Friday, January 31, 2014

Zip File

Today I achieved two of the dream items on my bucket list. I swam with women and had a threesome with dolphins.

Amazing day!

The Magic Picture Box Stole My Soul

I've mentioned it before, but my son is either Amish or in the Taliban.


Nine out of ten times if you point a camera at him he'll get very angry. Either he thinks the magic picture box will steal his soul or he's aware that his picture has been circulated by Interpol. Here his grandparents made the mistake of telling him they were taking his picture at a restaurant. As he's my son I can tell just from this photo that he's become so enraged that he's in the middle of chanting an incantation to send the flying monkeys from The Wizard Of Oz directly into the face of the person taking the photo.

He gets like this almost anytime you mention photos. For example, I told him and his sister I wanted a photo of them parading about in the snow outside my house. She stood still. He buggered off.

Of course, there are a few tiny exceptions to this rule. For example, let him decorate cookies and he becomes positively full of himself. Here his mother snapped him to send to me and he almost burst from being so proud.

But you have to be canny sometimes. Often you just have to sneak a photo and hope it turns out ok. But holding a camera phone up isn't discreet anymore. It's now fairly obvious when you're in public and are stood five feet from a stranger and pointing a phone vaguely at them. They then instantly know it's either because they are dressed like a twat or you like their cleavage so much you simply MUST have a photo of it.

Anyhoo - you get maybe a second to steal a photo (and, ergo, his soul...). Right at the end of which he'll give you this caught-on look of, "wait.......are you stealing a picture?"

Thursday, January 30, 2014

Its Just An Idea

Tis the season to be squeezing.

There's quite a hard-core group of people that I work with who are obsessive about coffee. Not the evil pish that comes in the form of Monster or Amp drinks. But the pure, simple nicety that is a cup of coffee. Or - in this case - about nine cups of the stuff every day. I drink an absurd quantity of coffee. But there are a couple of people here who basically are never without a cup of it - black and strong - held up to their lips. Over Christmas a few of them pitched in together to buy some Deathwish coffee. That's basically the strength of a pot of coffee in one cup. Personally I enjoy the act of drinking it every bit as much as the drug itself. So as an alternative I firstly brought in a tub of dark-chocolate covered coffee beans. But then I also mentioned civet coffee. To my amazement nobody had heard of a coffee intentionally collected after an animal has digested it a bit and then shat it out. After fervently checking it out online the decision was made that it was simply just too expensive to buy. Especially as there was a strong chance it would literally taste like shit.

Which is where my idea of making our own brand of civet coffee was proposed. After all - the chocolate coffee beans are already there. "All we would need is a five-gallon bucket, a funnel, some cheese cloth and a few of us to nibble them all down." Coincidentally the drawn-teeth expressions instantly raised by the people hearing that plan of mine is the exact expression I imagine we'd all make after taking the first sip. And while we all laughed that suggestion off I was honestly terrified that thirty minutes later that one of them would show up at my desk with a their hands clasped together, muttering, "do you have the bucket - I've already started."

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Skin Of My Teeth

I am about to Google "anil safety officer."

I Am Not A Shouty Twat (Most Of The Time)

I never, ever in my life thought I'd actually be asked the stereotypical and absurd question as to when and where I learned to speak English.

But that is what happened to me recently. I would have thought that in this day and age - by which I mean 14 years after I first put a foot down in the US - that sort of ignorantly bizarre question was impossible. But I guess not. It's actually quite frustrating that due to the rather parochial nature of the area I live in that pretty much all knowledge of the UK is gleaned from the most unfortunate sources. Generally from arseholes on US television (Simon Cowell, Gordon Ramsey, Other Shouty Twats) and the dodgy stories about all the sex-crime arrests from BBC employees as reported on US network news. Which I fear means that they're expecting me to go one of the only two ways they imagine British men go - according to US telelvision. Which is deeply sad. When this sort of thing comes up I have quickly tried to interject decent, British men into the conversation. But after naming Daniel Craig and Hugh Laurie (who some didn't know was English at all even though I don't know any British person who thinks his accent in House wasn't crushingly awful) I was met in return by someone naming Gavin Rossdale from lame 90s cheese-rock band Bush. Which disappointed me no end. But then I was left more in a funk because all I could picture rolling around in my mind's eye was footage of Rolf Harris stood behind a wounded pony on Animal Hospital saying to camera, "you'll never guess how this poor little bastard got injured...." whilst leering smugly.

