Relatives are time
So that’s Christmas over then. We’re in that awqward space between celebrations, the end of year limbo, when Ireland’s liver is given a generous one week break. The incoming New Year threatens a lot of sensible living and hard work for me, for it’s time to stop being a gobshite I fear. Oh well. RIP path of self-destruction.
Here are a few random things that happened over the last few days. I don’t think any lessons can be learned from them really.
- I was interrogated by the police for being furtive on a quiet country lane with The Accidental Terrorist’s big yellow van.
- I almost caused my dad to have a minor cardiac infarction when I failed to guess his wild gesturings during a game of charades. So would you if you had to guess ‘Eternal Enemies of Lions and Hyenas’ within 2 minutes.
- I made two small Children cry on Christmas day because I felt like it.
- I crashed a party and overdosed on Mickey Finn’s due to lowest-card drawn shot drinking contest.
- I started Assassin’s Creed but a space continuum has created a rip which has prevented me from playing it since. I need to invent a cloning machine in the new year.
- I lost three games of poker
- I’ve discovered that the combined weight of all my children’s toys is causing foundation subsidence.
- I’ve discovered that time doesn’t exist, and my liver hates me.
That’s all. My brain is a reheated boiled sprout and my body is one big sugar crash. See you when I’m me again!
Happy Sol Invictus everybody!
For those of you who are sick of hearing about Christmas, or who really just aren’t into that sort of thing anyway…
December 25th is the feast of ‘Sol Invictus’, the re-birth of the sun. Being a huge fan of the sun (I don’t get to see it often), I will spare a thought for it on Christmas Day. For I suppose, if it wasn’t for Sol Invictus, our modern day ‘Christmas’ wouldn’t exist! Or, it would have been somewhere near Thanksgiving which would have annoyed the U.S., or somewhere in January, which clashes with the January Sales, and that wouldn’t make financial sense at all.
In 46 BC, when the Roman “Julian Calendar” was adopted, December 24th was the shortest day of the year. Therefore, December 25th was the first annual day that daylight began to increase. Thus, the origin of rebirth, or annual birthday of the invincible sun. (source)
I have to go cleaning windows for a few days so I don’t know when I’ll next be able to get back to this ‘puter! Also there are presents to wrap and bags to pack and bits to buy and cakes to ice and plans to be formed and it’s all too much JUST FOR ONE PERSON!!!!
*sigh*
From the bottom of my heart… Happy whatever you’re into. May you not spill a drop this holiday.
I hope the New Year brings you silky smooth skin with hardly any acne and absolutely no hives at all. Metaphorically speaking.
Cabbie K8
A week later…
There’s that personality dysfunction I was telling you about! I’m not very good at announcing or celebrating things for some reason.
Yes, kind people, thank you for asking – I did indeed pass my Public Service Vehicle test last Tuesday!
Luckily the garda in charge was too busy listening to Joe Duffy and chatting to his collegue to correct the test paper properly, for yours truly was not entirely awake at the time of the exam. It had taken me two hours to slide all the way to Wexford on the black ice, with this rolling around my confused little head. Then of course, being as unprepared as I tend to be, I had 30 minutes to revise Irish Road signs. For some reason I didn’t expect there to be many more than 20, but no, there are plenty of odd and superfluous road signs and markings out there to confuse the Irish driver. As for directions around Wicklow Town… why are you asking me this?!?! They have… like… satellite maps these days y’know. Duuuhhh…
So, I entered the exam feeling unprepared, tired and nervous, but came out happily sucking diesel!!! I even treated myself to some windscreen wiper fluid to celebrate.
I am especially happy seeing as the powers that be have decided to make this whole testing thing a lot more detailed in the future. Had I not passed this test, I would’ve had to suffer a whole training course should I have chosen to re-apply! Sod all this training lark. I have full confidence in my own ability to wing it.
I’m going to go now and draw a fake moustache and glasses on my photo I.D., then I think I’ll ice my Christmas cake and then perhaps poison the neighbour’s cat with all the leftover marzipan.
Happy Humpday everybody!
A pain in my whole.
I’ve been triple tagged! Ouch.
Virtual armpit wedgies for Jack Mc Mad, Kirk, and Jefferson Davis.
That’s what I get for being both lazy and chronically busy at the same time. I’ve hung around so long there’s nobody left to tag! It’s gotten so bad, that even Grannymar’s been snared, and everybody knows this is an absolute last resort.
