a sign, perhaps, saying ‘Fook Orf you brain dead Bog Dwellers’.

    Sometime between now and the next Irish Hangover, I’m tempted to line the garden along the boundary with a generous serve of Dynamic Lifter pellets, but this could be a mistake. Odds are good that they’ll get completely disoriented and they’ll wander up the garden path, pissed, convinced that the stench is their Dear Old Ma patching their Y-fronts and boiling socks and cabbage for tea.

  108. Now, now. No cabbage-bagging, thank you. I like cabbage. And potatoes. And sock – or at least, cheese that smells like sock.

    Put some neon in their drinking water. When they vomit, the glowing puddles of puke will act as beacons up the correct set of stairs. It will probably also poison them, but why worry about trivialities?

  109. Team Landlord has painted a set of fleuro yellow saftey stripes up their stairs and all the way up the garden path to their door. There’s also a set of glowing ‘Exit signs’ that the Fire Dept made the previous landlord install, which have a bright enough light that they penetrate my block out curtains on that side of the house.

    All this seems adequate to guide saner folk than the bog dwellers home but as you know, Catty, there’s just no cure for stupidity.

  110. Oh yes, Quokka. I do think razor wire all over your entry stairs would set the right tone – and go a long way towards discouraging Jehovah’s Witnesses and electricity salespersons, as well.

    Win – win!

    I’d lay off on the Dynamic Lifter, though. You’ll just get a bountiful crop of the green, green grass of home. It’ll only encourage them.

  111. I don’t think I’ll be dynamically lifting anything for a while after the way I woke up this morning. Ouch. I think my gardening muscles are still in hibernation.

    People go door to door your way selling electricity?
    That’s new. We used to get mobile phone and cable sales persons around here, but I put an end to that.

    Its hard to penetrate further than 6 feet into the grounds of Casa Quokka without meeting some sort of obstruction to social interaction.

    The old coot who ran the boarding house next door was a big fan of finding excuses to pop in at all hours and target me with his monologues – that is, until we installed a security gate at the foot of the front stairs and a six foot fence round the back yard to keep the Coot and his Collective of Wing Nuts out.

    We are still working on designs for the new entry to Casa Quokka, come the renovation apocalypse in a year or so, and I’m thinking of installing a lot of 5 foot high industrial strength pool type glass/plastic out the front. That way when the Irish come bounding towards my garden gate at 3am, they’ll bounce straight off it and awaken convinced that they’ve been knocked flat by their Evil Twin.
    That should confuse them.

  112. Ooooh, lots of spiky wrought iron, with gargoyles. Save all your doggie’s chewed bones, and drop them around the gate. Scatter a couple of cauldrons around the yard – put green smoky stuff in them every few nights. Install a tannoy with an endless loop tape of evil cackling and terrified screaming. And don’t forget chickens. Make sure there are lots of free range chickens running around.

    Mwahahahahahahaha! Ha ha! Ha.

    I’ve just realised, I haven’t had lunch. Please excuse the above brain fizz on low blood sugar.

  113. Hehehe… I’m into the gargoyles, Catty – but chickens? For sacrificial purposes, one assumes.

    I think the reflective pool gate is a fabulous ideas, Quokka. How about if you also incorporate a laser beam that, when broken, triggers the sound of a pack of snarling, rabid attack hounds as well? I can get you an MP3 of my dog when the meter reader comes around. if you like.

  114. Catty, that pretty much describes an assortment of front yards in our block.

    And I can count on the Irish for screaming and cackling so no need to add to the noise on that count.

    I like this gargoyle idea but I think it can be improved upon.
    Perhaps using a spare dummy, from Target, made up to look like Phillip Ruddock, and with a motion activated sensor voice box that says ‘Hello. I’m with the Department of Immigration. I’m here to see Seamus, Finn and Aisling to discuss the conditions of their passports.’

    Ah, if only I’d paid more attention in science at high school and I was a much more capable inventor.

  115. MM, pretty much everyone in our street except the Irish does have a dog, so the snarling wolf pack sound when junkies, metre men, and bog dwellers go by is pretty much de riguer.

    I found a beagle crossing and recrossing the road outside my house last weekend so I put it on a lead and started dialing the number on it’s collar to find it’s owner. No answer but I could hear a phone ringing so I knew it had to belong nearby. When I finally found the owner she was walking the streets shaking a container of dog biscuits and when I explained where I found him and where I live she said ‘oh, you live next to those Irish people. How on earth do you manage to get any sleep?’

    The Bloke just warned me that he thinks he heard another plane load of them arrive last night so we may be in for a few nights of festivities before they head off to Airlie Beach and Kakadu to spread good cheer and communicable diseases.

  116. How about if you have the Ruddock-droid just snarl “Pack your bags, bog-dwelling overstayers. You’re off to Nauru!”

    How many Irish can they fit into one tenement?

    No, this isn’t the start of a variant of the lightbulb joke, I’m genuinely intrigued.

  117. Start a rumour that there’s a film being made in Cairns that requires Irish extras – with catering by XXXX. Soon as they leave town, burn down the building.

    Nah, forget the rumour – go straight for the zippo.

  118. Where’s Ivan Milat when you need him? He could have taken them all out for a lovely long drive…

  119. When I first started griping about the Irish (the day after they moved in) someone from the Noosa region (hughesy? or was it Nbob?) said that there was a large piece of graffiti that the locals were fond of, up there, which says ‘Bring Back Ivan Milat.’

    Nobody will allow the council/owner to paint it over as the locals are behind the sentiment down to the last man, woman and child.

    Catty, now that the nights are warmer – in the tropics at least – the smell of pork fat on the Indoor BBQ is warming my fuzzy little heart. Between Aisling and the hair straightener and the stench of burning pork, that building is Kindling, pure and simple.

  120. Nothing like pork… or indeed human… fat to fuel a fire, Quokka. That’s why spontaneous combustion is so thorough.

  121. Bonus! Shall I bring marshmallows? Or my guitar, for a bit of a sing-song?

    I could play Hot Potato. Irishmen like potatos, don’t they?

  122. Excellent idea, Catty.
    Do you know the chords to this one?

    As for the potatoes, well, something’s responsible for cracking all 30 metres of sewerage pipes on their property so I’m guessing potato stodge could do it.

  123. Hang on, just let me scull a wee nippy and a half pint, and THEN I’ll remember the chords. And the bit about the cows. SING, JIMMEH ME LAD!

  124. What can crack sewerage pipes from the inside? Something generating a fair head of pressure, I’d say. I’m backing an unvaried diet of cabbage and beans.

    Actually, has anyone suggested cabbage-and-beans byproducts as an alternative to LPG? I may have just solved the energy crisis…

  125. But what of AGW? All those methane emissions, and it will be us boiling, instead of the cabbage!

  126. Which could explain why Australian Gastroenterology Week is held in the warmer months here in the Sub Tropics.

    AGW2010 20 – 23 October 2010 Gold Coast

  127. You read it first at “Fun in a Box”, ladies and lurkers. First with all the Gastroenterology news.

  128. Perhaps we should do some profiteering and set up a curry stall outside.

  129. Great idea – and we can also set up a row of portaloos, with a refrigerated sorbent stall next door.

    How big a markup do you reckon we’d get away with?

  130. Fabulous.

    We can launch my new lines: aloe and cucumber impregnated toilet paper for curry lovers, and hot chili paper for masochists.

  131. Good oh.
    If I nip out to bunnings and stock up on a roll of number 12 sandpiper, and then glue some cayenne to it, I think we’d have that second line covered, MM.

    I wonder if its unrealistic to have this line ready for Father’s Day?

  132. I’ve heard beer bidets are popular after curry. Must be a man thing.

  133. Actually I think that’s a Havock thing, but he’s a man of initiative and influence so I can see how it would become a trend.

  134. I like the way you’re thinking, Quokka. I think if we can action it quickly we’re in with a chance for Dad’s Day. I’ll work up a label. What do you reckon, a flushed face contorted in agony, perhaps a flood of tears or two?

    I’m surprised at Havsy, though. Isn’t that a shocking waste of beer? I don’t think you can absorb alcohol rectally.

  135. I had a swig of the Boss’s VB once. It did indeed taste like it had been used as a colonic.

  136. I think that beer is a shocking waste of hops, but that’s because the wind from the 4X factory used to blow through my bedroom windows, reeking like a fog of old wino’s farts.


  137. That sounds better than what drifts through your windows now. I.e The clouds of ash from cremated human remains, pulsating on a backbeat of bogdwellers’ fooks.

    Maybe that’s what the neighbour was scrubbing clean with the toilet brush – his fly screens.

  138. Hops are a soothing herb, so I’m told… doesn’t really explain the amount of beer-fuelled violence and stupidity, does it?

    I always thought the XXXX factory smelled quite cheery, like toasted biscuits – but then, I didn’t have to sleep near there.

  139. You think maybe it was toasting biscuits?
    The Arnotts factory was just up the road – we used to hang out the windows salivating when they were making the Monte Carlos.

