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Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Monday, January 22, 2007

The Hangover Poem

A's for Amnesia, because, with regret,
I forgot what I drank when I drank to forget.

B is for Beer, whose sweet comfort I sought;
It's uncomfortable knowing how many I bought.

C is for Cocktail, and, like how they're made,
I'm muddled, and shaken, and not natural shades.

D is for Drinking, my primary vice
Now my bloodstream is ten percent Cointreau on ice

E's for Electrolytes, causing the fog
That can only be cleared by a Hair of the Dog.

F is for Finding Myself Tucked In Bed,
With the cab ride a memory gone from my head.

G is for Gin, and I had mine with tonic,
Now my snoring and belching are quite inharmonic.

H is for Headache, and How Did I Get
A tattoo on my arse and a sheep for a pet?

I is for Ice, which, as well as some chips,
Are the only near-solids that passed through my lips

J is for Just When I'm On My Way Out,
A friend with a credit card yells "It's my shout!"

K's Karaoke, and I thought I'd try it
From "Khe Sanh" to Kylie, I should've been quiet.

L is for Lager, and also for Lout,
Said together, descriptive of me when I'm out.

M's for Mojito, Martini, and more:
Margarita, Manhattan, and Me On The Floor.

N is for Nausea, and I've little doubt
That my insides are liquid, and want to come out.

O is for Oh Dear, I Think I Recall
That I danced on the bar with no clothes on at all.

P is for Pissed, and for Pickled, and Pray
Pass the Panadol, Please make the Pain go away.

Q is for Quiet! Don't make such a din,
'Cause my head feels like something a Rottweiler's in.

R is for Retching, quite good for the soul;
I can work on my abs whilst I'm hugging the bowl.

S is for Sangria, guzzled in Spain,
And in quantities injurious to my brain.

T is for Toilet, cool solid and white;
The friend I embrace at the end of the night.

U is for Under the Table, and so
Now I'm Under the Weather, and moving quite slow.

V is Vodka – they say it doesn't smell
Yet they've not whiffed my breath, from the armpit of Hell.

W's Water, on which I depend,
'Cause my mouth is as dry as a camel's rear end.

X marks the spot, they say, where treasure lies,
But it marks not these spots here in front of my eyes.

Y's yesterday, and the words I said then,
Which were something like "I'm never drinking again."

Z is for… for…
Oh look, bugger it. Scotch, please.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Actual Results May Vary.

Aaah, the disclaimer. It's the professional equivalent of crossing your fingers behind your back, and I'm all bloody for them.

With a disclaimer, you can pretty much sell Gummi Napalm as long as, somewhere on the packaging, you print "Consumption of this product may cause spontaneous bleeding from the spleen and a slight metallic aftertaste". It's like a get-out-of-litigation-free card. Its sa-weet.

I want disclaimers to keep getting more and more ubiquitous and all-encompassing. I want to see them utilised more often in everyday life.

And I want every disclaimer to be read aloud to me by the guy who speaks really fast at the end of election campaign advertisements.

It may be just the mood I'm in, but for some reason all the examples of disclaimers I'd like to see that I can think of right now could quite effectively be printed on underwear:

· On mine: Objects In This Bra Are Smaller Than They May Appear.

· On those of some of the men who frequent my local: Caution. Contents May Not Be Hot.

· On undies in general: Views Expressed By This Organ Are Independent, And Not Necessarily Condoned By Management.

· On bottle-blondes: Actual Product Colour May Differ To That Represented On Box.

· And of course: May Contain Traces Of Nuts.


Disclaimer: Implication that the author is a brazen, underwear-obsessed harlot is implied only, and not based in fact.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Twin Peaks

I have an identical twin sister, which is something I highly recommend.
She will always, always understand my point of view, she doesn't need me to finish sentences, she knows exactly the right thing to say to make me feel better when I'm shitty, and she can loan clothes to me that always fit, effectively doubling my wardrobe.
And she's really pretty.

I'm used to being almost exactly the same as my sister, because I have been my whole life. Her feet are a tiny bit bigger, I'm a tiny bit taller, I'm left-handed and she's right-handed, I'm a little bit more artistic, she's a little bit more musical, I'm less of a worrier, she has a black belt in karate. But, on the other hand, our baby teeth always fell out within days of each other, we still say exactly the same thing at exactly the same time, we've dreamt the same dream on the same night more than once, and we move in unison often enough to make it disturbing. We'll never be those American-style, live-together-and-dress-alike scary kind of twins, but we're pretty bloody similar.

My twin sister had a baby recently, (empirically speaking, the cutest kid in the universe), and although it was just about the most joyous occasion I can think of, it's drawn focus to a difference between her and myself that is distinct, extreme, and undeniable.

Like, milk totally comes out of her boobs.
I'm not kidding.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

You Had Me At "Tooheys"

I love pick-up lines. Not the hackneyed, vomitous old chestnuts like "If I told you you had a great body, would you hold it against me?", or the more contemporary pearlers like "I like what you're wearing. That'd look really good on my floor".
No. I like stupid ones. Opening lines that aren't really meant to be lines, but that hang there in the air like a levitating vacuum cleaner, just sucking.

Years ago, I worked at a club in Darlinghurst. My shift routinely finished an hour before the club closed, so I'd grab a magazine and a drink and sit quietly, waiting for the doors to close so I could commence slaughtering my workmates on the pool table on the ground floor during staff drinks. At this time of night, the male/female patron ratio was about eight to one. Unfortunately, to drunk guys at 2am who were rapidly running out of desperate take-home partner options, I was a sitting freakin' duck. I could have had missing teeth and open, weeping sores on my face, and I still would have been able to go home with the ugly pissed idiot of my choice – it was just mathematics.
Reading quietly one night, I noticed the silhouette of a mildly stumbling gentleman approaching in my peripheral vision. Whilst I kept my head down, staring fixedly at the page and taking a sip from my beer, he came and stood right next to me, nodding the diagonal nod of a person about to start a potentially disastrous conversation.
"So….." he started, causing me to eventually look up, eyebrow raised and body tensed, waiting for whatever came next.
"….. you drink Tooheys Dry, eh?" he continued, nodding towards my beer.
I stared at him blankly for a second, and, realising he had nothing more to say, hesitated a moment more before answering "Yep".
Then – something that almost made me completely change my mind about the guy – he looked down at his feet, shook his head, and said "Yeah. Sorry. That was shockin'", and turned and walked out of the club.
Bless 'im. It was the stupidest line in the history of time, but at least he knew it.

Maybe the crap, ill-conceived pick-up line is the way to go after all.

A couple of weeks ago, I was having a drink at my local with friends, and admiring a tall, handsome gentleman at the other end of the room. I managed to catch his eye a couple of times, but it was getting late, and I'm a complete gutless coward when it comes to doing any actual spadework myself, so when he disappeared, I decided it was probably time for me to go home.
I stopped in at a convenience store on the way home to get some bread, and lo and behold – the tall, handsome gentleman was in the line before me! Should I say something? I'd kick myself if I didn't. But what to say? I was completely out of practice at this sort of thing, and time was running out as his purchase was winding up.
Without enough time to think of anything good, I turned to him, cleared my throat, and said "You were at the pub".
Crap. Awkward moment of silence crap. Considering dropping the bread and bolting crap.
Then he said "Yes, I was. I'm about to go back there, too. Would you like to join me for a drink?"

Viva la dumb-arsed, borderline-illiterate pick-up line.

There must be more of these. Please leave a comment if you've been either a victim or a perpetrator of the sucky pick-up line.
Please especially leave a comment if it was me that said it.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007