So here it is, my tag of deepest secrets, smeared and stained and left to air for the amusement of the general public. It pains me to reveal this stuff, the stuff that only a therapist should know about. I refuse point blank right now to carry through with the tag Dad just got, should it somehow land in my linklinks. Right?
Ok. *sigh* Here we go.
Here are the rules of the Meme:
Post on your blog . . .
+ Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
+ Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
+ Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
+ Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
(nervous shuffle)
1. I have fantasies about the various ways I could kill my next door neighbour’s cat, along with the possible ways I could wear it afterwards. I am not mean. It is an evil cat with beautiful fur.
2. I seem to have developed a crush on Maggie Gyllenhaal for some reason. I hope my mother wasn’t right after all…
3. Anal Suppositories wierd me out. I just can’t put my finger on it.
4. I think I have a personality disorder. Either that or I’m turning into my parents. When the disorder is discovered and studied, I hope they put my name on it.
5. I had a serious phobia about knocking my two front teeth out (this is my dad’s fault) for years. Sometimes I even used to walk up and down stairs with my hand over my mouth just in case I fell. Then, when I got very pissed one night and fell down a hill, the first part of me that collided with the pavement was my left incisor. I broke the tooth clean in half, but didn’t feel a thing. Yes, I did whistle on the fricatives. It was very embarrassing. But, at least the phobia’s gone now.
6. There were bars placed on all the windows of Merville student residence in UCD as a result of a really idiotic studenty stunt I pulled. All it takes is one truly heroic person to sacrifice themselves for the cause of highlighting public liability. That person is me.
7. I am addicted to the sound of electric fans. I’ve had this since I was very young. It’s very a strange, expensive and annoying habit, but I just find the sound extremely soothing. Recording the sound of a running fan heater and playing it back to myself is not the same thing. It is somewhat related to the gratuitous fact that I’m always bloody cold, maybe.
And now, to pass on the pain….
*7 hours later*
Betty the Sheep
Foreigner by Default
Resident Alien
Stranded on Gaia
Coffee Helps! (Especially with this.)
Helga Von Porno
Rick O’Shea is a presenter on 2fm who has, I just discovered, his own blog. I’m tagging him for the craic because I like him and I like doing mean things to people I like.
I deeply apologise to you all, especially if I have re-tagged you. I have just used this as a cheap tool to link to all of your very linkworthy sites. Pass it on if you like, I don’t care. It’s gone from my shoulders!!! Forever!!!!
On a different note, here is a genuine photograph of the fattest giraffe in the world.
I stole it from this page.
For more random animal strangeness, go see this page.
Please do not read this post
I fucking warned you.
Hello, my name is Whogiv Zashit and this is the first day of my Niquitless challenge. Yeah. Cold turkey. I’m not feeding the little fucker one more microgram of Nicotine from this day forth. I shot the little sap and his whingey little voice point blank this morning. Right between the eyes. *BANG*.
I have Baino’s strength and Chronic Bronchitis on my side. I’m free. Free of the midnight panic of the empty ciggy box. Free of the yearning to hit the cow behind the counter who keeps asking if I want a 20 box. (Do I have a choice?! Are you forcing me into a 40 a day habit?! Show some sensitivity bitch!) Free of that stinky salt-peter fug that makes you want to vomit first thing in the morning. Free of that heart-string pulling face that the kiddies give me that tells me they don’t want to hug me because I smell like shite. Free of scabbing lighters. Free of the yearning to thump anyone who glares at me for stubbing a fag out on the pavement. FREE FREE FREE.
I’m cranky. Whatever. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I can’t find anything else to replace my addiction (though this vodka and orange is suddenly way tastier), and a lot to do with the fact that I’ve got my PSV test tomorrow morning. Timing is everything, innit?
Why not wait until after Christmas you might say? Make it a New Year’s Resolution? FUCK OFF. I might reply. I’ll have saved €156.45 by then, sure!
I used to hate whiskey. Now that I can properly taste it, I might invest this money into re-discovering it! This, I feel, would be an excellent present for my children for Christmas.
I don’t expect you to comment, seeing as you didn’t read this post like I told you. If anyone tells me ‘Well Done!’ I will kill them as this is an instant hex on my endeavours so far. Tell me that it’s about time. Tell me I was a stupid cow to have forked out so much cash to a stupid company who is intent on killing stupid people.
If you’re a smoker, I’m sorry. I told you you shouldn’t have read this. It’s sickeningly sobering.
If you’re not, at least you can say you did one amazingly productive thing in your life. You didn’t start. I am increadibly and awesomely jealous.
FREAK!