And just for kicks, did I mention this yet? It claims to be a money box shaped like lipstick. My Innocence Alarm went off quite furiously when I saw that.

See. You're thinking it too, right?

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Recycled (Vince) Offer


The space bar on my laptop died. Actually quite a lot of the keys died.  the Shift keys and arrrows mainly. And there are some hideously virulent viruses on there. Not sure how they got there at all (......cough....). Anyhoo combine that with the failing mouse-pad, the depressed screen and the general oldness of it and I've had to throw the towel in (not one possibly utilized when viewing above mentioned websites, by the way....) and get a new one. So this is being bashed out with a virtual keyboard on the dying computer before a refurbished one lands on Thursday. So - for today only here's a one-time offer recycled from somewhere else (Ed: doesn't that mean it isn't one time though ?).

Ladies - save dollars, dollars, dollars with the launch of my new creation - the Shamwow tampon - known as the Shampon! Made with recycled Smarties tubes stuffed with fragments of Shamwow cloth - you can now forget the mad dash to the store. Never again feel that uncomfortable panic with the need to buy boxes upon boxes of tampons once those lady-cramps start chewing away. Instead one Shampon - with it's ultra-absorbent German technology made from the hair of humanely euthanized German Shepherds - can last up to seven menstrual cycles (eight, if you enjoy a particularly light flow). Simply wring the Shampon out after each Lady Week and then re-use!

Each Shampon is guaranteed to have been sealed with the spittle of Vince Offer. Comes with a free box of Tamwow band-aids and squeezable toilet paper (so absorbent they could remove brown-shame from a hot-tub) if you order by Valentines Day!

Monday, January 27, 2014

Chit Chat

I listened to someone recently explain how - and you won't believe it - they could have been married to Robert Downey Jr.

As in someone mentioned Iron Man 3 and they took that as a pre-planned springboard to mention that some years back they met him randomly in a public place and he was quite nice and normal. Apparently he was charming and very charismatic. Which apparently translates to a solid marriage six years later. I must be in a sour mood because normally I don't care about this sort of thing. But a stinging sense of homesickness combined with general irritability had me wanting to politley but sternly interrupt with, "look - nobody believes that you nearly slept with Robert Downey Jr. Let alone would be married to him now. Unless of course you mean nearly in the sense that I nearly slept with Kate Winslet once because I happened to be knocking one out when she was on television. Which was obviously just a coincidence. Mostly because my neighbor just happened to watching Titanic and I could see it through the window."

Anyhoo - in office bathroom bathroom news - the other day I saw someone who I dearly hope was wiping mayonnaise out of their beard. Honestly there are some rough looking women here. Seriously though – I’m well aware that the filth resides entirely in my own mind there. But I was somewhat impressed with just how liberal I am when after immediately seeing this person that I thought, “ah well – two consenting adults and not violating company policy – go nuts….” Also I’m impressed with the frequency of cleaning involved here. At my last place there seemed to be some sort of, “if you piss on it, it’s yours” system of ownership going on. But here the crew is in there twice a day during my shift scrubbing away at the yellow shame. Kudos to them.

