In the true spirit of being on holiday, Miln and I will be embarking on an impromptu jaunt to the Fraser Coast tomorrow morning. We woke up this morning and decided to get out of Brisbane, in a cheap and cheerful fashion.
So the plan is this - Get into Jayden in the early hours of tomorrow, head north to Hervey Bay, find a campsite and set up our rather posh tent, and see what happens. The general idea is that we'll be able to stagger around a few beaches in our bikinis being loud and squealing at anything that moves while still pretending that we're not tourists and we do know what we're doing. Although, neither of us have ever set up a tent, and neither of us know where Hervey Bay actually is. It may be that we don't make it that far, or we accidentally drive past it, but either way, we have a tent and a beautiful little car with petrol in it, so we'll be fine.
If you don't hear from me again, please send a search party. We'll be cowering underneath the tarpaulin of the tent that we weren't able to erect, starving, but very tanned.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
Cookies
They're cunning, they're tempting, they're evil - They're Cookies.
I'm not talking Internet Cookies, and I'm certainly not talking your Oreo variety of Cookie. I'm talking about the type of cookie that lies in wait, knowing that nobody can ever resist their tempting ways. They are more often than not placed in the back of the cupboard, or in a drawer of the fridge, so that you can't see them. But we all know this is pointless. Their overriding presence is not stilted by the bounds of vision, nor is it hampered by any attempt to hide their scent: Cookies of this nature are omniscient.
If anybody has ever sampled a Chocolate Viennese Cookie from Marks & Spencer's, you'll understand. My friend from the UK, Miln, has recently supplied me with two, count em, TWO packets of these delightful morsels, and I curse the day she landed on my doorstep. I dream about them - I can taste them in my sleep - and I've just polished off the first packet. My only saving grace now is that the second packet isn't open yet, and I'm counting on Chappers, Roy and IT Helpdesk to do the honours with the second pack.
This is a plea for help - please will someone eat my cookies??
I'm not talking Internet Cookies, and I'm certainly not talking your Oreo variety of Cookie. I'm talking about the type of cookie that lies in wait, knowing that nobody can ever resist their tempting ways. They are more often than not placed in the back of the cupboard, or in a drawer of the fridge, so that you can't see them. But we all know this is pointless. Their overriding presence is not stilted by the bounds of vision, nor is it hampered by any attempt to hide their scent: Cookies of this nature are omniscient.
If anybody has ever sampled a Chocolate Viennese Cookie from Marks & Spencer's, you'll understand. My friend from the UK, Miln, has recently supplied me with two, count em, TWO packets of these delightful morsels, and I curse the day she landed on my doorstep. I dream about them - I can taste them in my sleep - and I've just polished off the first packet. My only saving grace now is that the second packet isn't open yet, and I'm counting on Chappers, Roy and IT Helpdesk to do the honours with the second pack.
This is a plea for help - please will someone eat my cookies??
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Off the Wagon
Holidays are great; you treat yourself, you relax, you have fun. All dietary inhibitions go out the window and you indulge. Unfortunately, some of us are on a Twelve Week Challenge and there is no allowance for Holidays. Regardless of this, last night I went out, and I drank ALCOHOL.
That's right folks, my brain has returned to a place of intoxication, and the slight hangover that I'm now sporting feels wholly familiar, and quite pleasant. Also, the need for food of a non-healthy nature is slowly but surely creeping up on me, and the chocolate biscuits that mysteriously made their way into my kitchen are looking ever so appealing. I feel that today, ANZAC Day, (a public holiday for those of you who live in the UK and/or have their head in the sand), I have fallen off the wagon.
The question is now, how far off the wagon will I continue to fall? Will I find myself lying in a crumpled heap under the wheels of the wagon? Or will I fall so far that the wagon is a small dot on the horizon from my landing point on the road of destruction and dismay? I've never been a person to do things by halves, so I feel that I should attempt, at least, to clear the wagon completely. There'll be no hanging on here, no dragging alongside the wagon, no clinging onto the wagon in a desperate attempt to appear to have not fallen off at all. Oh no - I'm off it, and I'm off it until at least tomorrow.
