Saturday, April 30, 2005

THE LITTLE FUCKER DID IT AGAIN!!


OK, so I'm pottering around the house this morning, iPod strapped on and cleaning to the Cat Empire (great housework music!).

I go into the bedroom to start tidying up and there's Tonka on the bed ripping the fucker to shreds - AGAIN. We flipped the mattress over last night, see, thinking we had scored nothing if not a logistical victory over the little bastard.

NOW HE HAS DESTROYED BOTH SIDES OF THE MATTRESS IN LESS THAN 24 HOURS!!!

And, as you'll see in the pic, the bastard has been chewing on my knickers again too.

That little fucker.

Friday, April 29, 2005

MELLIPOP COMES HOME

Ok, so I get home today and the fucking dogs have eaten the bed.











I was angry until I opened the mail. I got a cheque for $630 for a freelance gig I did a while back for a new organics magazine. This made me happy. The article I did was really quite crap, and I'd given up the idea that it might ever be published. No publish. No pay.

Suckers.

Now I'm riding high on my seeming success with posting pics.

THE CULPRITS


Ok, so these are the little buggers that did it.

Oh yes. It's all smiles until someone's bed gets eaten.


And we can't even sleep on the sofa bed.

That's been Staffy Shredded as well, to much the same effect. The Manche Monster took care of that one last year, in yet another of a long succession of incidents of stupid puppy hysteria. Mind you, her stupid owners were the ones who left the sofa bed folded out during the day while we were both at work. We thought she might like to snuggle up on it that day. Little did we suspect that she would otherwise choose to spend her time shredding the motherfucking mattress to bits. The whole house was covered in foam.

I think we have to be slightly mad to have two of the buggers.

In a seriously hilarious moment reminiscent of Manche trying to poo out the ingested tampon, Anton had to pull a poo out of Tonka's bum the other night.

So Tonka comes in from outside (thank God the little swine is toilet-trained now), having done his business. However, he brought in with him what we both whimsically refer to as a "budgie tongue". There's no delicate way of defining that term, suffice to say that it is in essence, a bit of poo still stuck to the dogs bum.

So Anton swoops in with a Kleenex, ready to wipe the dogs arse. So he grabs hold of the poo-let with a tissue, while I am at the other end keeping a tight grip on the pup so he doesn't jump up onto the couch. He starts pulling this thing, and it just keeps on coming.....! It turns out to be a rather long poo-coated strand of carpet thread the dog has ingested, having spent the day systematically tearing the hall-runner apart.

So we're both pissing ourselves laughing and gaping at each other in hysterical disbelief while Anton is standing in the middle of our lounge room with a dazed look on his face and a long strand of fecal matter hanging from his hand.

Sorry Gray. We were thinking of you buddy ....

Friday, April 22, 2005

MELLIPOP LOVES MARLBOROUGH LIGHTS

Ok, so I'm a massive failure. I'm fucking smoking again.

I hate the fact that I love the fucking things so much. I like the taste. I like the taste with beer. I like the taste with wine. I just really fucking like it.

But I don't want to do it anymore.

Not because I think they are going to kill me. They won't. I'm still young enough to harbour the very potent delusion that I am both immortal and eternally healthy. I mean, it would be a fucking bitch being immortal if you didn't have your health, right?

No, the sole reason I don't want to smoke is because the fuckers cost so much. Do they still give free cigarettes to soldiers? I'm telling you, forget all the tax-free salary incentives, Top-Gun marketing propaganda and government subsidised tertiary degrees. If you want young people to enlist in the army, offer them free fucking cigarettes as part of the tax-free salary package. Get 'em right from high school.

If my lungs could withstand the medical, I'd fucking enlist for free cigarettes. I could easily smoke more than the equivalent retail value of cigarettes per annum than I am earning in my current job. That's an incentive right there.

Plus it makes good fiscal sense. All the soldiers (except immortal Mellipop) would die well before retirement age. Think of all the money saved on pensions and superannuation.

Fuck. I'm fucking smoking again. Fuckers. Damn there's a considerably high frequency of obscenity flying out of my dirty smokers mouth tonight. Though I will offer no apologies for my habit or my haranguing.