One big feature of life I'd been absent from for so much time was the office-cooler gossip chat. So conversations about celebrities, famous people or tv shows that seem to operate on a lowest common denominator basis. So general chatter about how hysterically funny Kevin Hart and Adam Sandler are. Both of whom are about as funny as tick-borne meningo encephalitis.   I've also apparently missed the joy of banal, vapid, humanoid-arsewipes the Kardashians. Managed to avoid them entirely when I stayed home. Apparently I am in the minority for not seeing this show judging by the frequency of chatter about it. Also everyone seems a-buzz at the movie The Hobbit. Again – I haven’t seen this nor am planning to - therefore I am seen as some sort of outsider. Coincidentally I should point out that when I pitched my idea for a movie about a hairy-footed midget with a magic ring to a movie studio I was escorted from the premises. Hypocrisy I tell you. Still – I’m looking forward to hearing back about my idea for a TV movie called A Touch Of Frost – in which Detective Frost is investigated via Operation Yew tree after being alleged to have deliberately fallen through a pub bar onto an under-aged child.

It's only a matter of time.

Saturday, January 25, 2014


My daughter asked me last week if we can drink dog milk.

Now, I'm not entirely sure if she meant, "we" as a society or, "can we go out and milk a dog?" Still, I pretended it was the first one and said it's because people like dogs, they probably don't make a lot of milk and it likely tastes like dog treats and bad breath. I emphasized that last part on the off chance she was considering milking her own dog. But who knows - it might be delicious.

Still it gave me a chance to go on and on about how it's strange that we've chosen certain animals to eat and milk from, but consider and dalliance with others to be strange and barbaric. Go on - tell an American (any one will do) that you really want to eat a horse. Or worse - a dog. You might as well be crapping onto the American flag for the reaction you'' get from saying that. And just for the irony tell them whilst eating a ham and cheese omelet at a diner (literally eating shaved pig bits, cow juice and a chicken's period there).

I though did point out to my daughter that she should stick to milk provided by a trusted person. Just because she's passing a farm filled with cows is no reason to demand the driver stop so she can grab a drink. Don't want to wander down that road. Incidentally I have a photo of just such a thing occurring.

And before you ask - yes that is me. Can't remember that man's name at all though.

Friday, January 24, 2014

Anil Daz

Today as part of my job I literally had to Google the phrase, "Anal Mars Love Nest".

I know why you all read this. It’s not for the witty repartee or the self-acknowledgement of, “Yes!! There’s a woman at my office too who only wears pink zebra-print lycra-pants too!! Leggings soo tight you can see a cave so dark and wet you swear there are Chilean miners trapped up there!!!” It’s not even for the schadenfreude. And boy is there some quality joy-in-pain to be had. No – it’s the steady flow of updates on people with names that in English sound like your bottom. Hence why I know you'll be ecstatic that I came across a person named Anil Daz.  Which sounds like a phenomenally specific cleaning product.

I also encountered a large number of people named Fark  and an individual named Oo Chit. No word on whether they're male or female. I am eagerly waiting to come across someone named Fap (so to speak) and am encouraged that this will happen after coming across a person named Kawa Punga who lived on a Mongkok Road (I am a pathetic child). Lastly you'll be delighted to know that I watched as the Indian company Anil Traders slid across my computer screen. I genuinely wiped my computer down with toilet paper after seeing that.

Double Tap

Two quick things this morning.

Firstly - the sound of flag rings chinking against a flag pole really gets on my tits. The neighbor has one of those absurd 30 foot poles with his Patriotic Victory Flag (yes, I am well aware it's called the Stars and Stripes - I'm being facetious) casting a shadow over the street next door. I've not quite understood the purpose of having a flag personally. They're everywhere - which is fine I guess. But it does give the impression that I live on disputed land in a distant outpost that has just been claimed in a war. But worse to my selfish sensibilities is the damn noise. That incessant pinging is infuriating.I'm not 100% certain, but I imagine if the neighbor catches a foreigner ripping his flag down whilst screaming, "I hate this fucking thing" it may be the touch-paper that starts what I'm going to be calling The Cheesestick Wars.