This is brilliant - the alcohol has brought my ability to babble endlessly back to the surface. I feel like I could go on for hours... days in fact! But unfortunately I have just been reminded that I should 'switch to a power outlet' in the next 17 minutes or I'll lose my work. Fuck it. I can't be arsed. I'm going for the choccie biscuits...
That's right folks, my brain has returned to a place of intoxication, and the slight hangover that I'm now sporting feels wholly familiar, and quite pleasant. Also, the need for food of a non-healthy nature is slowly but surely creeping up on me, and the chocolate biscuits that mysteriously made their way into my kitchen are looking ever so appealing. I feel that today, ANZAC Day, (a public holiday for those of you who live in the UK and/or have their head in the sand), I have fallen off the wagon.
The question is now, how far off the wagon will I continue to fall? Will I find myself lying in a crumpled heap under the wheels of the wagon? Or will I fall so far that the wagon is a small dot on the horizon from my landing point on the road of destruction and dismay? I've never been a person to do things by halves, so I feel that I should attempt, at least, to clear the wagon completely. There'll be no hanging on here, no dragging alongside the wagon, no clinging onto the wagon in a desperate attempt to appear to have not fallen off at all. Oh no - I'm off it, and I'm off it until at least tomorrow.
This is brilliant - the alcohol has brought my ability to babble endlessly back to the surface. I feel like I could go on for hours... days in fact! But unfortunately I have just been reminded that I should 'switch to a power outlet' in the next 17 minutes or I'll lose my work. Fuck it. I can't be arsed. I'm going for the choccie biscuits...
Sunday, April 22, 2007
On Holiday
You'd think that as I'm on holiday, and as my blogging largely happens during work hours, that my blog would therefore suffer a lack of content, contentual dysfunction if you will. But you're all forgetting one simple fact here: I am a complete loser.
That's right folks, I'm a loser of dire proportions. A loser on many diverse and dysfunctional levels; a loser of such magnificent levels that fellow losers shun me for being too much of a loser. You see what I'm getting at? That's right, although I'm on holiday, I have taken my work laptop home, am connected wirelessly (which excites me a little), and am aiming to update my blog at least once every other day.
The reason for this dedication is simple: My fans cannot live without me. That's YOU - part of an amazingly large fan base that accesses my blog from all corners of the world, and relishes their daily intake of ranting, complaining, and whatever it is that I do on this thing. Consider yourself part of the gang, part of the clique, part of the Bazza Fan Club.
So please do not fear, I will not forget thee in your hour of need, I will continue to post and will continue to deliver these posts with the utmost accuracy, proficiency and flavour. What ever did we all do before I came along? Was there a world before 'I Like To Complain' and the Bazza Fan Club? Or was this world merely a nightmare from the womb? Perhaps we'll never know. But rest easy in the knowledge that I'm here to stay, and no amount of holidays, public or annual, can keep me away from YOU.
That's right folks, I'm a loser of dire proportions. A loser on many diverse and dysfunctional levels; a loser of such magnificent levels that fellow losers shun me for being too much of a loser. You see what I'm getting at? That's right, although I'm on holiday, I have taken my work laptop home, am connected wirelessly (which excites me a little), and am aiming to update my blog at least once every other day.
The reason for this dedication is simple: My fans cannot live without me. That's YOU - part of an amazingly large fan base that accesses my blog from all corners of the world, and relishes their daily intake of ranting, complaining, and whatever it is that I do on this thing. Consider yourself part of the gang, part of the clique, part of the Bazza Fan Club.
So please do not fear, I will not forget thee in your hour of need, I will continue to post and will continue to deliver these posts with the utmost accuracy, proficiency and flavour. What ever did we all do before I came along? Was there a world before 'I Like To Complain' and the Bazza Fan Club? Or was this world merely a nightmare from the womb? Perhaps we'll never know. But rest easy in the knowledge that I'm here to stay, and no amount of holidays, public or annual, can keep me away from YOU.
Friday, April 20, 2007
The Other Pod
I work in Pod #1 along with my esteemed colleagues, Roy and Chappers. We work alongside Pod #2 who consist of 3 'others' who mainly aren't worthy of a pseudonym. Yesterday they went out west together...
