Geocache Challenge

It’s not my fault. It all started with a friend… have we had “Sophie” as an alias yet? Sophie forwarded me an email with pix of hilarious “missing dog” type flyers that random idiots with too much time on their hands have posted out and about.

This one struck a personal chord:

But I think this was probably the LOLest:

Anyway, I drank too much coffee and during a full and frank exchange of emails Sophie dared me to post one of my own. So I did, and I’m not sure how long it survived on the corner of The Esplanade and First Avenue at Maroochydore.

I think, if you read the title, you can guess the next bit. Anyone feeling silly and time-rich – in the spirit of performance art, slam poetry and public nuisance – post a flyer and upload your pix, please. We could all use a laugh.


51 Responses

  1. Upload? What is this upload?
    I come here to unload.
    I thought we were clear on that.

  2. Yes, Walt Disney was not right in the head.

    Who on earth would build a piano stool out of bricks?

    Alright, Quokka – spill. Unload at will: who has had the temerity to bring down your wrath upon their unsuspecting heads?

  3. Yeah, Quokka. We want the Goss (*), and we want it NOW!

    (Mention Wayne, and I may do a little unloading of the gastric variety).

  4. Oh, poor Catty.

    I was afraid all that codeine would make you nauseous, sooner or later.

    What happens if I say “Peter Beattie”?

  5. Or ‘warren truss’.
    Nothing new to complain about here.
    Just the Week 12 blues, which everyone has at college. Well, that and telstra is still digging pits on the footpath outside.
    I can’t really complain, given that there’s still at least 75gm of the 150 white chocolate lindt/praline block left in the fridge.

    I think I’m just tired from unnecessary hissy fits.
    Like the one I had yesterday after Janet’s tech nerd finally fixed my fracking computer and then tried to insist that there was nothing wrong with it (oh, where are the twitter and the CBG folk when you need the hysterical mirth laugh track?).
    Anyway, after a talk to his office manager they decided not to charge me for yesterday’s 2 hour installation of Trouble Shooting software – during which time it crashed repeatedly (nothing wrong with it, hey? You don’t say.).

    Sigh. I just get tired when people try to lie & dodge accountability and BS their way out of a predicament. I could’ve done without that. I wish that someone in PR school would just teach them to say ‘Yep, we screwed up. We’re genuinely sorry for all the inconvenience and now we’re ready to trip over ourselves fixing whatever it is that we FKD up.’

    Oh well. Case studies beckon.
    I’m off to listen to the sweet serenade of the telstra earth moving equipment.

  6. Oh Goddess.
    Is it full moon again and if so would you like a blood sacrifice?
    One of my guitar twanging 60yro public servant/hippy neigbours is serenading the world with his I wannabe Bob Dylan routines.

    I take it back, Telstra and their earth moving equipment are welcome back…soon…puhlease….

  7. Tis only half-moon, Sister. Time is out of joint for the spilling of blood. 13 days from now should do it…

    Oh, what a coincidence! Around Aunt Irma time.

  8. Aunt Irma was held at bay by copious quantities of codeine. Now I’ve eased off the pain pills, guess who has shown up?

    I’d say better late than never, but that would be a lie.

  9. Better never than never, in this case… unless it means you’re pregnant again.

    Gaia, if you’re listening, I never want to be pregnant again. Thanks.

    How’s the hip and the jaw, poor sore Catty?

  10. Bugger. I do so feel like spilling blood.
    Just not mine.
    Hmm…where did GB go?
    He wanders off at the most inconvenient moments.

  11. He recently described me as “(nearly) a sweet young thing”, so I can only assume he’s at the optometrists or the psychiatrists.

  12. The other possibility is that we’ve driven him to nip, tuck & botox.

  13. Unless Mayhem’s Mum got him….

    Nah. He’s probably running Fifi’s bubble bath, and pouring her martinis, and warming the massage oil for her post-bath backrub, while he waits for the chocolate cake he’s baking to finish cooking so he can ice it with a thick, rich ganache and spoonfeed it to her.