    The only time I’ve ever come across a smell similar to the 4X factory was the toilets on the army base in Townsville.
    Don’t ask, even I don’t remember what I was doing there.
    Clearly I was out of my mind at the time.

  140. O.k. I won’t ask. I’ll merely assume you were there for the same reasons I was there. No, I don’t remember either.

  141. Mmm…. Monte Carlos.

    I’m ignoring all references to the Townsville Army Barracks toilets – I’m about to have some afternoon tea and I don’t want to be put off it.

    Did everyone have fun voting?

  142. Heh heh heh. You’re sooooo funny.

    Actually, I did have a chuckle. I filled in the form below the line from 1 to 60. But I started at 60 and moved my way back to 1. Moving backwards, much? Julia would be furious!

    I also had to laugh at some of the people who were there to vote. The flotsam and jetsam of society weren’t dressing up for the occasion, I can tell you. Unless Centrelink had organised a bus from the nearby housing commission estate, and I just happened to be lucky enough to witness the debacle.

    I hope they all voted above the line – most of them looked as if counting up to 60 might have been a bit tricky.

    The funniest part of this spectacle was watching the polling officers trying to explain how to fill in the forms, while the bogans stared blankly at them. And the lady at the ballot box had to keep telling people NOT to put their ‘how to vote’ cards in the box.

    But my amusement was short-lived. When I got outside, I found that they’d cancelled the sausage sizzle. I had to drive all the way to Bunnings to buy a breadcrumb-and-gristle-filled length of intestine, half-grilled on an open flame, and wrapped in homebrand white bread. Most annoying.

  143. I did think some of the parties were worth a chuckle.

    Tempted though I was to vote for the Rootin’ and Shootin’ party, or Australians for a Sleazier Country, or the enigmatic and alluring Ungrouped, I just stuck with a 1 above the line.

    Couldn’t be bothered counting to 60, forwards or backwards, and I wasn’t even rushing to get a sausage – I wanted to get to the library.

  144. I voted while I was out with the dog, but forgot my glasses so I had to vote above the line for the senate.

    Normally I take great pleasure in counting backwards from 60 too, but today there was just way too much competition for that special place at the bottom of the heap.

    Catty, where are your priorities?
    Grease is the word on election day, surely.
    We started the day at Bunnings, arguing about turf, and then we progressed to the yellow gates of McDeath and found the greasy sustenance we required to get us through our day.

    I did have some trouble with the bloke when we got to the speaker box and I said ‘whoops. What do you want?’ and he replied ‘The usual horror.’

    I tried to persuade him that they don’t have a meal deal by this name and he tried to convince me that of course they do, and the McStaff would know exactly what he meant by that. I’m still trying to figure out what kind of toy would come with that.
    I figure you two are probably qualified to know.

    Once we were fortified with grease and salt, we tidied up the garden. I gave the leaf blower a good workout as a warning to Aisling and her yowling friends, but judging from the ruckus next door, she’s decided this means I won’t be doing it again tomorrow (ha!) so she’s up the back tossing back the green beer and and sounding like she’s swallowed a megaphone.

    Ivan Milat met all the wrong people.

    Anyhoo…normally we sit and watch the results on the ABC but I have the bad feeling that there’s going to be a whole bunch of wing nuts with the balance of power, so I might just put on a DVD – something with a lot of gunfire to overpower the sound of Aisling’s revelry – and pretend it’s not happening.

    That said, its always funny to watch them all (pollies and journos) getting more and more pissed and immoderate with their comments as the night wears on.

  145. I turned on the news in time for Sports Tonight. Surprisingly, there were no election updates in the three minutes of footballer’s Tribunal results. Actually, there were more than three minutes of Tribunal results, but that was all I was prepared to sit through.

    Back on Go!, I watched a couple of Hogans Heroes reruns, then went down to Hungry Jacks to buy Sloppers for dinner. Yuk, but that’s what everyone wanted. (I think the usual horror is a Big Mac McValue meal, Quokka. Except before 10:30 – then it’s a sausage and egg McMuffin.)

    Now I’m going to make waffle cones with ice magic and those choc-filled wafer straws (and sprinkles of course), and I shall eat mine while watching Bush Tucker Man DVD’s. That’s right – I don’t give a rats who wins the election. Although it would be funny if JB’s beloved Rooters and Shooters win.

    No Pastafarian candidates, I noticed. There was a severe lack of Pirate clothing in the ranks. Lots of flannies and mullets, but not a single eyepatch. Sad – they would have had my vote.

  146. Hmm.
    I went up to poison the horror vines in the no man’s land behind the back fence (Explanatory note: we are flanked by flats on two sides and the owner up the back is quite reasonable, mostly has quiet civilized tenants, and while he’d rather let the brush turkeys control his garden than pay a human to do it properly, he’s pretty good about allowing me to go in there and Nuke Noxious Weeds whenever the mood takes me) at dawn today, and when I got to the crossover area where his property meets Feral Leprechaun Heaven, I was greeted by the overpowering odour of what I initially thought to be Horse Piss.

    Team Landlord has erected a small lookout up there and it seems that their tenants toss their empties on one side of it and empty their bladders over the other.

    Ugh, ugh, ugh.
    I should have known, but it was early and I was a little foggy when suddenly I realized I was thigh high in urine soaked weeds.

    I think I need one of those scour showers they gave Sarah Connor when she got Crapped Up with nuclear waste at Sorano Point.

    I feel so DIRTY.

  147. Soak in a mixture of holy water and vinegar, Quokka, with a sprinkle of lavender essential oil – while chanting “Banish the filth! Banish the filth!”

    Then go out for waffles. Hopefully that helps.

    BTW, how does one get into an argument about turf?

    I have just vacuumed and mopped, scrubbed the toilet and removed all the filth and trails of dried toothpaste from the bathroom sink. I think that qualifies me to sit on my arse and do nothing for the rest of the day. What do you reckon?

  148. I thought that it was an offense unto Gaia for Woman to lift a finger to do anything but drink tea and waffles on a Sunday.

    Quokka’s Turf Wars:

    8.15am: Arrive at Bunnings as the Jimboomba Turf truck is exiting its gates. Drive up towards piles of turf outside nursery section. Quokka prepares to reverse the hatchback up to the pile of turf that says ‘Sir Walter’. The Bloke growls ‘Not that pile, that pile over there looks better.’

    Quokka ‘They are both exactly the bloody same’.
    Bloke: ‘No, no, I’m sure that’s yesterdays turf, look how dried up it is.’

    Quokka grumbles and moves, with some difficulty towards the preferred pile, saying ‘this turf has no sign. How do you know if its Sir Walter or not?’
    Bloke: ‘Don’t ask difficult questions.’

    While he goes off to pay for it I move the car back to where I originally wanted it, by the pile that says ‘Sir Walter.’

    Bloke returns, grumbles, but then begrudgingly loads 4.8m of turf into the back of the hatch, moaning ‘This stuff’s really wet and muddy and heavy…yark..’

    As we are leaving I say ‘I talked to the two women next to me and all that bloody turf came off of the same truck, just before we arrived. Turf is delivered on Tuesdays and Fridays.’

    We were still bickering when we made it to the jaundiced neon gates of McDeath so I missed the entry and nearly drove in the Exit lane to the drive through.

    Which made him ever so happy as he could point out how stupid I was, and then it started all over again.

    We always bicker in the car.
    That’s why we stay home such a lot.

  149. Sorry, Tuesdays and SATURDAYS.
    Meaning there was no Yesterday’s Turf.

    If I really want to hit below the belt I tell him he’s sounding exactly like his father.

  150. Wow. There is an outbreak of Revenge Noise by all the neighbours. It seems to be synchronized to target Aisling and her sleeping friends.

    Woman across the road has got her kids riding their bikes up and down the footpath outside their bedroom windows, yelling and screaming (normally she discourages this), the neighbour up the back has started up the garden mulcher and Flanders (our other neighbour looks just like Ned Flanders, right down to the rectangular bifocals) has got the motorized hedge trimmers out.

    I feel like I’m letting down the team by reading the paper. Might be time to find a louder activity.

  151. Try reading the paper aloud. That always annoys the crap out of the Boss when I do it.

    You could go all out, and read it through a megaphone. I’ve been tempted, when the Boss is at his worst.

    The best bit is that you can make up stories to suit whatever argument you’re having – so you can pretend to be reading out some exposé on unlabelled turf being inferior (make up the details as you go), and thus annoy the Bloke and Aisling at the same time.

    Ah, gotta love Sundays.

  152. But the Bloke isn’t annoying at home. Mostly, he’s very well behaved.

    Its just the car.

    He’s always been like that – something about being in the car brings out his innate manly urges to be convinced he’s right when he’s obviously wrong.
    Which is why, normally, I drive.

    I remember in the early days of us being together we drove out to geebung in search of a second hand kitchen that he’d found in the trading post. It was before I discovered it was best to stay in control so he was at the wheel. He ignored my ‘Turn here, its right there,’ directions, whizzed straight through the lights where he should have turned, got stuck at the next set of lights, cursing that I was right, and decided he would do a U-turn.

