Lick Those Stripes!
I Be Gallopin' After Ye
Black Stripes, White Stripes
Songs of the Plains
One would be in less danger
From the wiles of a stranger
If one's own kin and kith
Were more fun to be with.
Little Old Men
Monday. 9.26.05 9:20 pm
So I'm driving to dinner. The traffic lights turn red just as it gets to my turn and I step on the brakes (I don't wanna end up taking the train to uni again). What do I want to eat? Mmm...Taiwanese sausages slathered in black pepper sauce, crispy fried chicken rice, fried mushrooms, noodles in brown sauce...
The lights glow green and I start to move forward...
And the bastard on the outside lane swerves into my path!
He's trying to make the left turn, and he's on the wrong lane goddammit, but I think that he just about makes it. But as he pulls away, I catch a glimpse of silver paint (MY silver paint) gleaming mockingly on his red fender.
I KEEEL YOU!
I screech the same left turn after him and start blaring my horn and flashing (the lights, not my boobs) at him. And I'm yelling at him to pull over, cuz that's what one does when all the windows are rolled up and the other car's a good ten feet away. Surprisingly enough, he actually does stop. (Which just goes to prove what an idiot he is. I'd have sped off in a squeal of burning rubber - it's dark and there are enough alleys and whatnots to hide in.)
I jump out of the car and stomp menacingly over to his...that is, as menacingly as a 5' 3" girl weighing 46 kg can stomp. And as I'm stomping, it suddenly occurs to me that the driver might be twice my size and break legs (not his own, obviously) for a living. In which case I'd much rather be in my own car heading in the opposite direction.
But it's too late now. The door's opening and the driver steps out...and he's a skinny Little Old Man who's balding. I continue stomping.
I stalk over and jab a finger at him.
"What the hell do you think you're playing at?!!"
"Err...err..." He's stuttering! Incredibly, I think he might actually be a little bit afraid of me! This is a novel feeling - me scaring someone - and it actually feels quite good. I'm thinking I could get used to this. FEAR ME!!! COWER, FOOLISH MORTALS! Phwoarr, maybe I should become a mugger!
He's saying something...he wants to settle everything here...please can he just give me some money and we forget the whole thing? HA HA! Now he's asking to give me money? Hot damn, I really should be a mugger!
Then I spoil everything by telling him that I need to call my father first. Immediately he stands taller and tries to hide a grin. "Sure, go ahead," he smirks.
Bastard. And then we hear the sound of people getting out of my car. HA HA HA! I'd forgotten that I had friends in my car! I will redeem myself! FEAR ME AND MY FRIENDS!!!
But I'd also forgotten that while one can most assuredly rely on Jason and Mindy in matters like accompanying one to lunch and signing one's attendance so that one can cut class to go meet rugby guys, one cannot unfortunately rely on them to terrify Little Old Men. Put simply, Jason and Mindy are not scary.
(Edited 28/09/05: Jason's fingernails are scary)
The magic is gone. Before, the LOM may have been persuaded to hand over his wallet and credit cards. Now, he's trying to get rid of me with 50 bucks. 50 bucks wouldn't even get a spot the size of my little toe resprayed.
I resort to my secret weapon. I tell him to give my father a call.
And I suppose my father uses his Capital Letters Voice. Cuz when the LOM hangs up, he glares balefully at me and fishes out 120 bucks. Which I grab before he changes his mind (cuz as little as the LOM is, I'm littler). I jump back into my car and drive off.
And I have my noodles.
Wednesday. 9.21.05 8:51 pm
I've finally uploaded my pics from last week's Cobra 10's rugby tourney. A lovely tourney it was too, the highlights of which included:
- hakas by shirtless kiwis (always a nummy treat)
- free beer at the stadium
- riding around on someone's shoulders like a kid
- more free beer at the stadium
- my souvenir ball sales pitch ("Got balls?")
- free beer at the clubhouse
- free t-shirts (which got exchanged for more free t-shirts and a cap)
- beating the Worm at pool ("God, I think I drank too much. I'm seeing double" is a pathetic excuse)
- tequila and vodka in room 7180
- drunk Oris
- rallying the hotel security guards against Matt
- forcing the Worm to sleep on the floor
- spinning around in a chair that cost 20,000 bucks.
Err...and the rugby too.
Photos at me flickr album. Yes, I know my face is a bit pink in some of the pics. And I keep telling you, it's the sun, the SUN!
Sunday. 9.18.05 12:00 pm
Ugh. The trauma of last night. More quality time with the toilet bowl...only in a different way. I've learnt my lesson.
In other news, I just got seven-tagged by Beer Brat.