    Actually, being imprisoned in the catacombs by Mayhem’s Mum is far more likely, isn’t it?

  14. I think you’re on to something, Catty.

    But it’s an oubliette. The catacombs are where the…oops, I promised I wouldn’t say anything and there I nearly went, shooting off my big mouth. That’s the kind of loose talk that gets you cached away in the catatcombs

  15. are where the….’botox is kept’?
    The secret of GB’s eternal youth was let out of the bag ages ago.

    How are the fluffies, MM?
    I thought the dog would be bearing some battle wounds by now.

    Oh, and Grace has told me that I can buy those fridge smart things as individual pieces so I don’t need to unload the celery keeper on you.

  16. I could have sworn the GB-eternal-youth secret had something to do with all those goat placentas he had Mayhem’s Mum pickling, but then again I had several young (aged 3-7) kids sleeping over last night and for all I know my hair’s turned purple.

    The cats are flourishing. They tolerate the dog without resorting to physical violence – as yet – but she’s not their favourite member of the household. She lies with her head under the train table, whimpering for them to come out and play, and they ignore her.

    It’s like a metaphor wherein the cats are supermodels and the dog’s a rugby league player.

    Including the tendency of the latter to try and eat poo out of the former’s litter.

    Re TupperWare – Oh, really? They don’t publicise that in the catalogue, do they? I wonder if you can buy two purple sandwich holders instead of getting stuck with one turquoise one?

    So, Quokka – when are we going to see HP DH v 2.0?

  17. When does it come out?
    Screw the case studies, count me in.

  18. Oh, and re tupperware, I’d say just email her and ask her.
    Its worth a try and she seems much less likely to play by the rules than other T-ladies I’ve dealt with in the past.

    Onto happy news, the architect visited yesterday and shook his head woefully saying the town planner feared that we were destined to upset everyone at town planning with the slick contemporary look of our planned renovation.

    I don’t know why that gives me a warm glow of satisfaction, but it does.

  19. 14th July, 2011 – but given the number of beating hearts we have to mangle… oh, silly me, wrangle between us, I figure it pays to plan ahead.

    Grace did call but I didn’t answer because I didn’t know her number. I’ll dig out her email. You know me and phones.

    As for town planning – let them eat fibro!

  20. Now that’s just a waste when there’s so much loose asbestos floating around after the floods.

  21. The Blue Sky Fibre is best snorted in long fluffy lines…

    500 m per town planner should do it.

  22. With a garnish of 1960’s edition lead paint, courtesy of the Italian/German couple that previously owned our house.

    Tware is due to arrive on Saturday – and not a moment too soon as it being week 13 I’m starting to feel hopelessly disorganized. I’m not – I’m still just 2 weeks behind, as per the beginning of semester, but I think it’s just been programmed into all of us to feel like this. I’ll feel so much more control of my life once I’ve got somewhere to keep the cat biscuits. Pathetic, but true.

    When’s Catty doing this move to Eukanaba…or whatever it’s called. Sounded like a brand of cat biscuits at the time and you all know how depleted my memory cells are.

  23. It’s Echucha (Bless you!). Eukanuba is a brand of dog biscuits.

    Not that I’m an expert on Catty’s movements, but I believe Echucha is a maybe option at present: obstacles to the move being natural human inertia and the enormous amount of crap she and The Boss have managed to accumulate.

    I hope that the TupperWare brings you all that you have invested in it, Quokka. There is no rush whatsoever for mine, it’s all ear-marked for Christmas gifts.

    As for Week 13 (lucky for some) – mate, you’re nearly there. You’re halfway down the downhill run, it’ll be all over in under a month. You’ve been out-performing your own supervisors for most of the bloc, just coast it in.

    I, too, have “other commitments” this week. Big Brother, in his infinite wisdom, has me doing a three-day seminar on resume writing.*

    * No criticism of Big Brother, implied or overt, was intended by the preceeding statement. The children need more gruel – and rags with which to bind their feet, as winter’s chill nips harshly at their tiny blue appendages. Please don’t stop my widow’s mite!