    ‘That’s illegal,’ says I.
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says he, ‘How is anyone meant to get where they want to go?’
    ‘That may be the case in Tasmania but you’re in Queensland now and I’m pretty sure you lose two points and there’s a fine.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ he says.
    ‘Is not,’ said I.
    This went on till the lights turned green and I pointed out that he should be indicating if he wanted to turn.
    He swung around into a U-turn, as did the cop car that was sitting right behind us, who promptly pulled him over and said ‘U-turns at traffic lights are illegal.’
    At which point I started cackling with laughter and said ‘I told you so.’
    I asked the nice policeman what was the penalty and he said ‘you lose 2 points and there’s a fine of $x.’

    Since then, I drive.
    No arguments from him.

    I have more arguments in the car story, but my favorite is the ‘You’re tailgaiting’ argument in which he said ‘That car is miles away’ and I said ‘If you get any closer we’ll get sucked up it’s arse,’ and which argument ended with me sending him to my optometrist for confirmation that The Bloke is in fact as blind as a bat.

    He insisted his eyes were just fine.
    He came out of my optometrists and found me in the bookstore (avid) and I said ‘Well?’ and he said ‘The optometrist said ‘I hope you didn’t drive here.’

    He’s blind as a mole.

    I really don’t know what it is about the car that turns him into such a BLOKE.

    No worries on the irritation factor though Catty, if I really want to get to him, I imitate his mother’s voice. I’m rather good at it and it gives him the horrors every time.


    Anyway, he’s out getting us burgers and hand cut sweet potato chips so I can’t complain too much.

  153. I’d post a long and amusing response, but Magic Man has just realised that he’s got a diorama due in tomorrow, so I’ve got to go and colour in some barbarians.


    I’d rather have a pap smear.

  154. Oh, yes. Dioramas. We’ve got a few old specimens scattered around the house.

    I hate them. The best I have (I mean, the KIDS have) ever gotten for one is 12 out of 15. Stupid teachers.

    Poor Madam. At least you don’t have to make a working volcano, or a giant pumpkin costume.

  155. Your diorama woes are making me feel so much better about finding a cat turd in the cat’s hammock every morning when I release our Tabby out of his pen and into the wilds of our back yard.

    The indoor cats have access to his pen downstairs during the day and at this time of night – just before lockup, when they’re shut out of it (* Explanatory note: our cats are running a system of apartheid which means that the three indoor white cats are intent on killing my ancient black tabby so I have to keep them separated at all times) – they’re always rushing down there for one last effort to lay a bit of stinky cable in his hammock or piss up against the wall behind his food bowl. Which means that first thing in the morning and then again at dusk we have to remove the ‘housewarming gifts’ before the next shift of felines can take up residence.

    It always reminds me of that scene from Stake Out where the morning shift and the night shift are intent on leaving the Stake Out House as horrible as possible for the next shift.

    There’s nothing like a horde of invading barbarians to add some colour to your weekend, MM.
    What colour are they?
    Red, yellow, black, or white and tattooed from scalp to toe with blue woad?

  156. Blue woad? Oh, Waily Waily Waily! It’s the Nac Mac Feegle!

  157. Now that’s a name I’d like to see on my white paper next time I’m at the Ballot Box.

  158. Damn straight. I’d vote for them. Nae King, Nae Queen! We be Wee Free Men!

  159. Well, we Googled them, printed them out, stuck them on cardboard and coloured them in. So the leader of the barbarian horde is actually He-Man, and he looks a bit odd leading the pack in his blue jocks. I couldn’t find the skin colour crayon, so one of the Roman soldiers has yellow skin.

    Magic Man was devastated: “Mum! He’s supposed to be a Roman soldier – not a Simpson.”

    No woad, although I could do with some. It’s got narcotic properties, right?

  160. I was reading about a narcotic property the other day. Some Canadian (or maybe American?) marijuana growers had trained 14 wild bears to guard their crop. But they trained them a bit too well, so when the police arrived, the bears merely wandered over to the patrol cars looking for donuts – then wandered off again when no donuts were forthcoming. Big deterrent, not!

  161. Stoner Bears. Maybe they should have given the bears some meth to keep their spirits up.

    I used to think that Yogi Bear and his picnic basket theft had no place outside after school cartoons, until I met some Seppo tourist who spent her childhood holidays in Yellowstone National Park and she started twitching at the mention of Bears and Baskets. Apparently those bears will kill for a good picnic.

    Not sure about the properties of woad, MM, although I have heard that cane toad venom has hallucinogenic qualities – well, that and then it kills you. So while it may be a fun trip, it’d be your last one…

    Congratulations on surviving the barbarian hordes.

  162. My sister’s best mate went to the USA. When she got back, she told us all about her picnic at Yellowstone Park. So I asked her “What’s the difference between a picnic basket and the Matteryogi?” She said, “What’s the Matteryogi?” And I said “Nothing, BooBoo!”

    My sister and I nearly wet ourselves laughing. Her friend just looked at us blankly. Some people have no sense of humour.

  163. Hehehe.

    Bears are nature’s way of telling us not to go to the US of A.

    Bears, carjackers and terrorists. Isn’t nature wonderful?

  164. I remember switching on the telly one night and there was some doco about gangs of polar bears moving into town to tip over the bins and go through the rubbish.

    As much as I bitch about the Irish doing the same, at least they don’t have claws and teeth and the urge to rip out your intestines and use them as dental floss.

  165. Hmmm. I bet the polar bears smell better and make less noise, though.

  166. Unless they can play the ukelele, you’ve got that right, Sista.

  167. I believe they prefer wind instruments made from harp seal leg bones. Quite a pleasant, lilting sound.

  168. IMO, Aisling is a wind instrument.
    If I toss her over the fence at Seaworld’s Bear Enclosure, perhaps they’ll make beautiful music together.

    Last time I saw those bears they were having endless hours of fun scavenging underwater inside a wheelie bin.

    It does make me wonder if there was an Irish backpacker with an empty stubbie at the bottom of it.

  169. Now that is just wishful thinking, Quokka.

  170. Polar bears with a wheelie bin? I would have thought that was more a possum’s natural habitat.

    Have you thought of telling a leprachaun that the Bog Dwellers gloat about the pot o’ gold they stole from the Wee People last St. Paddy’s Day? It’s worth a shot…

  171. MM, haven’t you seen the Bears and their bins at Sea World? We went there for my 40th BD when the bears were still very young and silly and I spent the better part of 40 minutes in the underwater observatory watching the bears rolling around with their bums sticking out of a wheelie bin in their pond. Very cute. Couldn’t find images on google but as we plan to take the kids there in October hopefully I can get a few fresh pix.

    No need to dob the bog dwellers into a leprechaun, I caught one of our local junkies resting and having a fag on my garden stairs a week or so ago, eyeing off their vehicles and assessing the terrain. He had a piss weak excuse for being there when I shooed him away, but, like Arnie, He’ll Be Back.

    I have something far more unpleasant than junkies and irate leprechauns in store for the bog dwellers – Tradesmen.

    We got the first round of drawings back from our surveyor/draftsman and I’m happily contemplating architectural and landscaping devices to improve our quality of life and with luck, detract from theirs.

    I have plans for a few strategically placed trellises and garden walls, some of which, ie. the one that’s inches away from their outdoor urinal – will be planted out with Nature’s Razor Wire – Bougainvillea.

  172. Our home requires extensive renovations. Unfortunately, the weather has been far too horrible for renovating – according to the Boss. Poppycock, says I. What’s REALLY happening, is that the Boss uses all his time off to drink (then recuperate), so the shed we bought three months ago is still in its box, and I’ve been waiting over a year for doors on the spare room built-ins.

    I can’t hire a handyman to do it. They have this annoying habit of expecting to be paid.

    So I’m left with getting quotes off tree loppers. That’s my current scam. I found a cheap tree lopper, and got a quote to remove a massive pine tree that some idiot planted next to a stormwater drain. Then I called another guy. When he gave me his quote, I showed him the first quote. He undercut it. Then I called a third guy, who gave a huge quote. I showed him the revised quote from the second guy. So he undercut that. I’ve just called a fourth guy, and I figure his undercut quote will be just about what I’m prepared to pay.

    I call it Extreme Haggling.

    Unfortunately, you can only do it once within an industry. We need a section of fencing replaced, and the Boss is going to have to do it (sometime in 2013 at this rate), because I Extreme Haggled to get the back fence done when we moved in. And now, no fencing place in town will return my calls.

    Happily, I never got around to getting the roof tiles fixed, so I can still Extreme Haggle my roof restoration down to a semi-ludicrous cost – instead of the apocryphal amount they normally charge.

    Now I go. There is cake calling me, fresh from the new Chinese Bakery on the corner. Mmmmm…. MSG cake……

  173. You’re an evil genius, Quokka. Nothing like copping a venom-tipped Bougainvillea barb in the nether regions to make one reconsider one’s attitude to al fresco urination.

    Hey, maybe the Irish would like to go on a road-trip to Melbourne? I’m sure they’d have a stab at all your roofing and fencing requirements for the price of a few slabs. Either that, or Threat of the Irish might get the Boss off his arse.