Now, I've told you all previously about the dangers and perils associated with westward travel, but it seems that I hadn't even touched the tip of this veritable iceberg of hazard. Roy and Chappers are far more acquainted with the dangers of the west, and indeed, with the social habits of the other pod.
It seems that all this time, I have been working alongside a pod of sexual deviants - a pod of people so perverse that even the presence of westies doesn't hamper their desire to take part in sordid sex games. In fact, the proximity to the west seems to have provoked a side to them previously unknown to me. Apparently there have been incidents involving a new form of dental floss - utilising the body's 'natural floss', as well as some interesting initiation rights involving a new Pod #2 member. Roy and Chappers are very much aware of their games, and have enlightened me regarding this subject. However, the details appear to have excited Roy and Chappers a little too much, and I'm now worried that I'm working alongside a bunch of raving nymphomaniacs.
The question is, do I conform and allow my own nymphomaniac to surface? Or do I take on the 'Nanna' role and chastise all of them for their evil and provocative ways?
Those of you who know me well can probably guess which avenue I'll take.
Now, I've told you all previously about the dangers and perils associated with westward travel, but it seems that I hadn't even touched the tip of this veritable iceberg of hazard. Roy and Chappers are far more acquainted with the dangers of the west, and indeed, with the social habits of the other pod.
It seems that all this time, I have been working alongside a pod of sexual deviants - a pod of people so perverse that even the presence of westies doesn't hamper their desire to take part in sordid sex games. In fact, the proximity to the west seems to have provoked a side to them previously unknown to me. Apparently there have been incidents involving a new form of dental floss - utilising the body's 'natural floss', as well as some interesting initiation rights involving a new Pod #2 member. Roy and Chappers are very much aware of their games, and have enlightened me regarding this subject. However, the details appear to have excited Roy and Chappers a little too much, and I'm now worried that I'm working alongside a bunch of raving nymphomaniacs.
The question is, do I conform and allow my own nymphomaniac to surface? Or do I take on the 'Nanna' role and chastise all of them for their evil and provocative ways?
Those of you who know me well can probably guess which avenue I'll take.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Is this my downfall?
Do I complain too much? Am I on the brink of becoming the world's most prolific complainer? Do people complain, about my tendency to complain, behind my back? These questions are only the tip of the paranoid iceberg that I find myself floating along on this morning.
I find myself in need of a mid-year resolution: I will stop complaining in the verbal format. I will reserve all my complaining for this blog, and nowhere else. If I am found to be complaining verbally, I give YOU the green card to take me out - take me down - kick me to the kerb.
I have now instructed my colleague, Roy, that if he hears me complaining about anything, he's to submit unto me a force previously only seen in movies such a Star Wars - the force of this rebuttal will be so great that onlookers will cower in it's wake, small children will cry in anticipation and grown men will wet themselves in public.
The shock, the horror... all I can do is give you this warning. Consider it my last attempt to save you all, my final duty as a blogger, and my potentially ultimate act as a complaining human being. Let the verbal complaining cease, and the written complaining continue.
I find myself in need of a mid-year resolution: I will stop complaining in the verbal format. I will reserve all my complaining for this blog, and nowhere else. If I am found to be complaining verbally, I give YOU the green card to take me out - take me down - kick me to the kerb.
I have now instructed my colleague, Roy, that if he hears me complaining about anything, he's to submit unto me a force previously only seen in movies such a Star Wars - the force of this rebuttal will be so great that onlookers will cower in it's wake, small children will cry in anticipation and grown men will wet themselves in public.
The shock, the horror... all I can do is give you this warning. Consider it my last attempt to save you all, my final duty as a blogger, and my potentially ultimate act as a complaining human being. Let the verbal complaining cease, and the written complaining continue.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Adpost
What do you call an advertisement that is masquerading as a blog post? An Adpost, obviously.
Yesterday I went for my final check-up with my cosmetic surgeon, a total of 6 months after I underwent liposuction. His reaction to my appearance was "My god you look like a completely different person!" I was well pleased with this comment, and have therefore decided to endorse said Doctor and his services.
Dr Robert Reed of Complete Cosmetic Clinic, Brisbane Australia, is an expert surgeon and a lovely person and I would recommend him to anybody considering plastic surgery.
