Monday, November 24, 2008

E.T.S. phone home

This is a little old, but apparently UFO sightings across the UK have experienced phenomenal increases this year. The phenomenon was studied by Strange Phenomenon Investigations, a group who I really, really, really really hope are not Government funded. And note that I squeezed the word "phenomenon" three times into the first paragraph (four including that one) in true UFO-reporting tradition.

A spokesmoonbat from Strange Phenomenon Investigations said of the phenomenon (six now)
"Some experts believe it could be linked to global warming and craft from outer space are appearing because they are concerned about what man is doing to this planet."

O........kay. "Experts". Should a quasi-scientific thinktank really be consulting Leonard Nimoy, Steven Spielberg and David Duchovny?

Now I'm going to attempt to sound balanced, un-dogmatic, humble and apolitical. Here goes: Even if it's true that human activities are causing catastrophic weather pattern changes (WHICH IT'S NOT) and that destroying capitalism and evil human achievements will stop it (WHICH IT WON'T even if it was true, WHICH IT'S NOT) I am officially incapable of ever believing it. Ever. That's just what happens when truth gets turned into religion. Or when remotely plausible theories are used to embellish theories which are completely insane.

Now if this Strange Phenomenon Investigations group want to make themselves really useful perhaps they can investigate phenomena which is truly baffling and challenging to the human race. Like why do photocopiers break down at the moment of highest urgency. Or why at work, after two hours of absolute quiet, a dozen floorsanding contractors suddenly and simultaneously pile drive their way into my warehouse, elbowing their way through the door and all claiming the same petty, imaginary problem with their machines. Or why people still actually believe what they see on MSNBC news.

Still, the SPI theories do help to explain one thing, namely why we keep calling them "little green men". Now, if these, um, experts, are so sure that aliens are concerned about mankind's inhumanity to the planet then we are assuming that those impressive flying vehicles of theirs, which are currently cluttering up the atmosphere above Britain, do not emit greenhouse gases. Otherwise that would make them little green hypocrites.

And we have more than enough of those down here.


Sunday, November 23, 2008

Bad father's day

A disturbing look into a day in the life of the dark recesses of my brain;

Sunday morning, get up, curse at last night's dishes and the fact that the kids have helped themselves to brekky and left a mess to add to the whole ordeal.

Sharon's off to a rehearsal at the Geelong Performing Arts centre for Becky's dance classes' big concert. Curse the fact that these pagans must schedule things on a Sunday morning when we should all be going to church. I tell Sam to do the dishes which he does. Then I tell him to do them again properly. Grizzle.

I take the remaining two kids to church. During the service, for some reason, they play Butterfly Kisses, that masterpiece song of Daddy's-little-girl cringy schmaltzness. I fail to see the prophetic purpose of it.

After church, get together with the usual clique and complain about the state of the world. Grizzle about the fact that Becky's dance concert is tonight at dinner time and going for 2 hours. On a Sunday night. School the next day. Who arranged that? Dear little Becky has been annoyingly going on about this concert for weeks now. How important can it be?

Take Omi to see her four-legged friend Opal. She's misbehaving today. So is Opal. Stop at the supermarket to get something which didn't make it onto Sharon's shopping list earlier in the week. I expect to be going back to the supermarket at some stage later that day.

V8 Supercars on today. Good. Sammy and I can relax and watch them. Just when the race gets interesting I gotta go and pick up Omi from Opal's paddock. Grizzle. Too many kids. Can't I just sell one?

Get home and the in-laws have arrived for Becky's dance concert. I forgot about that. They're always here when there's some motorsport on TV. Grizzle. They must think all I do most weekends is sit around watching car racing. Okay, so I do, but that's not the point.

We scoff down tea early and I get indigestion.

The two Vodafone Fords are leading but with a fast closing Tod Kelly it's getting exciting we all have to pile into the SUV to go to Becky's concert. Grizzle.

I'm as tired as all buggery by this time, as we wait in the foyer of the Geelong Performing Arts Centre. I kill the time by grizzling about the scam of getting parents to pay for dance lessons and then charge them for a limited number of tickets to the end of year show AND not let them take pictures!

The show starts as I am mid-doze wondering whether Jamie Whincup snared the V8 title or not. The seniors are okay and I admire the courage of the intermediate boys dancing ballet-like in front of countless mates. Back in my day that would have earned a fatal beating.

Some of the juniors have the coordination of those people who go ice-skating for the very first time when they really shouldn't.

Then out come the preppies, and something happens.

There's my little Becky Boo, and she looks gorgeous. I can't take my eyes off her. My Becky is the sweetest looking, has the biggest smile, and has the rythym of a dancer. She's just the best. Don't argue with me. I couldn't care less if all the other cute little girls are channeling Shirley Temple. I'm hardly looking at them anyway. They're okay I suppose.

Moments before she began moving so beautifully to the tune of "A spoonful of sugar" (Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins), several years of neglectful parenting flashes before my eyes and in an instant it's all gone. For a second there I was too conscious of how unfair and horrid I've been to her, but then I suddenly can't remember anything else that happened that day. She is blowing us butterfly kisses.

Monday morning, go to work with a spoonful of sugar stuck in my head. It has a calming influence. That's odd- normally it would fill me with rage...


Friday, November 21, 2008

My new favourite cartoonist

Apart from me, of course....


Wednesday, November 12, 2008

More Archie

I can't resist these guys. They're not just a shop, they're a state of mind. Archie McPhee's product range is out in time for the "holiday season" (PC way of describing the season without soiling one's tongue with references to any religious holidays such as Christmas, Chanukah, Secular Humanist why-believe-in-a-god festival, Obama's birthday, the Grand Prix, etc).

And it includes what must be one of the most innovative and useful gift items of all: inflatable fruitcake.

Seriously, who eats real fruitcake? It's like dark matter. Sharon and I have been married for (wait... I know this one...) 15 years and I'm sure there is still a piece of our wedding fruitcake stashed somewhere. It's probably become magnetised by now.

But with the inflatable fruitcake you can create some holiday cheer without having to worry about offending the person who gave you something you not only will never eat, but think is one of the most hideous recipes ever to be vomited up from the depths of hades.

Check out some of the testimonials for this amazing innovation:
I have an allergy to candied fruit. ... Now, with the Inflatable Fruitcake, I can experience the holidays without collapsing on the ground, gasping for air as hives break out on my skin. ... Candied fruit is poison and should be banned from airplanes and schools. Now if I could only find a girlfriend my life would be complete.

When can I buy a franchise of this place??