Archive | March, 2011

Festy like an armpit in June.

My bus to work is like a moving asylum that doubles as a taxi service.

I love living in large cities for the very reason they proffer up all kinds of weirdos (they add colour and save humans from becoming rote), but all city folk know Survival Rule No 1: avoid eye contact and keep the crazies to a minimum. Guys who mutter to themselves are given a wide berth and friends who represent train wrecks are rerouted to other stations.

But riding the bus is like having my face pressed up against someone’s proverbial crotch (or literal, as the case may be). You’re trapped in a glass case of emotion with every kind of kook, and there can be no escape.

We have a regular crazy who sidles up to women, clapping loudly in their ear. I figure it’s his way of saying “hey baby, how about a drink?” but frankly, it needs work. Then there’s the ones that breathe on you, like aircon at full blast; or creep up real close (no matter how much room they have), as if your part of the bus is better than theirs. What the?

And today, some dude got on the bus reeking of gasoline. Some possibilities …

  1. He’s a stunt man who was recently set on fire;
  2. He’s not a stunt man but was, nevertheless, recently set on fire;
  3. He finds petrol a cheaper, more manly alternative to cologne;
  4. He’s a villain of Joker proportions who was spawned in a smelting accident;
  5. He’s actually a robot that needs fuel as … um, fuel.

That’s all I got. Can there be any other reason? The smell went the length of the bus, leaving commuters to cram their face up against the windows in desperation. But I do thank him for clearing my nasal cavity – he was the equivalent to smearing Vicks Vapor under my nostrils.

If his ass was a tissue dispenser, I’d be set.

Don’t skid mark my undies, man.

The cool kids at work, a guy and girl, are six feet tall and wander in each morning like a couple of gunslingers who don’t care if the sheriff is in or not. They only shoot finger guns, but it’s all the same to me. They’re high on espresso and ambition, while I’m akin to Phil Connors in Groundhog Day.

“I’ve killed myself so many times, I don’t even exist anymore”.

I don’t know how I managed it, but I’m in. They’ve decided. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do, I’m the new Bieber of the office world. It’s fun being part of the posse, but I find myself waiting for the mutiny which seems inevitable. In my experience, offices are somewhat psychotic and allies can slowly turn on you (much like the fireplace in Indiana Jones, where suddenly you find yourself staring at a bunch of Nazis).

Meanwhile, the dude next to me (cult boy) (a superhero who leaps over logic in a single bound) is burning my toast to meteoric charcoal. Yesterday he told me that a rainbow is a pact from God not to flood the earth again. My response, “and here I was, thinking it was a bridge to Leprechaun Land” turned out a failed fob, as he then pulled out a bible and showed me a passage that ‘proved’ the Rainbow Pact (also known as the Skittles Treaty).

I probably should’ve replied, “cram it up your cram hole, cult boy” but instead (like a mother enthusing over a crudely-drawn stick figure) I said, “mmmm, that’s nice dear”.

I’m aware this makes me sound like an acidic villain (there’s some truth to that), but my beef aint with religion. It’s true that I’m a non-believer but I still have respect (yo). The truth is, Thunderbird Boy is bending my mind into a pretzel because we’ll be mid-convo and I’ll suddenly find myself in surreal landscape – like I’ve stepped off the porch in Beetlejuice. He seems to regurgitate systems and beliefs to the point where I feel like I’m talking to Hymey from Get Smart. That, and he’s loud-talking me into insanity.

In other news, yesterday some co-workers sat opposite, droning on about some crap and I hear the words, “slice and dice”. Without thinking, in a soft serial-killer voice I said, “slice and dice” (as if I was enjoying some fava beans and a nice chianti). In my defense, everything is a movie and I didn’t think they’d hear me. But they stopped dead and stared agog.

I was like, “my bad … didn’t mean to Hannibal heckle”.


You people make my ass twitch.

I’m not a morning person. As in, waking up for me is like emerging from a heavy coma. I envy morning people, they walk in the light. Their Saturday mornings seem happy places, filled with productive hours and morning papers; their Mondays a time to exchange Disney anecdotes about their light-filled weekends. Barf.

I, on the other hand, exist in the shadows and come Monday morning, am like Darth Vader with an atomic wedgie. This morning, I arose like a zombie fresh from the grave, arms akimbo. I fought the fight of the alarm clock and lost, as I always do. Spent five minutes negotiating with myself as to whether I could chuck a sickie (the answer came back, no); then zombie-walked myself into the wall / bathroom / work.

In morning mode, I’m a pastey version of The Incredible Hulk (or as the French say, l’incroyable hulk); my communication a series of grunts which could also double as morse code for bears. Brows sit low over wolflike eyes as I skulk into work, hoping to go unnoticed. Unfortunately, I remain stubbornly visible and the sing-song chorus of “morning!” is my cue to smile (as if my undies aren’t riding up my proverbial ass). It’s all I can do not to declare war with a return wedgie and shout, “cram it up your cram hole!”