He took my 'after-photos' and told me to phone in the morning to get them sent to me. So I did, and was greeted by a nurse who said "Oh we heard about your results, Dr Reed was so impressed!" - oh yes, I'm famous. My problem is that although I gave them my email address, I haven't received the photos. So I'm currently only in possession of my 'before-photos' which will not be released until I can back them up with the 'after-photos'. Those of you who are DESPERATE to see the new me will just have to wait.
Ah the demands of being famous are astonishing...
Yesterday I went for my final check-up with my cosmetic surgeon, a total of 6 months after I underwent liposuction. His reaction to my appearance was "My god you look like a completely different person!" I was well pleased with this comment, and have therefore decided to endorse said Doctor and his services.
Dr Robert Reed of Complete Cosmetic Clinic, Brisbane Australia, is an expert surgeon and a lovely person and I would recommend him to anybody considering plastic surgery.
He took my 'after-photos' and told me to phone in the morning to get them sent to me. So I did, and was greeted by a nurse who said "Oh we heard about your results, Dr Reed was so impressed!" - oh yes, I'm famous. My problem is that although I gave them my email address, I haven't received the photos. So I'm currently only in possession of my 'before-photos' which will not be released until I can back them up with the 'after-photos'. Those of you who are DESPERATE to see the new me will just have to wait.
Ah the demands of being famous are astonishing...
Monday, April 16, 2007
Trust me...
Is it a good thing that I seem to have an uncanny ability to manipulate people? I don't know what it is - perhaps it's my voice? Is it because I sound like a 3 year old that people inherently trust me and believe me when I'm clearly bullshitting? Should I be putting this ability into practice more often? How about I attempt an experiment...
I will test my apparent trustworthiness by orchestrating the following situations:
I will test my apparent trustworthiness by orchestrating the following situations:
- Next time I see an old woman crossing the road, I'll ask her if she needs help, and offer to carry her handbag. I'll then walk off with it.
- I'll approach a child's playground, pick out a lone child, and explain to him/her that I need their pocket money in order to fetch their parents from the hospital because they've just been in a car crash.
- I'll tell a colleague that I'm sleeping with my boss.
I'll judge how trustworthy people think I am by the results I get; e.g. a) How far I get with the old ladies handbag, b) how much money I get from the small child, and c) how long it takes until I'm approached by my boss.
A social experiment such as this will serve me well, I'm sure. And if it backfires, well hey - I've got an afternoon of fun out of it.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Fuck
Here's a scenario for you:
Last night I set my alarm for 05:45, in order to be at my colleague's house at 07:00, to make it to Toowoomba (150kms away) by 09:30 for a client meeting. This wake-up time would provide me with enough time to do my hair, look respectable, pack the car and head off for a leisurely drive out west.
At roughly midnight, the area I live in suffered from what's formally known as a 'power cut'. I like to call it an ALMIGHTY FUCK-UP.
So, instead of waking up at 05:45, I woke up at 06:55 - I officially had 5 minutes to get ready, leave the house, and drive the 8kms to my colleague's house. NOT GONNA HAPPEN. After phoning her and calmly explaining the situation, ("fucking hell you're not gonna fucking believe what the fuck i've done my fucking alarm didn't go off and fuck i've just woken up and fucking hell fuck fuck"), I showered, I dressed, I put on some mascara and jumped in the car. All within 5 minutes.
Whilst in the car I decided to phone my mum and calmly tell her what had happened, and enquired as to whether she had also suffered from a similar 'power cut' scenario, ("i fucking just woke the fuck up because some fuckwit electricity company decided to fuck up big time in my general area and fucked me over and i'm supposed to be in the fucking back arse end of fucking western nowhere in 2 hours and i have no fucking idea what the fuck i'm going to do"), and that made me feel better.
It turned out that after jumping 6 red lights and breaking the speed limit roughly 12 times, I made it to colleague's house by 07:30, and we got to the meeting with 1 minute to spare.
I am a god damned time lord genius.
Last night I set my alarm for 05:45, in order to be at my colleague's house at 07:00, to make it to Toowoomba (150kms away) by 09:30 for a client meeting. This wake-up time would provide me with enough time to do my hair, look respectable, pack the car and head off for a leisurely drive out west.