And don't let anyone be telling you that up here in Yankee-ville it's all cultured and tolerant. You don't have to go too far to find a Confederate flag that has absolutely nothing to do with heritage and everything to do with racism. See them all over. If Dick Cheney really wants to argue that "enhanced interrogation" works he should just plonk the poor bastards in Gitmo at the base of a flagpole for a week. Oh - and just remember - if you ever attend a speaking event and Cheney asks at the end if there are any questions thathe freely uses the phrase above in place of "questioning". So feel free to stick a bag on his head and go mental.

Secondly I really wish couples who share social media - Facebook mainly - would take a damn, good look at themselves. The sappy, "you're the best thing in my life" shit is annoying enough. If only because it's inevitably being written whilst sat next to the person who's supposed to get that message. But dear God I wish people would stop posting raunchy, flirty messages to their own partners on there. It's the lamest version of public foreplay in history. Nobody wants to see the phrase, "I'm going to lick you like a fudgsicle later." Particularly when it appears the two of you have eaten quite a lot of fudge in your time. I'll never understand those people who repeatedly post photos of their wedding day with sickening messages to their spouse underneath. I have an friend who updates her main photo constantly to a new wedding photo in between status updates about how her husband of many painful years is a total fucking moron. Hurts my brain.

Messages to babies are even more ridiculous. Facebook isn't a combination wish-list/letter-to-Santa/infant-communication-translator. And it's also not a place to write messages to dead relatives. That shit is creepy. It's a place to talk bollocks to your friends, secretly look at your friends boobs and post funny things you've nicked from Twitter. Plus faux-personal messages about how much of a perfect gift a baby is doesn't really sit well in the context of endless streams of commentary about how shit life is. This is why I never put anything gushingly positive and praiseworthy about my family online ever. I can tell them that stuff face-to-face. On Facebook I stick specifically to why at least one of my kids needs a muzzle. Still - I have this awful fear that after I die I'll be stood at judgement and an angel will tell me I can't come in. When I ask why they'll then tell me it's because they've checked my FB history and not once did I directly address my daughter with a message about how proud I was of her at dance class. Particularly galling as she dances like she's covered in invisible bees that she can't get off.

And while we're at it please stop posting about missing children/dogs from around the entire globe. It's not helpful at all and actually makes it seem like you're boasting about how you're hiding them in your basement.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

A Red Mist

There are two things in my life that cause me to rapidly descend into an illogical rage. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to avoi having anything to do with them. Just thinking about them makes me so angry that it gives me energy. They are of course, co-ax cables and cling film. I can now add to that short-list of blood-lust those people who won't touch a door.

I've mentioned before how the simple act of plugging the cable into the back of a TV in this country has been over-complicated to an unnecessary degree. Instead of a simple male/female plug in it involves an annoying series of screws that can only be completed if held at a certain angle. Which I apparently cannot do. It's usually twenty seconds after attempting to plug this cable in that I want to smash the television screen in with a chair. The only thing more infuriating than that is cling film (that's Saran wrap for the Americans here). I literally have never, ever successfully applied it to anything. As soon as my hand grips each end it crumples into a useless,transparent mess of failure. It's at that moment that I'm certain that everyone else is lying and this stuff has purely been designed to fucking irritate me. The rage wells up in me so violently that I angrily ball it up and let out a primal scream so intense that it sounds like I'm auditioning for a death metal band.

I recently encountered another small thing that apparently still infuriates me as much as both of these. That being the person who literally refuses to touch a door being held open for them. There are basically two kinds of people in the world. Those who understand the etiquette of a door being held open, and those that fuck hamsters. Those are the only two types. And I loathe those pricks that dodge touching a door when it’s understood that they were supposed to. I don’t mean those people who walk through a door held for them knowing that you’re going to remain holding it. That’s a contract that you’ve both quickly whipped up. And I don’t even mean those who blag it or confuse your politeness and assume you are going to hold it until their all the way through. They at least can be spotted by their clumsiness when they openly and physically display that they thought this was an all-the-way-through-the-door deal. It’s usually punctuated with one of those “oh silly me” smiles.