Hi my name is Mellipop and I am a Nicoteine Addict. It's been one hour since my last cigarette - and I'm really pissed off because now I have to wait until Anton gets home before I can suck down another one, because I have run out.....

And no smarmy lectures, "How I Quit" anecdotes or "helpful advice" from non-smokers in the comments field thanks. I am deadly serious. Those who dare will encounter the unrestrained force of my most withering scorn. I'll choke on my cigarettes and you can all go fucking choke on your self-righteous condescension. Fuckers.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

MELLIPOP AND THE MENTALLY ILL

Ok, so I have about 11 minutes to do a power-blog before Anton gets home.

There was this retarded guy on the train today - no faux-pockets on this guy. I watched with amused curiosity as he emptied his pockets in between licking his wallet and ogling a blonde teenager in hot pants. This guy was carrying around - in his pockets - a full packet of Doritos, a leather bound memo pad, a pile of hot chips (leftovers from lunch?) and a full packet of Tip Top Crumpets.

He then called out and started a conversation with the leggy blonde teenager. Some random comment about global DVD piracy, at which point he mentioned the movie "The Dukes of Hazzard", dropping into the painfully one-sided conversation the fact that he thought she looked like Jessica Simpson (smooth segueway). His tongue was literally hanging out. She got off at the next station.

It reminded me of one of my many previous adventures with mentally umm..."questionable" types on public transport.

The best one was this partially deaf, completely insane guy I got stuck with on the train home one night from Penrith to Parramatta. An "all-stops" train. Sydney-siders will feel my pain.

So anyway, the guy is clearly insane, swilling from a can of VB before tucking into the bottle of Wild Turkey he had nestled in his arms. So he's telling me about all his guns, how he goes roo shooting all the time and then works himself into a lather by telling me about his ex-wife, who took him to court to gain full custody of their child because she claimed he threatened to shoot her. Or should I say "allegedly" threatened to shoot her. His version of events was that he "only shot animals, never people". For some reason I wasn't comforted by this reassurance.

So anyway, he kept talking about his guns, and how WE were going to go roo shooting together on the weekend (joy). And he kept reaching out to touch my leg as I inched further away and tried to make eye contact with anyone I could, too terrified to do or say anything that might antagonise him further, as he was still railing about his ex-wife in amongst all the gun talk. Wondering whether he might in fact be packing more heat than just that bottle of Wild Turkey. My helpful fellow Sydneysiders, all in full earshot, refused to meet my eyes and stared at the floor - or moved away to sit elsewhere, the cowardly fuckers.

It got to the point where he made it very clear that he intended to get off at my stop with me, as I was mentally counting the steps I had to run to make it home, praying that my gammy knee was going to make it and hoping to God that one of my flatmates was home to let me in. And still no help from anyone. Until my guardian angel got on at Doonside station (go Doonie!). A rather large Maori fellow got on the train and sat opposite me. He sussed out what was going on straight away, met my eyes and began to keep a very keen and discerning gaze on my insane roo shootin' mate.

So my mate kept revving things up, getting more and more agitated, and more and more physically invasive. So Maori dude tells him to keep his hands off me. Insane dude asks him "who the fuck do you think you are, her boyfriend". Maori dude goes "Yeah she is - tonight. Leave her alone". So they start arguing and the Maori guy tells the guy to fuck off, that he knows the likes of him because he is a warden at Parramatta Gaol, pulling out his ID card for good measure. Insane guy replies that he doesn't give a fuck because "I've been to Pentridge mate, I've been to Long Bay - you don't scare me".

So then they both got up and it looked as though fists were going to start flying at any second. At this point, some other random guy on the train got up to join my anonymous Maori hero, ready to do battle with the crazy roo shooter. Eventually, the crazy guy - obviously not crazy enough to realise that he was clearly outgunned and outnumbered - backed off and my Maori hero escorted me off the train, which had thankfully pulled in to our stop at Parramatta after what seemed like a hellish fucking eternity.

I did what any girl in the same circumstance would do. I burst into tears and blubbered my eternal gratitude. Then ran home anyway, despite my gammy knee.