At roughly midnight, the area I live in suffered from what's formally known as a 'power cut'. I like to call it an ALMIGHTY FUCK-UP.
So, instead of waking up at 05:45, I woke up at 06:55 - I officially had 5 minutes to get ready, leave the house, and drive the 8kms to my colleague's house. NOT GONNA HAPPEN. After phoning her and calmly explaining the situation, ("fucking hell you're not gonna fucking believe what the fuck i've done my fucking alarm didn't go off and fuck i've just woken up and fucking hell fuck fuck"), I showered, I dressed, I put on some mascara and jumped in the car. All within 5 minutes.
Whilst in the car I decided to phone my mum and calmly tell her what had happened, and enquired as to whether she had also suffered from a similar 'power cut' scenario, ("i fucking just woke the fuck up because some fuckwit electricity company decided to fuck up big time in my general area and fucked me over and i'm supposed to be in the fucking back arse end of fucking western nowhere in 2 hours and i have no fucking idea what the fuck i'm going to do"), and that made me feel better.
It turned out that after jumping 6 red lights and breaking the speed limit roughly 12 times, I made it to colleague's house by 07:30, and we got to the meeting with 1 minute to spare.
I am a god damned time lord genius.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Bring Me Muffins
Muffins are amazing little creatures - especially the chocolate variety. They taste good roughly 80% of the time, depending on the outlet said muffin is from. And when they don't taste so good, they smell amazing. I have been paying more and more attention to the smell of muffins since starting the Twelve Week Challenge, as well as their appearance. I have noticed some things, which I will now list, that shit me to tears:
- Some muffins are wrapped in paper, and some are in muffin cases. The thickness of the paper, as opposed to the cases, often hinders the ability of the muffin to emit its scent. Therefore, all muffins should be in the muffin cases, in consideration of the fact that some of us can only sniff them.
- Some chocolate muffins are made with pure chocolate, and some with cocoa. The smell of cocoa is markedly stronger than that of pure chocolate, (surprising, i know) so manufacturers of muffins should include a combination of cocoa and chocolate in order to satisfy both the tasters, and the sniffers.
- A rather ordinary muffin is often covered in 'Hundreds and Thousands' or some other sparkly edible decoration. These decorations only serve to tempt a person to eat the muffin, and do not aid in the ability to smell them from a distance. They are redundant, and should therefore be avoided.
If any of my millions of readers have muffin-manufacturer-links, or any relevant industry contacts, please forward this on. Pretty soon you'll all thank me for a marked improvement in the quality of scent coming from the muffins of this world.
Upgrade Successful
Dear All,
This post is to inform you that some major faults in this site were recorded last night, and were promptly dealt with. The problems found were as follows:
This post is to inform you that some major faults in this site were recorded last night, and were promptly dealt with. The problems found were as follows:
- Inability to perform self-satisfying traffic reports in order to increase Ego
- Inability to enforce useless links onto users visiting the Site
As you can see, these issues needed to be resolved ASAP. I enlisted the help of my colleague Clinton 'IT Helpdesk' Halket, and together we installed a 'counter' (see right side of page) and a list of links which are 'live' for your pleasure (see right side of page above 'counter').
If any other issues or difficulties are experienced with this site, please email ITHelpdesk@overrateme.blogspot.com and then when that email bounces back, please place your comments in the usual fashion by clicking on the link below.
Regards,
Bazza
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
I Heart Chocolate
I imagine that I'm on very few people that are currently harbouring a gigantic craving for chocolate. You would think that I'd have had enough choccie over the most chocolate filled weekend on the calendar - but you would be wrong.
That's right people, it's now 8 weeks since I started the Twelve Week Challenge, and therefore 8 weeks without chocolate.
I know this thought may shock the majority of you; I've actually shocked myself. If it weren't for the numerous vivid dreams about chocolate, I think I might have died of deprivation. These dreams are some of the most vivid and exciting dreams I've ever had. I will now recall one of them for you...