  24. Sounds like not much has changed since Big Brother was last in control of our existence. They whine about paying for courses that will give you better employment prospects and insanely think that if you arrange the cards in your hand in alphabetical order it’ll somehow have a better result when you lay them on the table.

    Still, I see an argument for that creative writing course you’d like to do…you can use it to teach other Matrix dependents how better to pad their resumes with BS to satisfy the demands of the Hive Mind.

    Ooh, I feel your pain. Good luck.

  25. Sympathy and empathy are always acceptable, many thanks.

    But I have a cunning plan. I’ll sit up the back and plan my work-in-progress while appearing to take copious notes. They can hijack my body but they can’t control my mind!

    Not until the electrodes get implanted, anyway.

  26. Good luck.
    Teaching these days has an active participation program designed at thwarting such agendas. Hence my complaints about the 2 days of first aid hell. I’ve found it’s much easier to just think up outrageous answers to questions of forced participation.

    i.e ‘Quokka, what would you do if you found a male, unconscious, about 50 years old, alone on a park bench?
    Quokka – ‘check his wallet for fifties and hope he doesn’t regain consciousness and deck me.’

  27. Even if they do implant electrodes, Madam, you can always wear your special hat to interfere with transmissions.

    I like the idea of creative resumé writing. It has given me an idea for a novel. If I can be arsed writing it.

    Right at the moment, I am searching desperately for excuses to get out of cleaning and tidying. Sadly, there are few – all I can come up with is:
    1 – my oldest kidlet just left for camp, and I feel too sad to scrub;
    2 – the real estate agents are coming tomorrow, and the Boss wants some of the worst filth scraped out of the hovel before they arrive;
    3 – the hole where my molar once lived is badly ulcerated and the antibiotics aren’t clearing up the infection; and
    4 – you lot are infinitely more interesting than Domestos and dusters.
    Number 4 is winning so far.

    If we do move, it will be at the end of the year. I hear that the best time to sell is Spring, and the best time to buy is February. So we have to do some juggling with figures and dates. If they all pan out, we’ll move. If not, we’re stuck here until the youngest kidlet finishes high school (i.e 11 years) or the bank forecloses (which is what we’re trying to remove from the list of possible outcomes).

    I’m liking Echuca (bless me) more by the day, but I’ve been told Bendigo is better. I want to be relatively close to Melbourne, about two hours drive or so, but the Boss is now talking about Mildura and South Australia. Broome in WA is also an option.

    My favourite suggestion so far is to cremate our existing possessions and start again. Not that I would, of course, as there are too many irreplaceable treasures (photos, baby clothes, my guitars, etc), but still, it’s nice to fantasise.

    Of course, now I think we MUST move to Echuca (bless me). How could I possibly pass up the opportunity to tell people we live in Dog Biscuits?

  28. Oh, Catty. You mustn’t do any housework. You’re still convalescing from your hip and the tooth thing… which is now complicated by a huge, pustulating, super-bug spraying void of doom!.

    Plus, I already feel sluttish, so I will derive little enjoyment from basking in the sun reading pulp fiction with the cats if I know you’re beavering away down there.

    Just say no.

    Thanks for the warning, Quokka. Unless their idea of student participation is me stabbing them through the eye with a fine-point Rollerball, they’d better leave me the hell alone.


    They’re not going to leave me alone, are they?

  29. No. You need more tattoos if you want people to avoid eye contact and verbal communication with you.
    Failing that, perhaps this hat and T-shirt would help.
    (scroll down)

  30. Oh Catty, I meant to say bugger the cleaning too.
    But surely you knew that?

    Broome sounds nice. Is there some way you could take advantage of the mining boom? Other than nobbling backpackers, which I believe is part of the Work For the Dole program up there.