Rancid
Minced beef is a wonderful foodstuff. I couldn’t turn it down when my friend offered some to me. She’d over-stocked in the supermarket, and had left the sealed package in the fridge for a few days with a view to feeding it to her dog. I took it off her hands, and threw it into my own fridge, intending on turning it into something yummy some night.
The days passed, however, and the hectic weekend denied me any chance of cooking at all. When I did finally fish the meat out of the fridge, I saw to my dismay that it had turned a funny grey colour, bordering on green. I peeled back the sealed cellophane and had a sniff.
Women develop a highly effective survival technique when they become pregnant, and it stays with us. We can sniff a product, and instantly judge from our queasiness levels as to how nourishing it will be for our growing foetus. I can smell a rotten sausage from five miles away, as the actress said to the bishop.
This minced green beef, now six days past its sell by date, didn’t smell too toxic at all! Then I remembered a fact I’d learned. Apparently the curry was invented to use up stocks of rancid meat. Enough spices and pungent herbs can disguise even the dodgiest of foods.
I emptied the meat into a dish, then added curry powder, cardamom, cumin seed, chile powder, ginger, worcester sauce and of course, oodles of salt and pepper. I kneaded it all together, and made home-made burgers out of it.
The Accidental Terrorist picked up his burger and took a large bite.
“Jeeeezus!” he exclaimed. I went pale, and squirmed a little.
“Is it ok?” I asked breezily.
“It’s feckin’ delicious!!! Did you make these?”
“Yep!” I said. “Did you know that curry was invented to disguise the taste of rancid meat?”
“No” he said, and took another large bite.
I did my part. I gave adequate warning. I know you’d love to hear that we both spent the remainder of the evening fighting for toilet-bowl space, but we didn’t. Not even so much as a ‘hot ring of fire’ the next morning.
My granny would be proud of my frugality.
Fight or flight or Damn good acting
It’s a dangerous world out there, but of course I don’t need to tell you that. Violence is horrifying, so we all do our best to prepare ourselves and our loved ones for the likelihood of personal attacks. Self-defence is by far the most under-advertised health product.
In my little head, I am a fearsome bitch. I’ve lain in bed awake on a few occasions imaging scenarios. A shadow would slowly creep up the walls of my bedroom, and a dark figure with a knife would suddenly appear at the threshold. I’d leap up, grab my highly flammable bodyspray can and lighter, stand defiantly on the mattress and say ‘Not. This. Family.’ in my best dry emotionless tone (as defined by Kevin Spacey in the Usual Suspects). I would then give a brief demonstration of my home-made flamethrower just to seal the deal. Said robber would then pee his pants and either grovel or turn tail.
I’ve walked a dark street and imagined that four brothers from the gutter have crept up behind me. My imaginary acting skills would guide me to safety by denying the assailants of my fear. I would shout gibberish into mid air, then proceed to stick my fingers down my throat. Once I had managed to regurgitate, I would then sit on the pavement and start to play with the diced carrots. That would be enough hopefully to freak out even the toughest of bastards.
If there were one man instead of four, of course I would try out some Uma Therman moves as learned from Kill Bill. I would karate chop their windpipe with the tips of my fingers, then kick the assailant in the gonads. As he doubles over, I would then deliver a knee to the forehead. Perfect, but unlikely. Happily though, there is no such thing as ‘unlikely’ in my imagination. Who really knows what our bodies will do against our better judgement in a fight or flight situation unless we’ve been tested before?
I’m taking my Public Service Vehicle license test on the 11th. I want to be a taxi-driver, and do my bit for the country by motoring both disabled and fully functional people around Wicklow. My car’s already adapted, so it makes sense. The Accidental Terrorist has already passed his test so is now a bonafide Taxi driver. He will be working at night, but is more than capable of defending himself against drunken attacks.
If I pass this test, I’ll be doing the day-shifts. These are infinately safer than night-shifts, but still not totally devoid of risky situations. You never know when you’ll come across a belligerent old bitch with a can of mace who’ll do anything for a discount, or some weirdo dressed up as an accountant who thinks you need to see his ‘special purpose’.
The thing is, though, it’s quite difficult to defend oneself from a driver’s seat. There’s no room to build up enough momentum for a good punch, and the handbrake might get in the way of a half-nelson attempt. I’m not allowed to use weapons of course, so I’m kind of stumped.
My questions are… Have you ever been involved in a car-seat fight? Have you seen any films which involve this sort of scenario? What are the most effective intimidating props you can think of, that can be used to ward off the madmen?
I would also be very interested to hear about key-ring attatchments. Do they make taiser guns small enough?