  174. That’s what I’m thinking, MM.

    I am fairly certain that the male Bog Dwellers go down a hole each day to dig up the new Busway. I heard that the company that’s doing that has recruited Irish workers and isn’t paying them properly or giving them superannuation.

    I have yet to establish Aisling’s purpose in life but judging from the way she drifts about, pissed and cursing, so has she.

    I’d help you out with fence ideas, Catty, but its too cold in my nook to feel anything inspirational. The cats have formed a large fur pile in my bed so I think I might retreat there with my study notes and a nice cup of hot chocolate.

    Tell me when the world thaws out, I’ve had about enough of this nasty cold grey Perth weather that’s blowing our way. Yack.

  175. What bothers me is that it will be Spring next week, and snow is falling just half an hour’s drive from here.

    Where’s all this global warming I keep hearing about?

    Of course, Ramsay Street is only 10 minutes drive in the other direction, so at least I’m cheered by the thought that the Neighbours cast are having to shoot in summer clothes (the scenes are shot two or three months in advance), and it’s 6 degrees where they are. Heh, heh, heh, heh.

  176. Heh heh.
    I hope it’s nice and chilly at Summer Bay, too, seeing as that lot will be out in their surf wear.

    I have noticed that about Australian soaps, you can see the wind roaring around them and their lips turning blue but they’re looking all summery because it’s sexy.

    Well ladies, I have to sign off to study for a prac exam tomorrow. Nothing major, thankfully they’ve given us ongoing assessment for one subject.

    Aside from that, I have a busy four weeks of assignmenting to get through before these children arrive from the Deep South so I plan to switch the IMAC off during the day so it’s not tempting me as I walk past.

    I reminded JB that he’d suggested a Brisbane Burger Lunch Date but he seems to be ignoring such reminders from me and from others, so I think we might just have to go ahead and organize another gathering in September. Maybe when the weather’s more like Spring and we’re less likely to see a penguin blow past on one of those blustering southerlies.

  177. Prac assignment? Three ways to remove lego from the middle ear, perhaps?

    All the best for the studying and assignmenting. Well just be here, faffing away, when you’re done.

    Catty, the global ain’t warming round these parts. I can barely feel my fingers on the keyboard!

  178. My plan is to check in AM/PM when I’m reading the news.

    I designed the computer nook in a breezeway in the central traffic area of the house so that you could check if children were looking at porn/downloading ‘how to make bombs’ and joining terrorist cells. What they do, when they visit, is spend hours on face book and youtube, no interest in bombs or porn unless they’re in a Beyonce video.

    Total trap if I’m studying, though.
    Off to class I go.

    Oh yeah, writers festival on next week, just remembered.
    The Bloke discarded my lift out program from the Australian but on memory the main stuff that interested me was Thursday and Friday, and Friday I’ve got class so that’s out.

    Thursday I’ll probably see Anita Heiss/Bec Sparrow and Kevvy’s girl, and then go onto the indigenous literacy thing at Avid that night.

    Think you’ll front up for any of it, MM?
    Bearing in mind that weekdays aren’t good for you, so obviously you’ll miss Jessica Watson.

  179. Yeah, Quokka, have fun assignmenting.

    I once read that students best remember studied material when their physiological state matches the state they were in when they first learned the material. In other words, if you have PMS in class, you will do better in your exams if you have PMS when you sit them. Or if you’re hung over in class, you have to be hung over during exams to properly remember the material.

    I think there’s something in that for all of us.

  180. Bombs and porn. hehehe. Reminds me of a Duran Duran video.

    That makes a lot of sense, Catty, because I was stoned for most of Uni. Sorry, what were we talking about again? Hey, does anyone else want a bowl of Coco Pops?

    Quokka, I’m devastated to miss Jess. I’ll just have to hang around the marina at Mooloolaba in the hope of getting her autograph. Have you got anything you’d like signed, while I’m there?

    Sadly I don’t think I’ll make the Fest. My damn babysitter thinks she deserves a life and plans of her own. Bloody Grandma’s Lib.

  181. The writers festival features high in the Senior Citizens Social Hierarchy, only outranked by line dancing in the Brisbane City Council social do’s.

    Yes, definitely.
    I’d like Jess to sign a map of the shipping lanes between Caloundra and Stradbroke Island, with a big pink Love Heart where X marks the ‘I nearly sank here’ spot.

    Just escaped from prac exam, must find chocolate.
    Then, once suitably fortified – must go find out what the name of the tendon is that links the arch of the foot to the big toe. FKN thing. Me and my prac mate both forgot it.

    So Catty, if only I could go into every exam feeling the same mind numbing levels of boredom that I feel when I’m studying human anatomy, I’d sail through it all.

    Hysterical panic is really hard to maintain through three hours of revision of the anatomy and disease states of the lower limb.

  182. Q – How do you get 100 mad cows into a barn?

    A – Put a ‘free line dancing’ sign outside the barn door.

  183. Ooooh, Catty you’re BAD!!!!

  184. Flexor digitorum longus?

    Surely if you took a photo of your M-I-L with the caption “coming to live with you next weeek” into the exam you could work up a nice hysterical panic, Quokka?

    Catty, you’re an evil genius.

  185. No. I would still be buoyed with hope from every year that she’s decided she’ll be dead by New Year and ‘this is my last Christmas’.

    Funny, that sounds like the tendon I named for the radial pulse.

  186. How about “It might be 15 more years before the menopause.” Just imagine, 15 more years of Aunt Irma. Feeling any creeping hysteria yet?


  187. Ark.
    Well, I’ve checked my diary and I think I’m due for at least 5 days of it.

  188. Don’t talk to me about diaries. The middle kidlet just found the teen’s. She had some very bewildered questions about what she read in there.

    The fallout has been somewhat…. shall we say, unpleasant? Certainly, it has NOT been a joyous weekend. I think I need to find a barn – bootscootin’ sounds rather relaxing at the moment.

  189. See, there’s your problem, right there. If we never taught the children to read in the first place, just think of all the trouble that would never start.

    Can you tell I’m getting sick of changing the home readers in Yr 1?

  190. Good gracious, Madam – grade one is child’s play. Wait until you get to grade 4 readers!

  191. Grade 4 readers? Thank the Goddess, our Grade 4s pick their own books out of the library. I couldn’t face Grade 4 readers – most of them are probably into soft-core porn or hard-core violence.

  192. Another career option for me.

    Let’s see…

    Dick got a woody watching Jane put Fluff in the wheelie bin.

    Does that cover the subject criteria?

  193. The oldest kidlet brought home The Wind In The Willows last week. Good book, but a bit much for a 10 year old to read in one night. He isn’t very interested in reading (unless it’s Pokemon), and I found out at 9pm that he’d been playing with his Tamagotchi behind the book instead of reading. How nooooor-ty! I signed the book off anyway – yeah, I’m nooooor-ty too.

  194. Hehehe. That might be the nastiest 12 word sentence I’ve ever read, Quokka. Well done.

    I couldn’t interest my kids in WITW. Or Winnie the Pooh. Elf Boy does have a curious fondness for the Magic Faraway Tree, though – we’re on our fourth iteration of that classic.

  195. Now he’s brought home The Wizard of Oz. What next? Oddysey? I already have a copy of the Iliad (in english, aren’t I slack?), so perhaps I should get him reading that, just in case.

    It could be worse. They could be sending him home with Mills and Boon.

  196. FKN Tupprwrahe Haappy chopper bot me.
    Back tomrrow.

  197. Doctor Madam prescribes Vodka and tim tams in the bubble bath, Quokka. Listen to her. She’s a goooooood doctor.

  198. OK.
    I have the use of my index finger again, taped together as it is with bandaids and betadine. Gosh it’s frustrating not to be able to type, however temporarily.

    I made the supreme effort of putting together not one, but two ginormous veggie lasagnas when I got in from school today. The kind where you FK about so that there’s about 5 different layers. It worked a treat until I stuck my hands in the washing up looking for a spatula and got tangled up in the blade from the Happy Chopper. FKN thing. I knew when I bought it that it was destined to chop more fingers than onions.

    Anyway, my lasagnas are out of the oven now, and the Bloke now has frozen lunches to keep him going for a good while yet. I have been a bit remiss on my Frozen Lunch preparation duty lately…thought I’d better lift my game and happy him up a bit.

    This is where I’m annoyed that I’m not more high tech so I could post photos.

    I’ve made one with layers of spinach/fetta/cottage cheese combo, then layer of tomato basil sauce, then a layer of butternut pumpkin – cut into circles and roasted before layering – and cheese sauce in between all the layers.

    I didn’t have enough pumpkin for the second lasagna so I did a layer of mushrooms on top of the spinach/tomato with that one.

    Tomorrow it’ll be burgers for dinner.
    Or maybe Quan’s.
    I feel the need for crispy skin chicken after my ordeal with the tupperware.

    Oh – and oogedy boogedy – I was in Avid today and was looking for a copy of the Wizard of Oz – I’ve never read it but would like to – and they didn’t have it but they did have Enid’s magic faraway tree. Another one I haven’t read and wondered what I’d missed.

