No Offence But.

You were kind of a shit fish. I don't even have a photo of you. I was going to put up one that looked like you, but to be honest, I can't really remember what you look like already.

And no offence wife but you picked it for being pretty and, well. Look where that landed it. Down the toilet. Back toilet admittedly, so it wouldn't get pooed on, because I do have a shred of human (fish) decency.

The ano bitch didn't eat, and swam about like he owned the tank. You picked the gayest fish in the shop wife, don't think it went unnoticed. He also had no personality so he wasn't even one of those good gays either.

Whereas my fish was awesome, just like his name sake, and like his name sake, literally jumped at his food. Well, I don't literally jump for food, but then I don't have it held above my head. Try it with a pie and see what happens.

Sorry but. Don't come into my house and expect me to like you and clean your tank and shit.

RIP Sandy a.k.a. Sanford* - whenever the wife brought you into our lives - today. Tough titties.

*Blasphemous BTW.

A Drag.

Watching a movie about drag queens. How is it they are, for the most part, more attractive than I? I mean, I wear equally as much make up.

Is it fair? No.

On the bright side, I'm picking up my super tight harry high pants soon. Nothing better than a really long zipper. Sexual.

Even if my ass looks huge. I'm just I'm just Amo from the block.

Oh, This Old Thing.

San In My Ford.

Kirsten: Hey Sandy, doesn't Seth look rad?
Sandy: Oh, you do look rad! Mad props son!

Stupid.

It's been two weeks, and perhaps she ran out of whatever rat poison she's using to secretly and slowly kill her captured and has to drive to the warehouse on the other side of the country to replenish her stock. Who knows? On second thought, far be it for her to make any effort herself - a mysterious package from ACME Poisons Inc. is likely to arrive via company-paid express courier any day now, instead giving her time to, I presume, polish his shackles.

Regardless, she's doing a sterling job of secretly and slowly killing yours truly, through the sheer frustration and simple boredom of covering her pathetic excuse for an existence. No, sorry - the other excuse, the one that doesn't involve being a gold-digging witch (see below).

I heard an interesting fact regarding the aforementioned yesterday, that - for sake of story we shall call him Captured - Captured's family hate her because they think she is after his money, of which he apparently has some. An interesting claim - made more interesting by the fact that they don't just hate her for the sole reason that she is the devil incarnate.

Apparently Cappo's riches are held in a trust, that will be released to him after he reaches a certain age. Explaining why she isn't revelling in the spoils of wealth just yet - evident in the pristinely preserved early 90's artifacts she trots about the office in. And also explaining the need to keep him alive long enough to seal the deal. Considering they aren't married and are apparently little more than housemates, I assume her taking on the role of his carer somehow entitles her to a slice once he drops off the perch. And by drops off the perch I mean she brings out the pillow she has been saving for the fateful day when he doesn't survive his latest stroke.

Now that Cappo is out of hospital, she has taken it to the next level, whereby she herself is ill - allowing her to play the victim once again. What a considerate soul she is, looking after her sick husband/partner/defacto spouse/old friend/distant cousin/long missing, presumed dead insurance salesman. And now, the poor dear, she's ill herself - she has the sniffles and everything, imagine. She really does need those TWO ENTIRE WEEKS off.

Little be it for me to complain, she appears to have pulled off these entirely transparent shows since forever, and isn't likely to be stopped any time soon. So until then I suppose we must all humour her stories of woe and accommodate her whims - that is until the investigation commences. Oh, did I type that? Sorry, I was confusing real life with the real life where evil Munchausen fuckheads get what they deserve.


Rant terminated 11.52.

To Anyone.

Who could trust those who are meant to be trusted.
Whose endeavours were met with encouragement, not scorn.
Whose perceptions of reality never wavered.
Whose needs were always met.
Who had someone to turn to.
Who was never ignored.
Who was wanted.

FUCK YOU.

What FUCKING right do you have to be proud of your "accomplishments"?
What have you OVERCOME to get to where you are?
ANYONE AND EVERYONE can succeed when given the right tools - most of you are prime examples.

People who have had to WORK to have any semblance of a reasonable life are the ones who are SUCCESSFUL.
These are true accomplishments - NOT measurable in qualifications or money or SMUGNESS.

Congratulations on winning the FUCKING genetic lottery.

You have not achieved.
You should not be proud.

Kids These Days.

He'd convinced his mummy to let him wear his best Pumpkin Patch shirt, the one she says he looks like "such a big boy" in. He'd escaped the comb this morning, so his hair was a boyish mop. He sucked the last of the juice from his Fruit Box and threw the carton on the ground, hoping she'd see this blatant act of rebellion.

He was feeling good.

His Spiderman light-up joggers flashed red as he crossed the oval, jumping up and swinging from the monkey bars on his way. He eyed the girl. She was cute, with big brown eyes; her long pigtails tied with ribbon.