No – I mean those wankers who literally twist their way through the doorway when it’s clear to all that you are just holding it with your fingertips until they placed their hand on the door. Which leads to them dodging any responsibility to make a fucking effort and hold it for anyone behind them. And somehow at the same time making you look like a spiteful, mean fuckwit for almost letting a door smack right into their stupid, lazy face. These are the kinds of people who are so ungrateful and selfish that whilst they curve through the doorway - desperate not to touch it – they even give off a look that firmly suggests that your simple act of politeness was a total dick thing to do. That scowl on their face of, "you almost touched me with your stupid door..." genuinely grates my very soul to such degree that I want to smother their face in cling film and suffocate them to death right there in the doorway.

The irony of course being that as I attempted to cover their stupid face with the cling film it would ball-up on itself leading to only a tiny portion of their forehead being covered. Whilst their mouth - the very thing I was trying to cover - remained entirely uncovered.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Every Cloud Has A Brown Lining

I had long forgotten the evil that are office chairs. Not the discomfort or how fiddly they can be when they need to be adjusted. That sort of thing has never bothered me all that much. No – I’m referring to the rancid stench of bottoms that is buried thickly within the cushion of eve office chair. And which is released either as a slow-acting monster once a new employee sits on a once-dormant chair. Or worse – is guffed up into the air like a rancid, cloud each and every time someone plonks themselves down. Rr even simply rolls their arse cheeks around enough. It’s an appalling odor. It doesn’t even really smell like any individual bottom that I’ve ever come across (so to speak).

And that’s precisely the point. It isn’t any one singular bottom. Instead it’s the accumulated, rubbed, sweaty, buttocks of potentially hundreds of people. Most of whom haven’t intended to leave behind a beige-stamp of shame. Of course some have endured all kinds of leakings, problematic anuses and unspeakable, brown-nightmares that require medical treatment. But even those who haven’t suffered something that requires a nightly check from a concerned loved one/arse-welfare hostage have still secretly shoved small chuffings of wind into the seat. Driving them with focus to muffle the sound. Add that the very nature of recycled air in an office leads even the most sanitary person sat all day long in work pants to emanate something into the cushion. Each swivel chair has likely been penetrated in this putrid manner by tens if not hundreds of people. All dropping whatever smell behind ready to be poofed back into the air like one of those flowers that coughs its’ seeds into the air in the hope it will germinate somewhere else. In short the office chair is basically an Arse Cocktail.

Thankfully despite being out of work for three years I still had together my Office Emergency Kit. Which basically is a bag of items that every prepared employee needs in order to avoid earning the worst possible work nicknames. So aside from the obvious saviors that are a toothbrush and deodorant, (oh the misery of the day when you forget to put that on) it also contains a small, bottle of Febreze On The Go. Which in my case was duly sprayed (with wanton abandon and a public announcement that my seat smells like a thousand American arses) on my office chair to chase the sphincter-demons out. Of course I was careful not to overdo it. Don’t want to be stood up ten minutes later with a wet patch squished into the seat of my trousers making it look like I’ve just shit myself. We don’t do that sort of thing around here. This isn’t Yorkshire.

Staying on the topic of arses I have happened across another person with the unfortunate surname of Anil. I am entorely new to this name. I have been told it isn't pronounced how I think it is - but that isn't funny so have decided to ignore it entirely. In this paticular person’s case their surname was Poforma. Which is splendidly close to them having the name Anil Proforma. Which would basically would mean their name is, Anal As-A-Matter-Of-Politeness. Which I’d like to think is the case for any self-respecting woman. But I understand we all have comfort zones (or discomfort-zones, if that applies here).

A Never Ending Tussle

So, first things first - I work with someone who looks EXACTLY like this.