Seven things I plan to do before I die:
1. Eat yak meat and go trekking in Nepal.
2. Get into a proper fight, with fists and everything. And err...win preferably.
3. Fly a plane. In a jet fighter jumpsuit.
4. Be in a relationship that I'm actually committed to.
5. Meet a serial killer/suicide bomber (not as a victim obviously).
6. Speak seven foreign languages fluently (and not just "I'm a blue elephant" in Russian).
7. Write a book and have it published.
Seven things I could do:
1. Flip piles of beer mats of a table edge and catch them in various ways.
2. That Balthazar (Constantine) one-handed coin roll, albeit lots slower.
3. Some old-school skateboard trick which I don't even know the name of.
4. Sit like a "little froggie", as someone put it.
5. Glow red after 2 sips of beer.
6. Pass out at the sight of blood.
7. Ride a horse bareback (as long as it's going real s l o w, and someone's got a tight hold of it).
Seven Celebrity crushes:
1. Richard Roxburgh (mmm...Foxy Roxy)
2. James Denton
3. Hugh Jackman
4. Chris Jack (he's like a big puppy dog...a very BIG one)
5. Dave Grohl
6. Aidan Gillen
7. Clive Owen/Neil Gaiman/Ian Wright (durr...I need more than seven)
Seven often repeated words:
2. The point is...
3. I want!
5. Skip la
Seven physical traits I look for in my partner:
1. Short, spiky hair
2. A hint of "badness"
3. Gotta be taller than me
4. A muscly back
6. A tattoo/scar
7. And a really sexy ass
Seven tags go to:
1. Lego Man
2. Labby Leopard
4. Dr. Paul
7. Fried Fred
Right. Go forth and multiply.
Blame the Peanuts
Thursday. 9.15.05 8:44 pm
Life is bleak. The sun gives me no warmth, meat turns to dust in my mouth, and a fry-up breakfast (with OJ) holds no appeal for me any longer.
And all it took was a late-night phone call.
Once upon a time, a phone call from my dad at that hour would have meant that he was missing me. Once upon a time, it would be to say goodnight to me. But now...now it's just to say things like, "I'm still not too keen on you working in a pub."
Now he calls to crush my dreams to pieces (or to remind me to buy more dog food in the morning).
Because of that one sentence, I'll never know the joy of mixing flash drinks at the bar. I'll never be able to control a pool table for a whole night. I'll never be able to remark offhandedly, yet undoubtedly impressively, that yes, I actually do work in a pub.
Was it the bar peanuts? Did my dad not like the Kilkenny he was served? Were the bar stools too tall? Why why why?!
Friday. 9.9.05 11:15 pm
Was this your infernal reward for creating the Key to Hell, Neil?
I want Satanic Salsa!
Friday. 9.9.05 1:07 am
In my long long list of prospective careers, I've been forced to cross a few options off due to sheer lack of talent or the shadowy secret agencies working against me.
Sexy-ass rock star
And now, I have yet another to strike off my list.
Never did I realise what trauma lecturers go through daily. That is 'til I suddenly found myself "guest-lecturing" a class of a hundred-plus students yesterday. "Go on," Lecturess-Who-Thought-It-Would-Be-Hilarious said. "You know this stuff -- you're tutoring it! What could possibly go wrong?"
What indeedy. One minute I'm spinning myself dizzy in the tutors' room (and such excellent spin-ny chairs they have there), the next I'm onstage trembling in the frillion-watt glare of 200-odd eyeballs. Students are cruel. I'm one myself, but I'd just never noticed it. Sitting in their little seats, scheming their little schemes. Just waiting for me to stumble. And their smart-arse questions...it was all I could do to deflect them and try to appear somewhat more knowledgable than them. Cuz I knew that at the slightest sign of weakness, they'd rip into me with their evil Corinthian-like eyes and leave me a slightly gooey but extremely messy puddle on the carpet.
Now all I have left are:
"Your eyeballs are hurting me."
Sunday. 10.3.05 12:49 am
So I was having toad-in-the-hole at the Bulldog today. Enjoying my food, admiring the keg tables and beer mats, when it suddenly hit me - holy cannoli, Batman! I want to work in a pub!
It's all the books I've been reading lately, I think. In the first few pages, there's usually a bit about the author which you can read to find out exactly how one gets to be a mad bastard/bitch. And the authors I read always seem to have gone through some dead interesting jobs. Which got me thinking - what sort of jobs will I get to brag about in the book I might write someday?
Well, I want one of them in a pub. So I asked a Bulldoggee if there were any job vacancies. There weren't, not for part-timers anyway. My heart was broken...for the two whole minutes it took to walk around the back to the next pub where coincidentally, one of the lads I was with knows the Owner. And there, surrounded by bar stools and pool tables, I had my first pub job interview.
So the Owner and I chatted a bit about the bloody long drive to where I live, how we both hate golf...y'know, matters of consequence. Anyways, to cut a long story short, he was undoubtedly overcome by my integrity and responsible nature as one can only quite naturally be cuz I got the job. I think. Which needless to say, is quite nice. Thanks of course must be given to CONDESCENDme for setting me up with the interview in the first place.
Now the only worm in my lettuce is how do I go about convincing my parents that working in a pub really is the best career move for me?
Save the Post Office
Thursday. 9.1.05 9:55 pm
Now I don't normally do this, but I'm actually going to divert traffic away from my blog.
See, there's this guy over in Norfolk (somewhere cold and village-like *cue city snobbery*), and he's trying to save the local post office from being shut down...the next one's probably at least a plane ride away. So he wrote a song. And a video was made. The idea was to get it to the top of the charts.
It didn't get there. It should have. I know these things. It's got singing bunnies, chimps with violins, dancing sheep and monkeys in robes. Plus Tony Blair and Ozzy Osbourne make guest appearances. And it's for a good cause.
Really, what more can one hope for?
Eh music, what? Oh alright, it's not half bad. So what are you waiting for? Go. Even if the post office has already been bulldozed to the ground.
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