He knew he'd have to pull out all the stops if he stood a chance with this one. He grabbed a handful of bark chips and threw them at the girl. Works every time, he thought. She squealed and stuck out her tongue at him. He stuck his out back at her.

I'm in.

He smiled to himself, feeling inside his pocket to check he had what he needed. The bumpy texture inside calmed his nerves, and excited him in a way he wouldn't understand for a few more years to come.

He told the girl she smelled, and she hit him in the arm. He could see her Dora the Explorer drink bottle by her side, and wondered how he'd do it. So he came up with the most elaborate plan he could think of, and ran off with the bottle.

She chased him, but he had the perennial favourite chasey escape plan - the boy's toilets.

He stood inside a cubicle and closed the door, leaning his head against it for a moment to catch his breath. He knelt down to open the bottle, and pulled the Glad bag that had contained yesterday's sandwich from his pocket.

Today it contained the coloured beads his sister played with, Bindeez. He'd be giving them to the girl, but not to play with.

He unsealed the bag, and poured the beads into her bottle, watching as they sank to the bottom, thinking that today was his day.

Today he would do to her what he'd been wanting to since the first time he saw her across the assembly. Today he'd, with the assistance of his sister's recalled toy, realise his boyhood dream.

He was going to take her behind the shelter shed and have his way with her. He was going to hold her hand.

He shook the bottle.

His playdate-rape cocktail was ready.

Cheating.

I never meant to do it.

I knew it was wrong, but I felt I needed to see what else was out there, that I wasn't missing out. I mean, how can you be sure, if you've never had anything else?

And, it didn't seem a big deal; everyone else was doing it, and liking it. Some had even abandoned the old in favour of the new.

I wanted to see what all of the fuss was about - so I did it.

And it was exciting, at first.

I tried things I'd never tried before, explored places I never knew existed. I saw my friends, but I saw them in a different light, and it was as if we were meeting again, for the first time.

It wasn't perfect; we had nothing in common, but it was all new to me, and it was thrilling.

But soon, the thrill wore off and I could see it for what it was. I realised what I'd done.

I sold my soul to discover what I'd known all along.

I felt dirty. I felt ashamed.

But I knew what I wanted.

I deleted my Facebook account.

What They Eat Don't Make Us Shit.

If I were as talented a writer as Mr. R. Kelly, perhaps I would have the words to describe the video above.

Masterpiece, is all that comes to mind.

Bitch I wish you wooould burn my motherfucking cloooooothes.

Real talk.

Fanny Or Tranny?

Need I say more.

California. Here We Come.

I haven't yet been able to bring myself to witness the death of Marissa Cooper.

I was there, when it happened, but somehow the second coming is far worse - I know what is ahead, and flashes of that night appear in my mind, and it is as if a part of myself died in that accident.

Although I may revisit the memories we shared together (on DVD), they will never fill the inevitable emptiness that awaits, once I pass this point.

It is as if she is already gone, and still I can't let her go.

I see a new chapter ahead (on the shelf), so I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that there is life after Marissa Cooper - but I wonder - will it be the same?

Sadly, I already know.

Britney Spears.

I rather enjoy reading about the life of Ms. Britney Spears-Alexander-Federline.

Now, I'm not one to judge, and by not one to judge I mean that I am incredibly judgemental.

I've come to the conclusion that, should you be waiting for your bus along King William Street at 3pm and you smelt the tangy aroma of stale cigarettes and KFC grease, and heard the crying of two young children, you would turn your head, subtly, so as not to attract attention from the players in this scene. You would see a 20-something single mother, severely underdressed for her bloated, neglected shape, sipping a can of Woodstock and carrying bags of newly purchased clothes in much the same vein as those she is already wearing - and you would silently sigh, annoyed that your bus route goes all the way to Salisbury.

Should you be in the queue at the checkout in Woolies, it is likely you would be waiting behind this spotty, unkempt woman, pushing a double pram in a pair of denim mini-shorts and foam platform thongs. She would load boxes of Coco Pops and frozen chicken nuggets (for the children) and a few bags of Doritoes onto the conveyor belt as her unrestrained children's arms grab at the chocolates on either side of the aisle. She would yell in an unconvincing tone to "leave the damn Freddo Frogs alone", and "they ain't gettin' nothin' if they keep it up". Which they do, so she buys them two each to keep them quiet.

Should you be dragged to Mansions on a Saturday night by a friend with somewhat questionable taste, it would be no surprise to see this woman, dressed in attire to make her daywear look downright conservative, dancing like a washed-up, coked-out stripper and lapping up the male attention, from males whose standards are based on the notion that "any hole's a goal". Without the children to hold her back, she carelessly downs whatever is handed to her, probably spilling it over you as she turns her head to vomit, while you do your best to avoid her on your way out of the classy establishment.

Essentially, Britney Spears (multi-millionaire) is no different from your grassroots bogan (Centrelink payments) that you may encounter during the course of your day - and depending on how you look at it - that is either a rather inspiring, or incredibly depressing thought.