I am also honored to work in an organization that includes some of the most marvelously named people in history. For example there is an IT specialist in India who's forename is Bifta. Which still isn't as delightfully ridiculous as one of his female coworkers (and I swear I've encountered this name before) who has the christian name, Porntip. I've decided to be level-headed about this and assume that at some point last week when I contacted Porntip to have my Lotus Notes password reset that a small group huddled around her screen to laugh at the fact that - in India - my name means, "massive dog's bell end" or some such absurdity. Of course none of this remotely comes close to the triumphantly named person (I honestly couldn't confirm what sex they are) who has had to endure the name Anil Bejavia. Again - probably means piss-all where they're from. But now they've mingled in with the foul, unwashed pillocks from the West (well - me mostly) they have to endure sniggers every time they introduce themselves on a conference call.

I suppose I also need to mention that my kids have entered some odd fighty phase. They genuinely don't appear to want to get along at all. He's clearly the main instigators too. But being three he's shit at subtlety. So instead of trying to get away with behaving like a twat he just plows right in and seemingly couldn't give a toss about consequences. None of this, "but I'm technically not actually touching her" annoying stuff. He's got no time for that at all. Instead he just stands two feet away screaming incomprehensible bollocks at her before abandoning that delightful hobby and just trying to punch her .Actually his favorite is to rub his arse on her like a perverted dog. Which she used to think was funny (she did teach him that in the first place) but now finds it mortality wounding. For her part though she has taken to doing a weird, reverse misogynistic thing to her brother. That being to tease him when he's shoving his Batman car around and mocking him by sarcastically saying, "oh I'm so scared - here comes Bat Girl...." Which is making him so angry that he told her that her My Little Pony village that she built smells like penis. 

Mind you it kind of does.

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Rules Of Engagement

There's an unspoken code of conduct in a Men's bathroom in an office. When a man enters and nobody is stood at the urinal he takes a cursory glance towards the stalls to see if anyone is in there. If so a small amount of noise is then made to notify the shittee that there is someone else in the bathroom. That way they can try and pinch closed whatever they're doing and try and refrain from making any unpleasant gaseous or plopping noises until they're sure the bathroom is all theirs again. Personally I think this whole arrangement is somewhat barbaric. I operate on a Carry Out What You Carry In basis. You won't ever find me curling out any ill-gotten gains in a work toilet.

All of which is important to note because recently when I waltzed into the bathroom I was met with a deeply unpleasant sight. For reasons that are entirely unclear to me the design of the stall in my nearest bathroom is such that there us a disturbingly large gap underneath the wooden wall that hides the view of the person s/h/itting inside. So much so that instead of just being able to see the tell-tale sign of a pair of shoes inside (worst is when you can see feet on tip-toes - suggesting the person is grinding their body-weight forward so as to get a damn good purchase on the rim of the seat to rocket out whatever bran-barge they're desperate to be rid of) you can see half-way up the calf. It's an engineering failure that is surely talked about with shame at the International World Toilet Organization conference meetings (taking place in Finland this year, if you're interested).

Anyhoo - I followed all of the appropriate steps of decorum when I entered what appeared to be an empty room, only to see a pair of feet at the end of the room peering out underneath the wall. I shuffled my shoes on the floor to make a scuffing sound, and made a polite, "there's someone else in here..." cough. Then I was forced to make a double-take because I could very clearly see the kind of uncivilized evil that has seen the United States promise as a leading nation dwindle into the backsliding nightmare that it has become.

That being it was very obvious that the person sat in the stall had removed their pants entirely. There was simply no other explanation for the amount of naked calf-skin on display. Now I don't know what kind of monstrous, sloppy atrocity is being committed that requires a man to completely remove their trousers (but keep their socks and shoes on, mind you). I mean really - what kind of barbarian is aware that they'll be having a shit so messy that they best take their pants off in an office bathroom? And not only that, they paid little adherence to the audio notifications that I made and carried on grunting away like Maria Sharapova attempting a particularly difficult cross-court backhand. And not in a, "I can't keep this monster in" manner either. More the kind of primal, grunting that suggested an awful lot of forceful shoving was being attempted. Plus eerily the entire bathroom reeked of burnt popcorn. One can only imagine the magical anus this person must possess that they cannot help but attempt to bash out a bag of freshly, popped corn - but are unable to quite handle the sheer, brutal force of the thing and keep burning their afternoon snack.