  31. Fabulous shirt! Does it come in black?

    Funny you should mention more tatts, Quokka. I was just thinking last week that nothing says “unemployable” like a full colour neck tattoo.

    Preferably incorporating spider webs, or flaming skeleton parts.

    Perhaps a flaming skeleton, trapped in a spider web, screaming the “c” word?

    I’m open to suggestions, people.

  32. Yes but something like a sleeve tattoo would be horribly painful. And it would disappear in the winter frosts when you’d need to cover up.
    Really, you’d need something that’s highly visible most of the year round and which would make public interface highly undesirable for the employer.
    I’m thinking the letters ‘skanky ho’ over the knuckles could do the trick.

    Then again if you’re set on a neck tattoo, you could try gothic print of ‘Hepatitis infected, so don’t drink my blood.’
    Then you get the added points of explaining to potential employers that you’re not really Hep infected, the tatt is just there to protect you from vampires. Just remember to eat lots of raw garlic before the interviews and carry a cross. One of those big plastic ones with christ sagging on it, bleeding and wearing that ‘why hast thou forsaken me’ look that the catholic artists all seem to do so well.

  33. * Note: tattoos can never hope to compete with well expressed insanity.

  34. Hehehe…. skanky ho. Or how about “DNTGVAFUCK”? Being a writer, I tend to go right up to the word (or in this case, digit) limit.

    Tempting – and employer-repulsive – as you make the Gothic Hep Caveat sound, Quokka, I think simulating rabid insanity is:

    (a) Well within my skill set
    (b) Less expensive
    (c) Less painful
    (d) Potentially more amusing

    than any of my feeble ideas.Kudos!

    Should I go with an alien insect overlord, or the old “Satan is my master” schtick? I see some fools in Kingaroy have got the Jesus-and-Mary market sewn up –

    Their ethos seems derived entirely from Dan Brown’s alleged masterwork. The mastery is alleged, I mean – I quite believe he had no help in writing it.

  35. I for one do not question the logic that Christ should come again in the heartland of Peanut County.
    Probably multiple times per day, on top of Joh’s tomb, and with his own own siblings stacked on top of him.

    I’m taking mental health leave from prac tonight.
    I trust you can see why.
    I’m moderately sniffly but my ‘Don’t FK with me’ gene seems to be overly active today.

    Oh, I do miss my Wendy Testaburger t-shirt.
    It was purple, with Wendy glaring, brows knit, bellowing ‘Don’t F*** with me!’.

    It would have been perfect for your date with big brother.
    Especially if you wore it all three days in a row, along with the same set of (unwashed) socks.

  36. This one’s for catty.

  37. HUGE! Loved the doggie one! (Mainly because the narrator gave the steak to the cat). Thanks, Quokka.

    You know, there’s no need for a permanent tattoo, Madam. You could do something sufficiently antisocial with a henna tattoo that will wear off in a month – unless you have an allergic reaction, in which case you will have an antisocial raised scar for life. Maybe not a good idea….

    So you probably will have to go with the batshit crazy angle. But do you think you could go with the alien abductee angle instead of a religious nutter? Being in a cult doesn’t necessarily make you batshit crazy, you know. I was in one for five years, and I’m not…. oh wait. I am, aren’t I? Bad example.

    O.k, I acquiesce. Religion would be best. Hey, why not Pastafarianism? Pastafarians not only worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster, they also get to dress in pirate garb EVERY DAY. Lucky buggers. I wish I could sign up, but I can’t – I’m Spagnostic.

  38. Spagnostic… hehehe. When you laugh with a mouthful of coffee, it splashes out your nose and all over the keyboard. I’ll be using that manoeuvre at the course, later.

    Catty, you were in a cult? I knew there was a reason why I loved you. Hmm, let me guess – you were a Magnificat Mealer? Or maybe founding member of the Dolly (Parton) Wants Me For a Sunbeam? Anyway, I’m just glad you’re not Amish – I hate being invited to barn-raisings.