Right. Anton is home now. I don't have time to make this funny. And yes, my past and present tenses are all still confused, I do realise that. Fuck it.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

MELLIPOP’S GUIDE TO UNDERSTANDING MEN

Ok, so I travel on the train a lot. Being the book snob that I am, I like to peek around to see what other people are reading. My many years of observation have culminated in the grand thesis as follows, which I have chosen to share with you now, friends of Mellipop.

I like to fancy that I know a fair bit about books, and a fair bit about men. So the following is a guide to men, based on their literary preferences. If I can save just one woman, it will all have been worth it…

Boys : Beware Falling Objects. A sense of humour is to be worn at all times.

SCIENCE FICTION – A sure sign of stunted adolescence. This one has the body of a man with all the emotional intelligence, social skills and sex life of a 13 year old boy. Will bore you to tears with conspiracy theories and arguments for the existence of extraterrestrial life. No woman truly takes them seriously, which doesn’t matter because most of them seem to prefer the company of their fellow Sci-Fi fellas anyway, debating the sexual merits of Buffy vs Xena, watching old Star Trek DVDs and playing X-box games with semi-naked pseudo-women in them. Much safer the CGI fantasy than the real thing.

HORROR – Closet sociopath. Possible serial killer. Probably has a death row pen-pal or buys John Wayne Gacy’s artwork on e-Bay. Most likely tortured small animals as a child. You have been warned.

NON-FICTION – Ladies, what you have here is an insufferable know-it-all. Conversations will be littered with random and uninteresting facts about aeronautical engineering, the cultural significance of Renaissance-era art and the mating habits of Madagascan turtles. This one is a trivia addict, who will battle with you mercilessly on every possible occasion to grandstand his superior intellect and constantly irritate you with his self-sure posturing. Knows facts but doesn’t actually know anything about life.

LITERARY FICTION – The guy who reads books by authors whose names he can’t actually pronounce correctly and thinks that makes him look really quite clever and learned. Quite likely an aspiring writer with little or no actual talent who harbours a deep-seated bitterness that the world has yet to worship at the altar of his undiscovered genius. Alternatively he is a university undergraduate with a superiority complex, a mammoth HECS debt and a useless Arts degree. Generally an absolute wanker in all cases.

FEMINIST THEORY – This guy holds himself superior to the rest of his misogynistic, domineering gender. Believes he empathises with the eternal struggle of womanhood and prefers the company of women. Renounces his male desire as a weapon of female oppression and chooses only to sleep with ugly but intelligent women. But the “sisterhood” actually hold him in contempt for his patronising pseudo-solidarity, and men just want to punch him out for being both a soft-cock and a traitor to the almighty testicle.

SELF-HELP – Any man reading self-help literature sounds massive alarm bells, and is not to be dated for any reason (suicidal loneliness and/or lengthy periods of involuntary celibacy are not a loophole here). This is a man who is desolate enough to freely advertise in public that fact that he has either a) severe psychological or emotional problems b) substance abuse issues and/or c) the inability to commit himself to a functional, healthy relationship. Some advice ladies, before you think otherwise. NO – you CANNOT save this man!

POETRY/PHILOSOPHY – This guy is not the rare and precious jewel you may think. He is neither caring, sensitive, profound or romantic. More likely, this man has deep-seated emotional problems and a whopping case of clinical depression, which he staunchly refuses to medicate with pharmaceuticals and/or intense therapy (though is most probably a heavy pot-smoker). He proudly displays his existential angst and pain like military medals for courage in the midst of battle. Though in most cases, his only “battle” is summoning the effort to get up and out of bed each day. Not before 2pm in the afternoon, anyway.

ROMANCE – Most likely same-sex oriented. Or a mummy’s boy with a crippling Oedipal complex. Either way, you’ll never be enough to satisfy him.

PORN – Now, whether they will admit it or not, all men harbour a healthy interest in porn. And there’s nothing at all wrong with that. Men like looking at naked women. The trick is to diagnose those with an “unhealthy” interest in porn. How does one determine this? Suffice to say that any man reading porn in public can safely be said to fall under that category. Another sure fire way to gauge the extent of any man’s obsession with porn is to check his hard drive. Anything more than 40GB will probably do it. But truth be told, it’s a judgement call that every woman has to make for herself.