I am made of chocolate. I live in Brisbane and am bound to a chair in an air conditioned room, tied up with marshmallow string. The air con is set to 4 degrees in order to preserve my chocolatiness. I have the ability to regenerate my own limbs if I accidentally chew on one of them. I am happy.
There's a loud bang, a hole appears in the wall opposite me, and thousands of tiny little men wearing camouflage gear invade my room. After chewing through the marshmallow string, they carry me outside and put me on the back of a truck and take me off to their camp where I'm devoured by hundreds of wild albino dogs - where the more they eat of me, the browner they get. I wake up just as they're about to eat my chocolate eyeballs.
And I think we can safely assume that I've lost my mind.
That's right people, it's now 8 weeks since I started the Twelve Week Challenge, and therefore 8 weeks without chocolate.
I know this thought may shock the majority of you; I've actually shocked myself. If it weren't for the numerous vivid dreams about chocolate, I think I might have died of deprivation. These dreams are some of the most vivid and exciting dreams I've ever had. I will now recall one of them for you...
I am made of chocolate. I live in Brisbane and am bound to a chair in an air conditioned room, tied up with marshmallow string. The air con is set to 4 degrees in order to preserve my chocolatiness. I have the ability to regenerate my own limbs if I accidentally chew on one of them. I am happy.
There's a loud bang, a hole appears in the wall opposite me, and thousands of tiny little men wearing camouflage gear invade my room. After chewing through the marshmallow string, they carry me outside and put me on the back of a truck and take me off to their camp where I'm devoured by hundreds of wild albino dogs - where the more they eat of me, the browner they get. I wake up just as they're about to eat my chocolate eyeballs.
And I think we can safely assume that I've lost my mind.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Sociologist's Dream
I spent the whole of yesterday in a town called Ipswich. This town is west of Brisbane - a long way west. The westest I've been I think. And the westness shows in the veritable goldmine of a population. During my day I encountered the following specimens:
- Fem-Chav: Wearing a t-shirt that's too small for her, she wanders the Ipswich City Shopping Precinct with a gold chain around her chubby neck smoking a Stuyvesant cigarette, which she lit by striking a match on the flies of her jeans that broke about 9 months ago as her fiancee was attempting to make baby Tiffany.
- Tradie: He owns the town, he is king of all he surveys, he sits in the food court eating his extra large kebab and super sized Powerade because he'll need the energy when he gets home tonight, when he'll sit in front of his TV to watch Today Tonight as his fiancee heats up yesterday's leftover pizza. He had a hard day looking for work, and the yellow flourescent vest and King-G trousers he's wearing are soaked with sweat.
- 30 yr old Grandma: She had her first child Kyla at 16, and is now expecting her third grandchild, J-Den. She once got highlights in her hair but the hairdresser fucked it up so she beat her to within an inch of her life and is now banned from said hairdressers so can't get them re-touched. She doesn't care if her hair is half blonde and half grey because if anyone fucks with her, she's got a whole family of feral children who are adept at stealing, trashing and generally fucking with other people's cars.
I feel that my trip to Ipswich has opened my eyes. I'm glad to be back in Brisbane alive, and with all my belongings in tact. Unfortunately, next week I am going to Toowoomba - which is a whole 80km further west than Ipswich. Who knows what species I will find...
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Sneaky
Last night I went to pick up my friend flying in from Sydney from the airport. We were technically supposed to meet inside the terminal, but when I arrived at the airport, I realised that to do that, I would need to park my car. So, instead of following the signs to the short stay car park, I masqueraded as a rental car!
Of course, none of this would have been possible if Jayden wasn't such a good looking car. (Love you Jayden! *Mwah mwah mwah*)
So, I found an inconspicuous spot labelled 'Hertz', and parked Jayden's tight little arse into it. Suddenly, to my horror, lots of men in yellow safety jackets appeared from nowhere, and I realised I'd have to concoct a story. After enacting a short dramatisation in my vehicle, involving some tears and a story about being here to collect my long lost brother who's in a wheelchair because his legs got mauled by a psychotic baby polar bear, I was ready to go. I wound down my window and prepared myself for the inevitable.
But it didn't happen! I got lots of looks off the fluorescent yellow men, even a nod, but not one of them questioned my being there! Brilliant! Before I knew it, my friend had arrived and we were driving off into the sunset together.