Now is probably a good time to mention that while I may be a (relatively) young woman, at heart, I’m a curmudgeonly old coot whose bones ache. He barks at idiots that step on his toes, doesn’t like reaching first base with strangers on the bus, and hates chit-chat. He says things like, “you people make my ass twitch” and “that makes my ovaries want to commit suicide” because yes, he’s somewhat gender-rebellious.

There’s no arguing with him because he’s old and set in his ways. He paid his dues and if he wants to wear underwear up to his teeth, he bloody-well will. I’m fond of the codger, but sometimes feel that he hijacked my youth. When the other kids were getting drunk and living out their rebellions, I was doing homework and arguing the philosophies of life.

Ultimately, there are things you can change about yourself, and others you just have to wear, like an atomic wedgie only a Death Star can produce. The coot and his incarnations come under the skid mark that no bleach can effect. Nothing for it but to ride the geriatric wave.

Like a fat kid loves cake.

Much like Robert Downey Jr, movies will always my greatest love.

But not unlike Charlie Sheen (apologies for the conceptual whiplash), there’s another goddess dear to my heart – the eighties.

There are films I watch prolifically, like an alcoholic watches the gin bottle, and my mainstays are invariably from the eighties; movies such as The Goonies, Money Pit, Sixteen Candles and Back to the Future. Then of course there’s Groundhog Day, Stand By Me, Working Girl and Grease. If you haven’t seen these movies, then you didn’t live in the eighties, you were born in them (but I forgive you).

I love ’em like a fat kid loves cake, and I’ve seen them thousands of times.

If you could choose a movie to live in forever, which would it be? (If you love horror movies, best not to play.) Given my penchant for black comedies, it could be considered a bleak concept. But some might say (namely me) that I’m already living in one; so I might as well up the budget and lock this puppy down.

But to choose one movie is like a millionaire being asked to pick his favourite dollar bill. I love Indiana Jones, exceptin’ I’d rather date Harrison Ford than be him. Working Girl then. I was always envious of the lunch box Harrison gave to Melanie (not a euphemism). Zoolander, to realise my dream of being really, really, ridiculously good looking; or Anchorman, to finally scream the words, “I’m trapped in a glass case of emotion!”

But why pick one, when you can have ’em all? I think I’ll live in Bruce Wayne’s mansion in Gotham City, and drive Eleanor (the 1967 Shelby Mustang from Gone in 60 Seconds) (hell yeah). I will of course be dating Robert Downey Jr … in his Tony Stark incarnation perhaps. My ex-lovers will be the likes of Han Solo and John Cusack (Grosse Pointe Blank); my friends Cher from Clueless, Bill Murray (any incarnation) and Vince Vaughn from Swingers. Jack Nicholson will by my neighbour (à la As Good As It Gets).

“Sell crazy someplace else, we’re all stocked up here.”

I shall be a mix of Charlie’s Angels, Kung Fu Hustle and Bring It On. Occasionally I will travel through time with Marty and Doc Brown to the Temple of Doom and Kellermans (for all you dirty dancers out there). But my life will not be without peril as I battle aliens, Dr Evil and strangely, an American werewolf in London (of all places).

I shall retire as Audrey Hepburn married to Humphrey Bogart in Sabrina Fair; or perhaps as Elizabeth Bennett to Mr Darcy.

And live happily, ever after (booyah)!

Wedged in the bum crack of boredom.

The clouds outside my window are perfect, suspended puff-balls. They look like the clouds in Pixar films, or like the cloud Monkey Magic used to ride on (still jealous).

This leads me to tell you that I am bored on a scale unimaginable to the average postal worker; where the concept of stabbing my eyeball with a small model of the Titanic seems slightly amusing and yes, a possible use of my time.

I’m a contractor in an office, with nothing to do. It no longer amazes me that companies spend a fortune keeping me tied to a desk with sticky tape and apathy, when they have nothing for me. I’m the human security blanket of the executive set – we need you in case something comes up! God forbid, we actually do these tasks ourselves. Look busy, minion.

I believe I have some understanding of how a Storm Trooper feels – interchangeable, expendable and (somewhat unwisely) armed. I too am shiny and pastey white.

My boss is an immaculately-tailored German with the attention span of a three-year-old on crack. He speaks like Arnold Schwarzenegger which, strangely, is one of the few upsides. He’s alright, in that he isn’t a misogynist sociopath who goes through my bin at night.

Way to set the bar low, Storm Trooper.

Meanwhile, I truly believe the guy next to me is ripe for joining a cult. He pretty much adopts anything people tell him to (which ironically means he will be CEO one day). He went to a ‘lean six sigma’ course last week and returned like the prodigal son of Tom Cruise (à la Scientology video). He even has a system for how to show people love.

“My mum likes ‘gifts of service’, but my wife prefers ‘quality time’ and ‘words of affirmation’”.

Way to take the romance out of it there, tiger.

In other news, I’ve become very adept at Spider Solitaire and I have to say, my self-applied French manicure looks the shizzle. However, it has also highlighted the fact that my hands may look alike, but have vastly different capabilities. Namely, trying to paint my nails with my left hand was like trying to control a water hose at full blast. It’s clear that I’ve neglected my left hand all these years, and now it’s as rebellious as my favourite undies on wash day.

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