BIOGRAPHIES – This guy doesn’t actually have a life of his own, so devours biographies to live vicariously through the experiences of others. He is dull, unimaginative, paralysed by the fear of failure and most likely still lives with his parents, as he continues to lead his unassuming life without having the slightest impact on anyone or anything around him. As a living study in mediocrity he will exist, he will die and he will be promptly forgotten as a minor blip in the evolution of man, having contributed nothing to society or culture.

INVESTMENT/FINANCE – This man doesn’t actually have any money. He is probably drowning in debt, or may even be legally bankrupt. Alternatively, he has a lot of money, but rest assured, he won’t be spending it on you. If you don’t mind dating a man who insists you pay for everything (or at least half of everything), tightly monitors every cent he spends and scrutinises supermarket dockets for errors so he can get the cost of that tin of baked beans deducted from the final total, well then, hey, who am I to tell you not to date him.

THE BIBLE – Without doubt a religious fundamentalist. Or one of those new-school “hip” Christian-types who will take you to Hillsong on your first date. Probably still a virgin. You won’t see any action from this guy until your union has been consecrated under the eyes of God. And then he’ll be absolutely useless in bed of course, because there hasn’t already been a succession of long-suffering women to break him in sexually. Beware the guy with a copy of The Watchtower, unless you’ve been shopping around for a cult to fall into. He probably only wants you for your soul, anyway.

THE DA VINCI CODE – This is the man who reads one book a year, and secretly wishes that the movie version would finally appear in cinemas, so then he wouldn’t have to waste so much of his time and effort boning up on the latest mega cultural-phenomenon that everyone else is talking about. The kind of guy who watches A Current Affair, reads tabloid newspapers and thinks he is suitably informed about the world around him. Because that’s all he wants to know.

COMPUTING/IT BOOKS – This guy isn’t reading. He’s simply up-skilling. Books are SO last millenium. Speaks in html code rather than the Queen’s English. Life begins and ends within the narrow confines of his hard drive and broadband connection and your entire relationship will most likely take place on-line. At least you won’t have to shave your legs as often as you would if you were in a real-world physical relationship. Plus, you can pretend that he looks like Johnny Depp, instead of the unsightly little weed or overweight slob he really is.

Geez…. think I need to take another month off after that effort. I’m going now. I can’t be arsed tying things up here any more creatively than that. I did promise quantity and - goddammit - I’ve delivered!

Thursday, April 14, 2005

MELLIPOP AND THE DEAD KOOKABURRA AKA 20 GOOD REASONS NOT TO GO ON HOLIDAYS WITH YOUR PARENTS

Ok, so an initial disclaimer is called for. I absolutely love my folks and had a fabulous time during their stay with us in Perth. But gosh darn it, they are simply so gosh darn easy to take the piss out of. Keep in mind I kept all the good, generous (ie unfunny stuff) out of the following. Love you Mum & Dad!

1. You and your parents visit Margaret River, an area famed for its plethora of boutique wineries. After tasting a variety of different wines at one of the vineyards, your parents’ sole purchase is a $9 CASK of red wine.

2. You overhear your mother telling the haughty staff member, “That’s OK darl, I just mix it with lemonade anyway”. The haughty staff member smirks. You cringe.

3. Your father insists on eating cheese and tomato sandwiches everywhere you go. For some reason that really irritates you.

4. Your father insists on pointing out every bit of roadkill you pass on the five hour drive.

5. Your father also – inexplicably - insists on pointing out every Bayswater Rental white Hyundai you pass. This makes absolutely no sense to you because your parents have hired a white Hyundai from Europcar. This habit becomes alarmingly irritating rather quickly.

6. Your father insists on saving an injured kookaburra from the middle of the road – in the middle of Nowhere, WA. You and your parents shortly arrive at your intended destination – the Treetops Walk – and are dismayed to realise that your plan of dumping the injured kookaburra on some unsuspecting staff member will not eventuate because it appears that there are no facilities there. Just lots of trees and tourists.

7. You and your parents subsequently make a 30 kilometre round trip detour to a wildlife park to try and save the injured kookaburra.