    Oh well. Beddybyes.

    Anyone heard from Mayhem?

  199. Poor Quokka… although the lasagnas sound yummy enough to have made all the pain and bloodshed worthwhile. Although it won’t be easy to unscrew the bottle and rip open the biscuit package with a bandaged finger, apply the cure as instructed by Catty. Just keep the wound out of the bubbles.

    As for the Faraway Tree – you’re not missing much. It’s not as well written as Harry Potter, and I don’t say that lightly.

  200. Quokka, you can’t read a new book while your finger is bandaged up. You’ll get a sore tongue licking your finger to turn the pages.

    But when you’re better, I’d recommend anything by Terry Pratchett – the Discworld series is great, and Medway’s blog mentions a new Tiffany Aching book is coming out this month.

    Hey, yeah! This month! Happy Spring, everybody.

    “Spring is sprung, the grass is riz.
    I wonder where the birdies is?

    – The bird is on the wing. –

    My word, how absurd!
    I thought the wing was on the bird?”

    I have no idea why, but we have recited that weird bit of prose on the first of September every year of my life. Last year, I was herding the kids out the door for school as I recited it. There, in front of the gate, was a dead mutton bird. So of course, I improvised with – the bird is on the ground. – Then we had to bury it (you know how kids get), and then the ground was on the bird. AND we were late for school. I was not impressed. Stupid bird.

  201. My day began by opening my eyes to see the first bloom of wisteria on the trellis outside my bedroom window. Should be a bumper crop of flowers this year because we trimmed back a lot of overhanging tree canopy that was encouraging the brush turkeys to hang about and poop on my washing.

    I’ve discovered that the one bit of garden those vandals can’t destroy are flowers on trellises. In the future, there will be many more trellises at Casa Quokka.

    Big improvement on your start to spring, Catty.

  202. I had the best start to spring of all. A real estate sign has sprouted on the footpath, announcing the joyous news that the house rented by the neighbours from hell is for sale! No more motor bike warm ups at oh-too-early in the a.m., no more amateur hour on the skins and electric guitar, no more dope crop on the patio roof…

    You don’t suppose they made enough from last season for a deposit, do you?

  203. That species is nomadic, MM.

    My experience of these things is that the house probably isn’t for sale at all, but the owners and the agency want the Hell Tenants out. If so, they’ll have told a sob story about foreclosure and sad circumstances meaning that the owners just can’t keep the house, even though they love their tenants dearly and sadly they won’t be able to renew their lease.

    Once the hell tenants move on, there’ll be a fresh bunch of tenants ensconced next door, and this time the agent will do a lot of reference checking to make sure that the tenants belong to the local Christian Life Centre and they have a signed photo of Fielding next to Jaysus over the mantlepiece.

  204. BTW – the estate agents won’t care if the photo of Jaysus is signed, too.

  205. I once read about an Irishman who was burgling an office occupied by an all female publicity agency. When he spied a big picture of the Pope, he came over all remorseful and fell to his knees to pray. He looked shamefully up at the picture, and noticed something silver behind it.

    It was the office manager’s private stash.

    The thief shot through with two computers, the petty cash tin, and 6 purple buds. AND he left the toilet seat up.

    The police weren’t called.

  206. Hallelujah! Damn cunning, these landlords.

    Mmm… purple buds.

    I should change the name of this blog to “Tales of the Irish”. Or “The Nightmare of the Bog-Dwellers”.

  207. Maybe that’s what I should call my blog, when I get it together next year.

    Quokka’s Chronicles – The Bog Dweller Daily News.

    We’ve had council workers redoing the footpath and curbing/crossing around our neighbourhood. Yesterday I noticed they’d made it to our street.

    I’m sorely tempted to ask them to remove an ancient and crooked set of concrete stairs that leads down the bank outside our house from footpath to bitumen. This is where the Bog Dwellers gather in their midnight runs to await their taxis to The Chalk and the Pig and Whistle.

    I’m thinking if the stairs are gone, they’ll have to go further down the footpath to flatter and more negotiable surrounds before they yell ‘Fookin Hell, Where’s Aisling? AISLING? ARE YOU STOOK IN THE BOG AGIN?’

    There are Greeks in those parts of the street.
    Hopefully the kind that throw discus, and javelins.

  208. It’s got a nice ring to it, Quokka.

    Yes, you should get the stairs taken out. And replaced with a mantrap, full of poison-tipped spears.

    Council could empty it weekly, like a wheelie bin. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a little extra surcharge on the rates.

  209. Poisoned tipped spears might be a bit much. What if the postman falls in? You won’t get your Readers Digest special offers, or your phone bill, or those letters from the Charity Brigade asking for a bequest, or Council letters demanding you trim your trees, or fliers from roof restoration companies……



    So, what type of poison will you be using?

  210. glyphosate works on most of the noxious little green pests around here, why not the bigger ones?

  211. I’ll get you a vat of whatever’s turning fish larvae two-headed up round these parts, Quokka.

    That’ll larn ’em.

  212. Probably backpacker vomit, and there’s plenty of that to be had right here.

    Well, I’ve just done day two of the writers festival and I’ve had enough. The toilets are overflowing and starting to stink and the crowds are queueing half an hour in advance for the free events.

    I’ve been down there for most of today and all I have to say for myself is that Robert Forster is a tedious dull conversationalist. The most interesting part of his talk was when the F1-11’s went over on their test flight and the room went silent till they’d passed.

    I know I’m done at a writers festival when that’s the sound I appreciate most.

  213. Writers in general are either reclusive weirdos, or megalomaniac publicity hounds.

    Oh, I SO want to be a writer.

  214. Why allow the lack of a publisher to prevent you from developing personality problems?

    Others don’t.

    Speaking of personalities, I sailed past Bob Hawke when I was rushing out of the festival yesterday. That silver helmet really does stand out. He’s looking good. Although I suspect spray tan may have something to do with that.

    I am celebrating a coup.
    I have just waved the Bloke away, he’s off to the RSL or some such at Tweed to do a pre-emptive strike for father’s day lunch. We remembered the horror of mother’s day, and swore ‘Never Again’.

    We also remembered that his mother wears Elizabeth Taylor’s most toxic perfume, so I made sure that the hatchback was uninhabitable, having been filled with rolls of turf and sacks of dynamic lifter for the last few weekends. So that’ll keep his mother out of our car and it’ll save us having to air it out for three days after the event. I sneeze for a week after his mother has been in the back seat.

    They’ve also been nagging to visit.
    So I’ve decided that a marvelous time for them to turn up for lunch is on a day when the kids are here for school holidays and I (being out of synch with NSW holidays) will be at school.
    All day.
    In fact, if they haven’t left Casa Quokka by closing time I’m willing to sleep in the toilet block at school rather than come home and deal with the whining.
    His parents, not the kids. The kids are good.
    Although I’ll probably have to dose them with scotch and the cat’s antipsychotics before they go to bed that night, just so they can block it all out.

    Cruel, really, but better them than me.

    So The Bloke just drove off, beaming, insisting that I’m a genius.

    I wonder what people with normal families do on Father’s Day?

  215. Can’t tell you what the normal people will be doing, Quokka, but I’ll be making pancakes.

    I think it’s a fabulous plan but who’s getting the cat sedatives – your inlaws or the kids? You can get fairly satisfactory levels of child tranquilization by stuffing them full of protein and carbs e.g spag bol.

    Sorry to hear about Robert Forster, but I suppose he’s not getting any younger…

  216. No great loss, they shunted me into Robert Forster as a freebie because Jessica Rudd’s room was full and numbers were slow in the Go Between quarters, much like the conversation.
    He’d brought in books by all his favorite authors and disturbingly those that didn’t sound like manic depressives all seemed to have traits that you’d see in sociopaths.

    Won’t stop me enjoying his music but I will remember to steer clear of events where he’s talking in future.

    I’ve found that often the less famous the author, the more entertaining they are because they don’t expect anyone to be interested in them, and thus they try harder.

    Jessica Rudd, as much as I wanted to pull her aside and tell her that ruffles belong on infants and toilet roll covers, not grown women, was good value, and very funny.

  217. And eerily prescient, too. Wasn’t her book about a P.M. who gets knifed in the back over a leadership challenge? Spooky. I doubt her father appreciated the irony.

    Interesting theory, Quokka – except, by your calculations, I should be the most entertaining person in the cosmos!

    Meh. I’ll work on it.

  218. I’m here for a reason, MM, and it’s not I’m getting any pancakes. Well, not for tomorrow’s breakfast, anyway.

    Yes, the PM gets bowled by his female treasurer.
    JR said that her mother was the one who suggested that she write the book…which does make one wonder if Mrs. PM saw it coming.

    I think it’s something like number 3 on the top 10 best selling Australian book list. So at least one member of the Rudd family is laughing all the way to the bank over that little kerfuffle.

    I’m feeling exceptionally bored with life after chopping the fat off a kilo of chicken thighs and I’m off to contemplate joining the flock on Twitter.

    It’ll probably just confuse and irritate me so I’ll be back when I’ve got the sh!ts with that.