So, I put it to all of you (there must be millions of you...) that next time you're going to the airport, don't pay for your parking - pretend you're a rental car and you'll be fine.
Of course, none of this would have been possible if Jayden wasn't such a good looking car. (Love you Jayden! *Mwah mwah mwah*)
So, I found an inconspicuous spot labelled 'Hertz', and parked Jayden's tight little arse into it. Suddenly, to my horror, lots of men in yellow safety jackets appeared from nowhere, and I realised I'd have to concoct a story. After enacting a short dramatisation in my vehicle, involving some tears and a story about being here to collect my long lost brother who's in a wheelchair because his legs got mauled by a psychotic baby polar bear, I was ready to go. I wound down my window and prepared myself for the inevitable.
But it didn't happen! I got lots of looks off the fluorescent yellow men, even a nod, but not one of them questioned my being there! Brilliant! Before I knew it, my friend had arrived and we were driving off into the sunset together.
So, I put it to all of you (there must be millions of you...) that next time you're going to the airport, don't pay for your parking - pretend you're a rental car and you'll be fine.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Huge sandwiches and such like...
I'm slightly disturbed at the size of the sandwich I just ate. My lunch isn't usually a topic for discussion on my blog, but this sandwich, I assure you, most definitely is.
IT WAS HUGE - I only asked for a Ham salad sandwich with avocado, beetroot, pineapple and sprouts, and I got a veritable mountain of goodness. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed it, but I now feel like I might explode into a rather soggy mess of greeny pink mush. Ew.
So other than the sandwich, April is look fine and diddly dandy. The sun is shining, and there has actually been some rain - which most likely completely missed the dams. Pish. Speaking of the drought, when we hit Level 5 water restrictions, we'll be instructed to take 4 minute showers. What I wanna know is, how many 4 minute showers? Hmm?
You see, I take two showers a day as a rule. The first shower usually lasts about 5 minutes, and the second shower can last anywhere between 5 minutes and 20 minutes, depending on the tasks at hand. If I am restricted to 1 x 4 minute shower every day, I'm afraid that the population of Brisbane may see a wholly different side to Bazza. Not only will I be less able to primp and preen myself, but I'll also have to forgo either my apres wake up shower, or my apres gym shower. My routine would be SO disrupted that I think I might just DIE.
Oh lord - the consequences of this calamitous event are only just surfacing and I'm beginning to realise that I might not actually be able to live in Brisbane without turning into the hermit that my brain so desperately wants me to be... This is terrible. The years of fighting my inner vagrant will go to waste, I'll end up buying several cats, will stop paying my rent and will probably lose my job due to my appearance and lack of mental stability. This may be the end.
I'll keep you posted.
IT WAS HUGE - I only asked for a Ham salad sandwich with avocado, beetroot, pineapple and sprouts, and I got a veritable mountain of goodness. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed it, but I now feel like I might explode into a rather soggy mess of greeny pink mush. Ew.
So other than the sandwich, April is look fine and diddly dandy. The sun is shining, and there has actually been some rain - which most likely completely missed the dams. Pish. Speaking of the drought, when we hit Level 5 water restrictions, we'll be instructed to take 4 minute showers. What I wanna know is, how many 4 minute showers? Hmm?
You see, I take two showers a day as a rule. The first shower usually lasts about 5 minutes, and the second shower can last anywhere between 5 minutes and 20 minutes, depending on the tasks at hand. If I am restricted to 1 x 4 minute shower every day, I'm afraid that the population of Brisbane may see a wholly different side to Bazza. Not only will I be less able to primp and preen myself, but I'll also have to forgo either my apres wake up shower, or my apres gym shower. My routine would be SO disrupted that I think I might just DIE.
Oh lord - the consequences of this calamitous event are only just surfacing and I'm beginning to realise that I might not actually be able to live in Brisbane without turning into the hermit that my brain so desperately wants me to be... This is terrible. The years of fighting my inner vagrant will go to waste, I'll end up buying several cats, will stop paying my rent and will probably lose my job due to my appearance and lack of mental stability. This may be the end.
I'll keep you posted.
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