8. Your father gives frequent pep talks to the ailing creature on your lengthy journey to the wildlife park. These pep talks start out as “You’re alright mate – we’re on the way to get help”, continue as “C’mon mate, we’re almost there – hold on” and descend into “Don’t die on me now, you scumbag”.

9. Your parents think that the kookaburra has been “sleeping”, on your arrival at the wildlife park. You take one look at the lifeless kookaburra and pronounce it DOA. You also take the opportunity to snidely remark that “sleeping” and “dead” look remarkably similar.

10. Your parents then get sucked into paying $30 entry into the shitty wildlife park you never wanted to visit anyway. The park superintendents promise to give the dead kookaburra a suitable burial for your trouble.

11. You and your parents leave the shitty wildlife park and head back to the Treetops Walk, your initial stop with the at-that-stage yet-to-be-dead kookaburra. Still reeling from the devastation of your failed rescue mission, you head down a bush track to reveal that there is, in fact, a souvenir shop and ticket sales booth at the attraction. Even more ironically, there is also a “Wildlife Rescue Centre” manned by a volunteer who has cages full of the fortunate wildlife she has saved in the past. You can’t help but think that the poor little bugger would still be alive if they had maybe posted some signs up around the place. Your father is crushed.

12. Your father offers you beer at 7 in the morning. Faced with the prospect of a full day in the car with your parents, you seriously consider the offer, but ultimately decline. Six hours later you regret your decision to forgo the beer.

13. You are constantly cold because all you pack are swimmers and boardshorts for the trip, to a region that subsequently boasts of itself as being “The Edge of Antarctica” - and for good reason. Your father offers his jacket for you to wear. You emphatically refuse to wear the jacket, claiming that is still smeared with the taint of roadkill, having been employed to wrap the dead kookaburra in. Your father has a dummy spit and calls you a “fucking idiot”. You choose to remain cold, regardless.

14. Your mother insists that you stop at shitty tourist places like the Bunbury Jetty, which she insists you walk all the way to the end and back. After what seems like hours, you complete the journey and stop to read the sign posted at the start of the jetty while you wait for your mother with her gammy knee to crawl her way back to dry land. Reading the sign, you are informed that it is the longest jetty in the Southern Hemisphere. Elementary mathematics calculate that you have walked four whole kilometres of fucking jetty.

15. Your mother somehow manages to lock herself in the hire car - twice - in the space of ten minutes. Your father has yet another dummy spit and calls your mother a “fucking idiot”.

16. Your parents choose to dine at the cheap-ass restaurant at the cheap-ass $50 a night motel. After much argument, and a spirited dummy spit or two by your father, you relent and decide to risk food-poisoning for the sake of family harmony. You and your parents rock up to the restaurant at 6:30pm to be told that without a booking you cannot be seated for dinner until 7:30pm. Your father has a dummy spit and refuses to wait. You decide to eat at Hungry Jacks instead. When you turn up to Hungry Jacks, you are unable to enter the restaurant because of renovations. You suggest drive-thru instead. Your mother refuses to do drive-thru because she needs to see the menu first. You stop for Chicken Treat instead. On returning to the motel your father has another dummy spit because someone else has parked in your car space.

17. Your father insists that you order seafood every time you eat out for dinner, even though every time you eat out for dinner, you tell your father, yet again, that you dislike seafood. Your father subsequently has a dummy spit whenever you order anything from the menu that isn't seafood

18. Your mother steals some rosemary from a display home site so she can use it to cook with that evening’s lamb chops.

19. Your father is utterly incapable of following road signs on his own. Your mother has to direct him at all times. Your father will see a road sign that quite clearly states in which direction one is to turn to reach one’s desired location. At each and every sign he will confer with your mother as to which direction he needs to turn. In absolutely all cases, your mother’s advice reflects that which the road sign has already clearly dictated. Your father even needs your mother to guide him in and out of carparks. You constantly marvel at your mother’s patience and quietly want to smack some sense into your father.

20. Your parents insist on paying for everything like you were only 14 years old, and treat you like a charity case, leaving a cash donation, a carton of fags, a six pack of beer and a pantry full of food on their departure.

My parents rock!!!! Plus, the house has never been cleaner!