  219. Yep, its annoying, time to find a book.

  220. I like the idea of prescient novels. There’s a novel in my bedside drawer that I would like to be prescient. It involves huge sums of money, Timothy Dalton, an exotic beach resort, and vodka. It’s written in the first person. Of course.

    Speaking of novels in the bottom of drawers, what ever happened to those two young ladies and their kidnapped oil baron’s son? I was enjoying that – and would have kept adding to it if I hadn’t had assignments to finish.

    So Madam, spill! Who was the kidnapper? Was it the overdosing mother? Was she trying to get a ransom so she could pay her dealer? Was the dealer her own daughter? Did anybody poo in the oil baron’s pool?

    And most importantly, what did snot-nose get from Santa?

  221. Mmm… chicken thigh fat.

    No, cancel that – ergh, chicken thigh fat. I wonder, do chickens get cellulite? You should ask one of your lecturers, Quokka.

    You’re right, Catty, we should finish that story. I’ll give it some thought and add another chapter later today. Right now I’ve got to edit some chapters of a romance novel a friend is writing. Yes, a romance novel. No, I can’t believe it, either.

  222. Ladies, you should ALL join twitter! It’s fun, but you need to be aware of a couple of things….

    First, make your account private, that way anyone who wants to follow you has to get your permission… stops spammers.

    Second, limit your twitter peeps to those you actually wouldn’t mind talking to/hearing from… I mainly have Burgers. Morgana, I just remembered you ARE on twitter, get your butt over there occasionally. Quokka, I’m going to try and find you… if I don’t, please let me know where you’re hiding.

    On an unrelated matter (to anything really), I am still alive, and you will find more proof at both of my blogs… and at twitter!

  223. Good Grief! There are heaps of Quokkas on twitter! Look for me with MayhemMischief, or let me know which Quokka is you.

  224. Yes, when they rejected my avatar I went off to sulk on the couch with my book and a cup of tea.

    I’m trying to decide between FKNquokka and Auntiequokka.
    By the time I’ve made up my mind probably both of those will be taken too.

    Mayhem, does it automatically hide your email?
    The last thing I want is more friggin badly spelled porn spam in my email.

  225. OK.
    It’s official, I’ve gone over to the Dark Side.
    Mayhem, from hence forward you shall all address me as Darth Quokka.

    I have no FKN idea how to work the damned twitter thing and I destroyed the kitchen making scones earlier so I’m off to clean up the mess.

  226. Hello, Mayhem – proof of life is always welcome. How nice to see your smiling face!

    Hehehe… I thought FKNquokka was great – particularly applicable at certain times of the month.

    I’m going over to Twitter now, to follow you. Watch out!

  227. Okay, I couldn’t find you anywhere in the Twitterverse, Quokka.

    How exactly are you spelt?

    Either that, or follow me and I can follow you back.


    That’s me, but I can’t think of anything to say – so I’ve said nothing – and I’m not really sure how it all works.
    Aside from that, I’ve probably pushed so many privacy buttons that nobody can find me anyway.

    I found Mayhem but I didn’t find you, MM.

    BTW, chickens do have cellulite and that’s the last time I waste 20 minutes of my life stripping it off their thighs to make a curry.

    Aunt Irma always makes my sense of smell go whacky so yesterday the tinned tomatoes smelled like fish to me and the second batch of chicken that I went to slice and dice smelled like a week in hospital with IV.

    I left it till the Bloke got home from The Seniors Smorgasboard and he didn’t think it smelled any too good either.

    He did suggest an i-app idea for your thread, though.

    The i-Tox, or perhaps the i-poison.
    You smear a bit of the suspect chicken over the screen of the ipad and it tells you whether or not you’re incubating salmonella and then, for the smarts, calculates how many days you’ll spend in hospital on drips and anti-emetics.

    Now. I think I was cleaning something.
    Back to domestic hell I go.


    OK. You know I’m not doing an assignment that I really should be panicking about when I’m busy rethinking a name for a twitter account that I still haven’t used.

    That’s my revised name up there.

    I had to have a terminator reference in there somewhere.

  230. I love the idea of the iTox app, Quokka. Now I need to find a geek who also majored in microbiology to do the programming.

    Okay, cover me. I’m plunging back into Twitter to try and track you down.

  231. Nah, still no luck. Perhaps it’s because you haven’t actually tweeted yet?

    I’m morganamacleod. Try and find me – or not, as you like. I hardly ever tweet anyway.

  232. OK. I’ve tweeted.
    I wonder if the little padlock beside my name has something to do with the access issue?

  233. Quokka, The padlock is good, it means that you won’t pick up random followers. You’ll have seen that you got an email asking if I can follow you. (I’m pleased you said yes, by the way). Sometime spambots also try to follow you. Say NO!

    Morgana, she’s changed from DarthQuokka to QuokkaT888 No idea why!

  234. Okay, read upwards and found out why!

  235. OK. I’m totally confused with twitter so I’m off to do yoga and eat porridge.

    Today I have the fun and excitement of taking the lawn mower in for repairs.

    MM, Mayhem says that nobody can read my tweets unless they’re authorized to do so. And I’m not sure how to do that, I’ve just been clicking ‘Follow’ when I find a burger friend on twitter and assuming that they’ll see me. Apparently this isn’t how it works.

    Dum de dum.

    How’d your cooking go yesterday, ladies?
    You inspired me and I made a killer batch of scones.
    Am starting to stockpile food in the freezer for when the kids arrive in October for hols.
    I hear that teenagers are a hungry species.

  236. Oh, Quokka, you said it! My teen ran away on Wednesday (long and nasty story, currently unresolved) and the amount of food left over from the last five days is enough to feed the entire (remaining) family for the NEXT five days. I dead set can’t fit another thing in my fridge.

    On the up side, I don’t have to cook tonight. Or tomorrow night, for that matter. Unless I really want to – and that usually involves cake. Or I might just make muffins in your honour, Quokka. Mmmmmm….. muffin tops…..

  237. Gee, Catty, that doesn’t sound good. Well, the not cooking bit sounds fabulous, but the rest. I hope things get sorted out, for the best and sharpish. In the meantime, I’m assuming the brandy and Tim Tams are at hand.

    Quokka, a fabulous teen pleasing recipe is savoury muffins with grated cheese, chopped ham or bacon, grated onion, zucchini and carrot. Stir in a few beaten eggs and some SR flour and you’re good to go. These are great, you can hide all sorts of veges in them. Chicken, cheese and broccoli are also yummy. And any sort of pasta. Magic Man is currently very fond of bacon and mushroom carbonara. Not exactly health food, but very filling!

    Right, cross your appendages, people. I’m plunging back into Twitter to try and find Quokka.

  238. Oooh, poor Catty. Good luck with the teen.
    I’ve had friends go through that and words fail me.
    Suffice to say that this is why the Bloke and I declined to breed and have a house full of cats instead.
    All of which are microchipped and confined to a pen.
    I plan to do the same with his nephew and niece in the week that they’re here.

    MM, I suspect that you and I have some similar cooking habits.
    I just ate the second last of my last savory muffins (another freezer stockpile) – I go to town with any veggie that will fit in the Happy Chopper (and occasionally a finger) and I add cheese, chilli and paprika as well as fresh herbs. Coriander or parsley are good.
    I make muffins with buttermilk, likewise the scones. Buttermilk makes them so light and fluffy.

  239. I don’t have to make cake. The next door neighbour just brought me a Cheesecake Shop strawberry sponge. We had a good old chat about the ducklings. She told me that there had been 11 ducklings when she left for work that morning. So it looks like the duck we rescued was an attempt at second helpings by the crow. Sad.

    We’ve got gastro going through the house. The littlest kidlet had the most amazing vomit – fully the width of the dining room, through the doorway, and halfway across the foyer. Like a firehose, it was! And as he had eaten strawberry pops for breakfast, it was interesting to clean up.

    Fortunately, the older kidlets have both been keeping buckets close by. So cleaning up hasn’t been anywhere near as bad as it could have been. Yay!

    Quokka, have you tried making pumpkin muffins? You add cold mashed pumpkin, pecans and maple syrup to a basic muffin recipe. If you really want to cheat, Greens multi purpose muffin mix is good. But NOT THE COLES ONE! All the ‘You’ll Love Coles’ boxed cake mixes are vile. Bleargh!

    But for now, I have a strawberry sponge to attack. I’m about to make a bunch of stupid phone calls about my teen, and I need fortification. Yes, you’re right, brandy sounds like an infinitely preferable method of fortification, but I’m thinking it wouldn’t be wise to get tipsy right before calling DHS. Amusing, but not wise.

  240. Department of Homeland Security?
    What’d she do, set off fertilizer bombs in the Vatican?

  241. Mmm… coriander.

    I’ve never tried buttermilk, Quokka, but since you suggest it I’ll give it a shot. Should be good in pancakes, too.

    Catty, gastro is vile beyond words. My thoughts and prayers are with you – I particularly pray you don’t get to the stage when you’re not sure which end to point at the porcelain.

    I don’t think they’d noticed if you phoned up drunk – that’s probably the normal run of events. Although, sobriety might make you stand out in a good way. Why not ring up once drunk and once sober and see how both go?