    Quokka, you deserve a night off. Do Hogwart’s require a medical certificate, or do you just have to show them which bulge in the chicken entrails indicated that last night was inauspicious for prac attendance?

  39. hehe.
    I just spotted the 33% more depleted reptile at the top.
    Nice one.
    I reckon we could dedicate an entire blog to Guess What Cult catty belonged to. I’d put my money on the raelians if it wasn’t for the creepy group sex thing. Ick. I watched the Inspector Rex episode with the death by creepy group sex killer last night and they were all deeply, darkly creepy. Much as I’d love to see Vienna, Rex is making me worry that it’s choc full of psychotic deranged killers.

    Oh, and MM – No medical certificate required, we just have to contact the supervisor and outline our reasons for not being there. Contagious is something they never argue with.
    Although one girl went to Adelaide for holidays for three weeks (surely there’s a better place to go?) and how she’s managed to swing that one I don’t know. I’ve yet to try the ‘I don’t give a FK’ card but obviously it works.
    Anyway, I just faxed them a copy of this so they’d understand the consequences of what would happen if I did come in last night…

  40. No need for a blog, Quokka. Madam Morgana was right first time. I was in the MMM. I loved it! In fact, I’d still be there if it weren’t for my mother joining up and ruining it for me.

    Oh, and you don’t have to go to Vienna to see deeply, darkly creepy psychotics. Boronia train station has plenty. Or any Centrelink in the country (customers AND employees).

    Loving the depleted reptile, Madam! Hee hee hee hee hee! Maybe you should have a series of stickers made up, and hand them out to all your classmates.

  41. I don’t blame you, Catty. I’ve always had a thing for Our Lady myself… kind of like a girl crush, but not creepy like Madonna and Britney Spears pashing.

    I wish I could take all the credit for “depleted reptile”, but I think it was our friend Melbo who coined that splendid phrase. Thanks Melbo!

    Quokka – nice Death card. And untrumpable, too. Have you seen the New Orleans Voodoo deck? I use it myself from time to time – awesome graphics, full of juice.

    Meanwhile, words can not express the horror that was the first day of the resume course. The trainer calls all the men “boys”, or “good boys”, and the two of us women get “honey, love or sweetie”. It only took 27 minutes for her to drain all will to live from my unresisting corpse. And there’s two days to go.

    Catty – you’ve got a hotline. Pray for me.

  42. She sounds familiar.
    Does she look at all like this?

  43. OMGA! (Oh My Giddy Aunt!… Elf Boy is cursing like a Navy SEAL at present, so I’m trying to lead by example)

    She looks exactly like the Borg Queen, Quokka. Except she’s got a bad “Dynasty” blond flick wig where the creepy droid parts should be.

    And I note that “(t)he purpose of a Borg Queen was to bring order to chaos”, whereas this woman has thoroughly disrupted my week.

    However, “… a Borg Queen could be characterized as ruthless. She would do anything to protect the Borg Collective. Where drones showed no emotions, the Queen herself did. When necessary she would employ psychological tactics, like extortion or plain intimidation to get what she wanted.” couldn’t be more apposite, if you substitute “Centrelink” for “Borg Collective”.

    Fabulous – seems there’s no effective way to kill her, either.

  44. You poor love! I will certainly put in a petition for you, Madam. (I’m hopelessy besotted with the BVM myself – but in a good way). I hate those three day courses, and have been known to gratuitously doze off by smoko. And then again just before lunch. And then again just after lunch. But that nap’s not too long – I usually wake up in plenty of time to fit in another quick snooze before knockoff. The trick is to take a shot of nasal spray after breakfast, so you don’t snore. Trainers get a bit snippy if you snore.

    If it makes you feel any better, I’m off to the dentist in a few minutes, so they can drain the massive abscess that has filled the space where my icky molar once was. So what with Quokka’s assignment+Telstra hell, and Madam’s Official Centrelink Spirit-Crushing Session, the three of us have a fun, fun, battery powered morning ahead. Yay! Another excuse for chocolate and vodka! (As if we needed one…..)