Needless to say I quickly finished what I was doing, washed my hands and trotted off back to work before my work-clothes absorbed too much of the smell.

Monday, January 20, 2014

The Screw

Me: So Owen, have to be very careful when you're picking your belly button. If you dig around too hard you'll find the switch that everyone has in there. And if you accidentally turn that you're in big trouble, because then your bum falls off.

Son (eyes unbelievably wide and grasping both bum cheeks tightly): ............

So, after spending just shy of three years in the comfort of my own home playing with small kids (Editors note -: you might want to consider rewriting that bit - it's a bit Glitter-esque to be honest) I've been back in work for a month and a half. Quite frankly being around adults is quite surreal. Not least because I can can suddenly see the innate child in everyone. I don't mean that in a critical way either. I just mean that everyone around me just seems so vulnerable and child-like. It's an odd thing. Their bodies have aged and their responsibilities in life have grown. But often all I see around me are what these people must have looked like as kids. It sort of makes office-life seem so unnatural when you walk past a group of office-cubes filled with adults from thirty to fifty-something but view them all as kids. Basically either I'd been at home for way too long and gone completely mental, or I've acquired a new perspective that I don't quite understand at the minute.

Nevertheless I made the point early on to my line manager about how strange it is. Add that it was unlikely that I'd be mopping up anyone's spilled urine on a daily basis or picking half-chewed salami out of a trampoline spring. Although I did add that - being new - I was aware that if anyone needed changing that my name was very much at the top of the list. Truth be told I secretly hoped someone did shit themselves just so I could wow my new coworkers with my incredible arse-cleaning abilities. That didn't happen though. And after a month and a half it still hasn't. There's obviously still time though.

Had a chance to decorate my cube a bit too. Nothing overtly ridiculous. And certainly not like my cube-mate - who seems to have slaughtered the gayest bird of prey in history and mounted it amongst feather boas, cheesy animal prints and what appear to be pelts of every one of the My Little Pony universe. Not me though - just went for the basics. Firstly I pinned the now infamous The American Crayon box that I own (that has "Made In Mexico" written down the side) and this home-made inspirational poster.

It has also been a strange experience to deliberately not do things that I've been completely comfortable doing for years. So I'm not to pick my nose or chuff out any inner demons whenever the occasion seems to take hold. Which disturbingly appears to be quite often. Judging by the frequency that I had to remind myself not to plow my finger up my schnozz and dig around it turns out that picking my nose has become one of my favorite activities over the past three years. I have genuinely gone out to my car on break to give my nasal cavities a good, solid ten minute spelunking. I've also been aware that I cann't just type the name off an actress and the word "tits" into Google Image searches whenever the thought comes to me. Apparently you can't do that at work.

And for anyone wondering - of course I didn't poo at work. Have some decency - I'm not an animal.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

The Annoying Delay


Yes I'm well aware I haven't written anything in a bit. It's flown by too. All this working and nonsense is an irritating blockade in the way of writing stuff down. Annoyingly I still don't have any internet service at my home. But there will be changes in the next couple of weeks. So yeah - I'll get back on the pony at that point.

More importantly I think is that I'm going to modify this blog. I have a few concurrent (and unlinked) things going and decided that - balls to it - I'll just merge them all into one. So one is a work-related thing that I'll make more vague (less fireable in other words) and another is a collection of the random nonsense that I think of on a daily basis and doesnt really have a home. Which I think is fine. Because this is no longer a thing about me staying home with my kids. Plus, judging by the stacks of note-paper I've scribbled inane guff all over lying around my house, I have plenty to actually type up.

So yeah - gimme a bit. It'll be worth the wait. I promise. If only for the astounding number of people I've encountered with christian names that sound like Karma Sutra chapters. Oh - and a weird dream I had that involved putting Rohypnol in the entire water supply for my office.

Oh now you're interested....