    No, it’s actually not funny. Hope they can help.

  242. Whaddaya mean, not funny? It gave me a laugh! I might even take your advice.

    Quokka, the be-all and end all in sweet dishes is cinnamon. It cures everything, including PMS. Whack that on your porridge. Keep a bit spare, as you might need something to throw into the eyes of any marauding bears (or small blonde girls) that attack while you eat. For savoury dishes, the best herb is oregano. Amazing stuff – it’s really really good for you. It is important to note that anything that makes chocolate taste bad IS bad. Ergo, rum is good.

    DHS is Victoria’s version of DoCs. My faaaaaavourite people in the whole wide world, after the QLD police. Yes, I am being sarcastic. Yes, really. Me. Sarcastic. I know, I know, what a shock!

    Oh, and Quokka? Here’s something for the teens:

    What’s brown and sticky?
    A stick!

    What’s brown and sounds like a bell?

    What’s red and invisible?
    No tomatoes.

    Madam Morgana, you have obviously suffered through too many bouts of gastro – you know too much! One kidlet is currently at the both-ends stage, but fortunately it’s the one whose malodourous flatulence is a reliable precursor of upcoming diarrhoeic episodes. I.e, the stinky fart boy. Thanks for your prayers, the more the better. And if the strawberry sponge from next door is any indication, it’s working. Good job!

  243. I hope these kids of yours recover fast, Catty, it sounds bloody horrible for all involved.

    Well, this is my insight for the day:
    Much as I suspected, Twitter exists purely to alert the world to the fact that JB is eating a block of cheese.

    Tomorrow I shall return to my study routine, light of heart, knowing that I can ignore the twitterverse and puddle along here at the end of the day for gruesome tales of vomit and not so gruesome recipe tips. Although I must say, Catty, I like all your other ideas but cinnamon – unless it’s on a hot donut – tends to make me queasy.

    No idea why but clearly it’s ill effects are me are counteracted by the deep fat fryer or a nice warm layer of butter. I do like to make cinnamon tea cake every now and then.

    Morgana, still got your eyeballs in their sockets, or have they wound up in a blood spattered dish by your reading lamp?

    Oh, and did you guys see the article in the paper about ‘Death By Ipod’? How ipod wearing pedestrians are getting squished in the traffic at an alarming rate.

    Clearly that’s another app that’s needed – the iGoBangandSquish. An app that alerts you to the fact that you’re about to step into the path of a taxi.

    Although that’s probably what seeing eye dogs are for.
    Perhaps we need to train up a new breed.
    Dogs for Dufuses.

    I can just see the range of plastic dalmations, one by the checkouts in every Coles in the country, asking for our support to save the Ipodiots.

    Nighty night all.

  244. This is my favourite:
    Why don’t sardines swim past Townsville?
    Because they don’t want to end up in Cairns.

    So, with my one remaining eyeball I note that JB has enjoyed a block of cheese. Fabulous! Just so you know, I have no plans to eat cheese today. I’m having sushi for lunch.

    Quokka, if you can eke some pathetic shadow of enjoyment from a life without chocolate, we’re right behind you, passing the Tim Tams around. Hey, speaking of Tim Tams, did you know that they were named after a racehorse Mr Arnott got lucky backing? But for the vagaries of fate we could be enjoying a Phar Lap or Sea Biscuit.

    Mmm… Sea Biscuit.

    So, Catty, did you get any joy out of the Department of Homeland Security? Hope the hurl and squirt problem is settling down, as well. It’s nice to know you have baked goods to help you in this difficult time.

  245. I had sushi yesterday but see no reason not to eat it again today. And yes, JB has made me think twice about sinking to the levels of being a Cheese Eater, too.

    Feel free to pass the Tim Tams, ladies and lurkers, I’m not really a fan.
    The Arnott’s Gaiety biscuits are what I reach for when Aunt Irma comes knocking. I wonder if they came off the betting guide too?

    This sea biscuit, would the centre be made of kelp, or stolen japanese whale meat?

  246. I always called Girl Guide cookies ‘See Biscuits’. Because when I see them, I have to eat them. The closest equivalent in the supermarket are Yo-Yo’s. Or if I’m desperate, McDonalds cookies.

    Cheese is a particular favourite. Cut it into fingers, dip them into a jar of vegemite, and then book myself into the doctor to get antibiotics for the resultant urinary tract infection. Cheese before bedtime is guaranteed to give you nightmares – so now we know where JB’s story ideas come from.

    Cheese, and Havsy. I have a theory that JB used the Rhino in his story to distract Havsy from the minor details JB filched from Havsy’s fan fic.

    Havsy is also distracted by his pet hate: Backpackers with iPods. He thinks if any backpacker is run over because of their iPods, they FKN deserve it and their families should have to pay to get the driver’s car washed. Or something like that, it’s hard to pick exact details out of the Hav’s rants.

    Still no word on the teen. Crikey it’s peaceful around here! Especially now the kidlets are showing signs of getting better. I.e, playing computer games, hitting each other and whining for lollypops.

    Mmmmm….. Chupa chups….

  247. Quokka, I’m thinking a sea biscuit with an atlantic salmon interior and nori wrap. Mmm… seaweed. I think your Gaiety bikkies are probably named after a vaudeville theatre – or because eating them elates you.

    Catty, I used to love Girl Guide bikkies, too! They’re just not the same any more – trust me, I’ve worked my way through a dozen packets, just to make sure. I find Butterscotch Shortbread by Paradise are not a bad substitute – and Aussie made and owned, too. I’m buggered if I know how cheese and vegemite gives you UTIs, though… you are EATING the stuff, right? Very glad to hear that everyone’s tummies are settling.

  248. Blame the sulfites, I do.

    Vegemite told me that they’d taken the 220 out of their lovely gooey product so I rushed out and bought a tin of it and slobbered some up.

    Instant digestive pain and horror resulted.
    When I rang them they said that there were still trace amounts of sulphur in the vegemite but they’re below levels that they have to add to the label, according to Australian law.

    Now if they’d told me that BEFORE I spent two days blowing around the house like a fart filled balloon, it would’ve helped.

    Catty, get those kids some All Day Suckers.
    After what you’ve all been through, they deserve them.

    My friend’s teen tortured them for three days when she took off. She wasn’t really interested in running away from home but the friend that she took off with had a serious axe to grind at home, and so they snuck off together and stayed with a couple of older friends – who actually did a wonderful job of looking after them.
    Until the two older friends got sick of having the two horror moody teenagers in their home and finally dobbed them in to their parents.

    That’s the delightful thing about teens – they’re a bit like fish in the fridge, nobody’s gonna want to keep one for more than three days.

    My friends went through the anguish of wondering if they should cut off the teen’s bank account.
    They didn’t, and predictably the teens turned up when they ran out of money.

    I’m guessing they were using their funds to persuade the older friends that they were bearable companions.

    And people wonder why I don’t coo over babies.
    I just look at the parent and say ‘But one day it will be a teenager. Aren’t you AFRAID?’

    For the next twelve years they look at me like I’m crazy.
    And then things change…

  249. Oh don’t, Quokka. I’m already TERRIFIED of having teenagers. All of the angst, dirt and grief and none of the cute and cuddliness.

    Still, look on the bright side – perhaps I’ll be dead before then. Only four years to go!

  250. I have no concerns about the kidlets becoming teens. I know them well, and know what to expect – and ultimately, they’re good kids.

    It’s just the teen I have to worry about. But only for three more years. Then she can go out into the big wide world and fend for herself without interference from her stupid parents. It’s a good thing she knows everything – she’ll be fine for sure.

    Unless she’s pregnant. Which we are beginning to think may be the case. And if any of you dare call me Granny, I will react with haughty displeasure, and jab you with my knitting needles. So there.

  251. Gosh, I hope not, Catty, coz it’ll be like when they nag for a labradoodle – you’ll be the one that’s left raising it.

    MM,Boys aren’t so bad. You just get them obsessed with some sort of sport and give them a drum kit.
    Its the smell that gets to you, in the end.
    I hear they don’t wash for three years straight.

    I hear you, Catty.
    There was one niece that I always worried about, and, it turned out, with good reason. She’s the one who picked the violent man. Have taken a few large steps back from that one since her last return to him. I’m not good in a front row seat in those situations. I hate violent men.
    Comes from being raised by one. And occasionally thrown into the wall.

    I read in some book that on average it takes a woman 7 or 8 times before they finally leave a violent man.

    Thankfully I’ve got lifelong immunity to that particular breed.

    I feel like I should be celebrating the fact that we have a government again, but The Bloke is somewhere in Cairns eating Tapas for dinner and won’t be home till after 10.30.

    so its just me and the cats, (the dog counts as a cat) and one of them keeps spewing up furballs.

  252. Three years in Cairns, and I never knew you could get Tapas there. But then, I usually ate at the swill pits that service the backpacker community. This is why I now despise lentils with every atom in my body.