  45. What did we do to deserve all this hell?
    Meanwhile, Catty, I brought the bloke home from work and had trouble getting up my driveway because the road was blocked by Telstra trucks. So they obligingly shifted the obstructive vehicle and 5 minutes later they unloaded the ditch witch and wedged it firmly in the entry to my driveway.
    Used the Bloke’s phone to send the image to MM by way of proof, so she can confirm it.

    MM, I’d have messaged you myself but as you know my phone doesn’t do that and as of when I dropped it yesterday at Carindale, it doesn’t do much at all. Might be time to replace it.

    Try to get through the day without killing anyone, ladies.
    I’m off to prac but will return for a report on the day’s horrors.

    Oh, and anyone who wants to help spray paint an orange ditch witch purple should congregate outside Casa Quokka at midnight.

    Not Greybeard, though, I hear he’s fallen off the turkey mound again. The hill here is really only suitable for finishing off the disabled, not providing safe harbour.

  46. Hehehe.

    The photo of Quokka’s new driveway ornament was the only highlight of my day. It’s certainly more striking and unusual than a gnome.

    Can I post the jpg, so everyone can admire?

    Oh, Catty, no of course that doesn’t make me feel better. Poor darling. Still, you’ll feel so much better without a nasty pus-sy abscess. Pain-wise, but also not-having-nasty-bacteria-jetting-into-your-bloodstream wise.

    Saint Apollonia is your woman, there. I’ll have a quiet word

  47. Hehe. Of course you can, MM. Wow, I didn’t think that phone technology was compatible with cyberspace. I couldn’t resist that shot, I figured it would be about the only thing going that would brighten your day. Speaking of which, maybe someone creative here can paint it purple so I know which shade to select when I’m down at the home maker centre.
    I’ve decided there’s no rush to spray paint it tonight, as judging by the number of trucks parked in our street and the inertia of their pie and coke swilling crew, the Ditch Witch will be here for some time.

    Got in rather late tonight to find it parked on the footpath outside the Queenslander next door – there’s a crater outside Bog Hollow so obviously they couldn’t park it there.
    Its leaning up against one of the bottlebrushes that they nursed through the drought…so things do not bode well for that particular tree’s expectations of life and prosperity.

    Well, I’m knackered and I’m off to sloth in front of Inspector Rex. Tomorrow is my turn at the dentist, Catty, but I’m just hoping for a smack over the nose for failing to floss every single day and for dozing off without wearing my mouth guard. But I mean, seriously, given the level of security here how the hell is someone going to break in, find me in the darkness without tripping over a cat, and punch my teeth out, anyway? They’ll lose a limb tripping over the animals before they’d make it through the hall.

    Rest up, Catty.
    Vodka mocha valium cocktails for you, for the rest of the week.

    Nighty night folks.
    And good luck to all when we must wake tomorrow and must re-enter our various incarnations of Dante’s Inferno.
    If you need help, just yell extra loud – otherwise I won’t hear you over the Ditch Witch.

  48. Sleep tight, Quokka. You too, Madam. I’m hoping someone will tell me a bed time story – preferrably the one about Greybeard and the Scrub Turkey Mound. I’m dying to hear the end of that one!

  49. There’s nothing I can’t do, Quokka, armed with my miniscule technological know-how and a USB data cable.

    Oh, except just insert a jpg into the comments. That, my friends, is beyond me.

    So I’ve created a new post, like a virtual shrine to stupidity. Please see over.

    Catty, I wonder if “Greybeard and the Scrub Turkey Mound” could rival “Possum Magic”?

    Colin could play himself, but we might need to tone Greybeard down a bit. I’m not sure how the reptile wrangling, medieval weaponry and abduction and enslavement of old ladies bit would go down with the 0 – 5 demographic.

  50. Well, we grew up on tales of his ancestor, Bluebeard, and look how normal and well adjusted we turned out.

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