    Thankfully the whole Cairns experience was followed by the joyous realisation that I had NOT inherited my family’s ‘Everything-I-cook-tastes-like-guano’ gene. And nary a lentil has graced my fair kitchen hence. Nor will it ever, or I will prod IT with my knitting needles.

    Incidentally, that thing about teenage boys smelling? It’s not just the boys. I had to air out the teen’s room every day to allow the stench to dissipate. I should have bought shares in Glen 20. Which reminds me – the dear girl left me a parting gift in the bottom of her school bag. A green and black sandwich, four mulched apples, and an indiscriminate number of once-were-bananas. She had propped her three most expensive school text books in the puddle. How sweet!

  253. Yes, Quokka, we have a government. Hurrah! It’s all a bit of an anticlimax, really – and I can’t help but be a little bit astonished at how long they took to make a bloody decision. I mean, they’d been exposed to the same election campaign as we had. Surely they were familiar with the issues. Anyhow, congrats Julia. Let’s see how long it’s workable.

    Pregnant? Oh dear, I hope not. Quokka’s right – no, actually it’d be worse than a Labradoodle. You can’t chain a grandshild to the clothes line if it misbehaves. Well, you CAN, but you’ll be in strife.

    Conratulations on the rotten fruit, too. The only thing I can think of worse than a rotten banana is a rotten potato. I can’t work out how they manage to make good old medicinal vodka out of them.

  254. I think it was about making everyone sweat and working out the best deals.

    I suspect that Katter’s plan all along was to side with whoever didn’t get put into government. That way he gets to stick with his characteristic Wild Card position and for bonus points, given the way the cards have fallen, he gets to look good with the coalition voters in his electorate. He’s pretty wily. And he’s made it clear he’s got the knives out for all parties involved, really. Hard to imagine him doing anything but his Lone Ranger gun slinging routine until the house of cards falls down.

    Ooh, Catty, rotten fruit.
    Gross. You sure you want her back?

  255. Regardless of the choices made by the independents, I’m more interested in the reasoning behind their choices. Katter made his choice because he apparently disapproved of Gillard’s Rudd-knifing. The other two independents made their choice based on “what’s in it for my electorate?”.

    If I were in an electorate that had a deciding vote, I’d jolly-well want the choice to be made based on my community’s needs, and not on a personal opinion about the leadership selection process within a major party. That’s what we are constantly told democracy is all about, so it’s nice to see there are still pollies around who put their constituents first.

    That said, give it a year and the whole political structure is going to smell like the bottom of the teen’s school bag.

    Am I sure I want her back? Loaded question!

  256. Katter is a strange, strange man. Have you ever seen a living person who looks more like a ventrioloquist’s dummy? Check out the way his jaw is hinged next time you see him – he should be on tv any minute now, you won’t have to wait long.

  257. Katter has the knives out for all parties involved and he’s pissed off at being too slow with Hung Parliament musical chairs.

    I spent my childhood afternoons sitting in a dark corner of the local golf club, watching my crazy father talk shit with his equally crazy friends. Katters senior and junior looked like Dr. Phil beside that mob.

    Both Katters struck me as being very thoughtful and very wily and the persona that Bob junior has assumed is so very different from what I remember of his personality, that I wonder if much of what he does in the public eye is just part of his Mad Katter suit & act that he steps into after coffee and his bowl of banana coated fruit loops every day.

    Then again there’s a lot of lead floating around in the air around the Isa so that could account for some of it.

  258. Hehehe. Hung Parliment musical chairs. “Tony, come on now, you know you’re not allowed to sit on three chairs at once. Julia, did you just pull that chair out from under Kevin? If you can’t play nicely I’ll call in the Governor General.”

    Ah lead. Downfall of the Roman Empire and now Mt Isa. Katter should give his aquaducts a good clean out.

  259. They do it to ‘pop! goes the Weasel Word.’

    ‘Mandate’ was the one that confused them the most.
    Katter started walking backwards to cloncurry…

  260. Which is the real reason he missed out on a seat in the government…

  261. Lucky Cloncurry! They cop Katter, arse-first. Still, they’re used to hardship in the bush…

  262. LOL!

    Now I have to go clean the coffee spray out of my keyboard.

    Thanks, MM.

  263. Well, someone in Cloncurry might get lucky if he walked into them arse first.

    Woody the Cow Poke, perhaps.

  264. Nights sure do get cold and lonely out Cloncurry way, for a lonely cow poke.

    Why is it cow poke? You’d think it’d take more than just a poke to persuade a cow of the error of it’s ways.

  265. I think that’s why they resort to enticing orphaned lambs with offerings of condensed milk.

  266. Mmmmm…. Condensed milk….

  267. We won’t ask Quokka how she knows about the condensed milk. In fact, we’ll put the whole distasteful subject to one side. Contemplate instead the thought that if you add cream cheese to condensed milk and lemons you get cheesecake.

  268. And if you add lemons to the picture on the label on the bottle filled with artificially sweetened and flavoured carbonated water, you get lemonade!

  269. What is that flavour in artificial lemonade? Lemon, it ain’t.

  270. Don’t know either, but I’m tipping it’s been made in a lab using the same molecular structure as cat urine.

    Or am I thinking of VB?

  271. Aspartamine.

    Cat’s piss isn’t toxic, although it does discourage visitors when they find it soaked into their pillow.

  272. Sorry. Occupational hazard.
    Someone says ‘Flavour’ and I think ‘Toxin’.

  273. You’re thinking of VB, Catty. It’s a little bit like the stuff that scents laundry and dishwasher detergent, I think… is that Aspartamine, Quokka?

  274. Aspartamine is the artificial sweetener that doubles as rat killer. There’s a number of websites devoted to reports of it’s toxicity. I think its up there with Champix and Stillnox in the hate mail stakes.

  275. Ah. That explains the tang, then.

  276. Funny, that’s what they say to the lab rats.

  277. Is that what gives Coke Zero its zing?

    It always amuses me, how *ahem* “cuddly” teenage girls at Macca’s order a supersized Lard chunk with Mega Fries and Jumbo shake (note that I don’t mention milk), but they all drink Coke Zero, because they’re watching their weight.

  278. Market analysis showed that consumers wanted a product that equalled their IQ. I’m pretty sure that coke zero – like other carbonated beverages – has just as much of that nasty shit in it that depletes calcium from the digestion and sets them up for osteoporosis later in life.

  279. Says she who has a hopeless passion for Boylan bottled soda…

  280. Mmm… lard chunk.

    Quokka, as long as Boylan’s bottled soda doesn’t actually contain any Boylan, you’ll probably be alright. Does it mention genetic modification anywhere on the label ? I’m prety sure there’s some mutation involved, there.

  281. There’s a sticky label with a list of ingredients.
    If you peel it off you can see the USA list of ingredients and it’s completely different.

    Never judge a bottle or a Boylan by it’s label.

    Speaking of lard chunks, I nearly flattened a cyclist on my early morning visit to Sol’s breads. I was doing a u-turn and one of those cuddly lovable middle aged male cyclists that’s so prolific around here (despite my best attempts at culling them) turned at a red light and shot in front of me.
    I missed him by THAT much. And then copped the ire of traffic that objected to me letting him live.

    I think it’s time JB did another Cane the Cyclist blog.

  282. Why do they wear lycra? Why?

  283. I think I know why they wear lycra whilst on the bikes, Quokka – it’s got to do with being aerodynamic and keeping all your bits tucked up out of the way. What I fail to understand is why they wear lycra – and those weird tap shoes – in coffee shops and other non-cycle occasions.

  284. To frighten the competition?
    i.e. locals in need of a luke warm organic free trade tastes like shit latte.

    That’s how it works in West End, anyway.

  285. The bloke says that they wear the tap shoes so that you think the Duck Waddle Psychlist Walk is due to deformities in the footwear. Really its to disguise the fact that they’ve got chafing from the sweat proof psychlo jock straps and all that reabsorbed sweat is itching up their groin and toe tinea something dreadful.

    Waddle waddle scratch…
    Which also explains why they pick at their bottoms so much when they do stop at traffic lights.

  286. Ew.

    The thought of all that tinea-infested sweating flesh trapped behind acres of lycra has quite destroyed my appetite. Lucky we’re between meals at present.

  287. I read somewhere that Coke and Kraft products are made with GM ingredients. Maybe these lycra-clad abominations are merely the end result of a long term study: “What happens to children brought up on genetically modified soft drink and peanut butter sandwiches?”

    I feel sorry for them. Carrying tubes of tinea cream in your pocket affects your aerodynamics. So the poor dears have a choice of being a slow target for irate motorists, or suffering from green and pustulent flesh.

    I may have to elaborate on this over at the corner tomorrow. Or not. It depends on how filthy the kidlets can make the house today: Pretty filthy, Totally filthy, or Apocryphal. Clean and tidy is out of the question for them, unfortunately.

  288. I’m not sure about your filth rating, Catty. Apocryphal – as in no one believes the tales you tell about how messy it is, or Apocalyptic – as in so messy you’d rather face the end of days?

  289. I tell people how filthy my family are, and they don’t believe me. It’s true, I tell you! TRUUUUUUUUEEEEEE!!!!!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: