Hog on the Run
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Weddings and other such rot
Being one of those happily engaged (swoon! at the romance) but really can't quite make the extra effort and do the deed type of people, I love to see someone making a mockery of those who see a wedding as a status symbol:
Enjoy
I still haven't worked out if there is a good way to finally make Sidekick an honest man. Options include:
* The "Registry Office Number". Get married to the strains of your chosen deeply cheesy ballad (I'd suggest "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica for preference) and allow the most important day of your life to be presided over by Betty, who's put on her best hot pink polyester skirt suit. She'll list your vows in a voice that somehow manages to drip sarcasm, saccharine sweetness and boredom in equal amounts. This is legally binding. And she'll make sure you know it.
* The "We wrote all the vows ourselves" wedding. Speaks for itself, really. I'd recommend stealing Johnathan Safran Foer's words from "Everything Is Illuminated" along the lines of some very worthwhile promises (I will refill the toilet paper holder, I will allow you to have the last word in every third argument, after you have given up hope of ever seeing me do the washing up, you will come home to discover that the draining board is empty, etc) rather than listing just how much you looooove your other half. Of course you do, but there are bound to be cynics at the wedding, and providing 80+ (colour co-ordinated and stylish, possibly avant guarde) sick bags may prove a budget breaker.
Mr SF's site
* The "Druidic Rune-Fest". Still, at this point, a winner for me, owing to my conviction that my father would disapprove mightily. Childish I know, but I am the youngest, and therefore genetically most likely to disappoint.
Hire a long haired aging hippy chap to make the incantations, dress like an extra from the Rohan set of LOTR, and force all of your friends and family to join together in blessing your marriage in an empty field somewhere "celtic".
Note: check for bovines before beginning. They can become almost terrifyingly curious once they get over being startled.
* The "Piss off abroad and avoid having anyone you know watch". Good for those who want to combine sun, sea and strong liquor, with absolutely not under any circumstances spending any time or cash on Great Auntie Ethel. Bit of a cop-out really. Suffering the presence of your family is an integral part of any wedding. And you know that foreign food doesn't agree with you. Ever since you were a kid you've got the runs every time you're away from the house for a night...sorry, I've slipped into mother mode. See? You cannot escape, no matter how much you want to.
* The "We've got an obsession and we are not afraid to blackmail you into taking part" celebration. Suggest on the invitation that anyone not wearing a really excellent Star Wars costume will not be allowed in, and have all the hymns translated into Wookiee. Aren't you a little short for a wedding guest?
So there is my dilemma. Anyone got a better idea, let me know. The time it takes me to come to a decision, I'll be away the crow road before I get to be a Mrs.
Pity. I've got a dress pattern ready to sew and everything....
Friday, January 14, 2005
I've spent a frankly mind altering amount of time looking at other people's blogs of late. It's become a compulsive thing. So I'm rambling through the pages, peaceful, calm, looking for the fabled blog of perfection. It's like resting in a well padded armchair. Then it happened.
I skipped from here (isn't that nice? Recipes and stuff.)
To
Aaargh!
Some p*rny filth called Milk and Cookies, spreading like the juice of unfettered young men across my screen.
Including: (wait for it) AMATEUR VIDEO!
There were bosoms everywhere, and I'd swear if you moved, they'd follow you around the room. My office is filled suddenly with everyone I work with.
NIPE!
I clicked out of there so fast I damn near did myself a mischief (while simultaneously wondering just exactly where the cookies came in - urk).
Other things that make me go straight to next blog:
AnYtiNg wAd luKes LiKe Dis LoL HaAhAAz
To help with any sites you find that have this affliction, here's yet another translator. Should you care. For the love of God, will they eventually start talking like this too?
Stuff like this. What a waste.
Also dopey blogs that just rant on about a certain celebrity or other unrequited love object. I found a certain blog today about that opera singer chappy (Jason something?) but it was just too sad to post - I must protect the innocent.
There is good stuff:
Parade of Delusion
ilevel
Lowland Seed
Look at them. Savour the entertainment.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Minor Humiliations
A daily occurrence. Most recently:
* I made a letter template for customer letters including the phrase, "If any further assistance is required, please me on the extension number below". The real problem? No-one did.
* Having cloth ears, I have difficulty with names. I recently put a call through confidently proclaiming the caller to be "Dave Imstadt". His name was Fred Mutch.
In the past:
* The gym our school used had a fitness room where all the blokes hung out, rather than playing squash or whatever. Myself and a "friend" decided to penetrate (eh?) this bastion of masculinity in the hope of attracting them to our staggering and fabulous girlness. Climbing aboard the Torturomatic (tm) running machine, I strode out, waiting for awareness of my presence to permeate the room. I was young, I was nervous, I was sure that boy from my French class was watching me. I smiled tentatively, absolutely convinced of having staked my claim, sure I could now use the gym every week. Great! I belonged! Then my "friend" reset the belt speed from "leisurely stroll" to "minute mile coronary certainty" and I shot backwards like a greased pig from a slingshot and rebounded from the wall. Never been to a gym since.
* Getting fiendishly drunk seemed to be the only way to survive the coming of the millennium, trapped as I was in the third tackiest night club in the world. "Neebleys" or whatever the hell it's called is situated within easy perpetrating distance of the Police Station, but approximately 400 light years from anywhere you'd ever want to be. It still has those streamers of silver paper (think circa 1985 Top of the Pops) strung round the dancefloor, and every inch of the place is painted black. The walls sweat on busy nights. Into the home straight now, Sidekick takes me to a friend's house for the bells. If I'd known, I'd never have had that last vodka and redbull, but a game of Trivial Pursuit was proposed.
Which brought out my vicious competetive streak.
By 2am I am yanking the box of questions from the grasp of somebody's mother yelling "You don't fucking know anything, don't answer any more questions! You fuck!". Don't drink. It can make you the source of pure parental horror. Oh, the humanity.
There's more, I'm sure of it, but I have blanked the memories. If I wake screaming in the night when they come rushing back, I'll probably add them in an effort to exorcise the demons.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
It is not quelqu'un never trusted, this forehead has only one.
Or Never trust someone who has only one eyebrow.
Gorgeous
Just a little translation thingy. Made me laugh like a Red Setter with a new frisbee.
Example:
* original: "I work in a fruit store, from dawn until dusk".
* result: "Work in a memory of the fruit, between l'aube and l'alba".
Nice.
Okapi out.
Fortune Favours the Mould
So I will never win obsessive housewife of the year, but I consider myself to be a not-entirely unclean person (unclean! Unclean!) but what's with the bright orange mould that is taking over my bathroom?
I swear I have never seen it anywhere else. Perhaps I should culture it in a petri dish and send it to some science whizz?
Gaaadss....it's even colonizing the shower curtain.
At least it isn't the dark mould that led to the ultimate collapse of the bathroom wall. Sidekick, while leaning on the wall, cleaning the bath, ended up falling through it practically ending up in next door's stairwell.
But that was a long time ago, and I've stopped laughing now.
What could be the result of orange mould? Warp dimensions? A new life form? Only time will tell.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Please notice "snow" adhering tastefully to my behind. 
Little Chance
So, hang the disappointment caused by merely being bandwaggony, every other person / creature / disembodied frog-like head with a computer and a handily-held pencil in the mouth is doing the whole blog thang, right?
Nice pic huh? Mystery substance sticking to my supposedly non-stick breeks (look it up, why don't you?) may actually be marshmallow or Yeti doings..... and to think that what mostly passes through my mind when sliding downhill strapped to piece of kevlar'n'wood is "Gee whillikins! 30 seconds vertical and I haven't succumbed to gravity!".
Alright, I freely admit it's really "Check it out - Pushing the big 3 0 and still cooooool...". And I never actually think "Gee whillikins". Tragic.
Technical term for the, um, "stance" I am demonstrating is "too pooped". The shame, the turrrrrible shame.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Weddings and other such rot
Being one of those happily engaged (swoon! at the romance) but really can't quite make the extra effort and do the deed type of people, I love to see someone making a mockery of those who see a wedding as a status symbol:
Enjoy
I still haven't worked out if there is a good way to finally make Sidekick an honest man. Options include:
* The "Registry Office Number". Get married to the strains of your chosen deeply cheesy ballad (I'd suggest "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica for preference) and allow the most important day of your life to be presided over by Betty, who's put on her best hot pink polyester skirt suit. She'll list your vows in a voice that somehow manages to drip sarcasm, saccharine sweetness and boredom in equal amounts. This is legally binding. And she'll make sure you know it.
* The "We wrote all the vows ourselves" wedding. Speaks for itself, really. I'd recommend stealing Johnathan Safran Foer's words from "Everything Is Illuminated" along the lines of some very worthwhile promises (I will refill the toilet paper holder, I will allow you to have the last word in every third argument, after you have given up hope of ever seeing me do the washing up, you will come home to discover that the draining board is empty, etc) rather than listing just how much you looooove your other half. Of course you do, but there are bound to be cynics at the wedding, and providing 80+ (colour co-ordinated and stylish, possibly avant guarde) sick bags may prove a budget breaker.
Mr SF's site
* The "Druidic Rune-Fest". Still, at this point, a winner for me, owing to my conviction that my father would disapprove mightily. Childish I know, but I am the youngest, and therefore genetically most likely to disappoint.
Hire a long haired aging hippy chap to make the incantations, dress like an extra from the Rohan set of LOTR, and force all of your friends and family to join together in blessing your marriage in an empty field somewhere "celtic".
Note: check for bovines before beginning. They can become almost terrifyingly curious once they get over being startled.
* The "Piss off abroad and avoid having anyone you know watch". Good for those who want to combine sun, sea and strong liquor, with absolutely not under any circumstances spending any time or cash on Great Auntie Ethel. Bit of a cop-out really. Suffering the presence of your family is an integral part of any wedding. And you know that foreign food doesn't agree with you. Ever since you were a kid you've got the runs every time you're away from the house for a night...sorry, I've slipped into mother mode. See? You cannot escape, no matter how much you want to.
* The "We've got an obsession and we are not afraid to blackmail you into taking part" celebration. Suggest on the invitation that anyone not wearing a really excellent Star Wars costume will not be allowed in, and have all the hymns translated into Wookiee. Aren't you a little short for a wedding guest?
So there is my dilemma. Anyone got a better idea, let me know. The time it takes me to come to a decision, I'll be away the crow road before I get to be a Mrs.
Pity. I've got a dress pattern ready to sew and everything....
Enjoy
I still haven't worked out if there is a good way to finally make Sidekick an honest man. Options include:
* The "Registry Office Number". Get married to the strains of your chosen deeply cheesy ballad (I'd suggest "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica for preference) and allow the most important day of your life to be presided over by Betty, who's put on her best hot pink polyester skirt suit. She'll list your vows in a voice that somehow manages to drip sarcasm, saccharine sweetness and boredom in equal amounts. This is legally binding. And she'll make sure you know it.
* The "We wrote all the vows ourselves" wedding. Speaks for itself, really. I'd recommend stealing Johnathan Safran Foer's words from "Everything Is Illuminated" along the lines of some very worthwhile promises (I will refill the toilet paper holder, I will allow you to have the last word in every third argument, after you have given up hope of ever seeing me do the washing up, you will come home to discover that the draining board is empty, etc) rather than listing just how much you looooove your other half. Of course you do, but there are bound to be cynics at the wedding, and providing 80+ (colour co-ordinated and stylish, possibly avant guarde) sick bags may prove a budget breaker.
Mr SF's site
* The "Druidic Rune-Fest". Still, at this point, a winner for me, owing to my conviction that my father would disapprove mightily. Childish I know, but I am the youngest, and therefore genetically most likely to disappoint.
Hire a long haired aging hippy chap to make the incantations, dress like an extra from the Rohan set of LOTR, and force all of your friends and family to join together in blessing your marriage in an empty field somewhere "celtic".
Note: check for bovines before beginning. They can become almost terrifyingly curious once they get over being startled.
* The "Piss off abroad and avoid having anyone you know watch". Good for those who want to combine sun, sea and strong liquor, with absolutely not under any circumstances spending any time or cash on Great Auntie Ethel. Bit of a cop-out really. Suffering the presence of your family is an integral part of any wedding. And you know that foreign food doesn't agree with you. Ever since you were a kid you've got the runs every time you're away from the house for a night...sorry, I've slipped into mother mode. See? You cannot escape, no matter how much you want to.
* The "We've got an obsession and we are not afraid to blackmail you into taking part" celebration. Suggest on the invitation that anyone not wearing a really excellent Star Wars costume will not be allowed in, and have all the hymns translated into Wookiee. Aren't you a little short for a wedding guest?
So there is my dilemma. Anyone got a better idea, let me know. The time it takes me to come to a decision, I'll be away the crow road before I get to be a Mrs.
Pity. I've got a dress pattern ready to sew and everything....
Friday, January 14, 2005
I've spent a frankly mind altering amount of time looking at other people's blogs of late. It's become a compulsive thing. So I'm rambling through the pages, peaceful, calm, looking for the fabled blog of perfection. It's like resting in a well padded armchair. Then it happened.
I skipped from here (isn't that nice? Recipes and stuff.)
To
Aaargh!
Some p*rny filth called Milk and Cookies, spreading like the juice of unfettered young men across my screen.
Including: (wait for it) AMATEUR VIDEO!
There were bosoms everywhere, and I'd swear if you moved, they'd follow you around the room. My office is filled suddenly with everyone I work with.
NIPE!
I clicked out of there so fast I damn near did myself a mischief (while simultaneously wondering just exactly where the cookies came in - urk).
Other things that make me go straight to next blog:
AnYtiNg wAd luKes LiKe Dis LoL HaAhAAz
To help with any sites you find that have this affliction, here's yet another translator. Should you care. For the love of God, will they eventually start talking like this too?
Stuff like this. What a waste.
Also dopey blogs that just rant on about a certain celebrity or other unrequited love object. I found a certain blog today about that opera singer chappy (Jason something?) but it was just too sad to post - I must protect the innocent.
There is good stuff:
Parade of Delusion
ilevel
Lowland Seed
Look at them. Savour the entertainment.
I skipped from here (isn't that nice? Recipes and stuff.)
To
Aaargh!
Some p*rny filth called Milk and Cookies, spreading like the juice of unfettered young men across my screen.
Including: (wait for it) AMATEUR VIDEO!
There were bosoms everywhere, and I'd swear if you moved, they'd follow you around the room. My office is filled suddenly with everyone I work with.
NIPE!
I clicked out of there so fast I damn near did myself a mischief (while simultaneously wondering just exactly where the cookies came in - urk).
Other things that make me go straight to next blog:
AnYtiNg wAd luKes LiKe Dis LoL HaAhAAz
To help with any sites you find that have this affliction, here's yet another translator. Should you care. For the love of God, will they eventually start talking like this too?
Stuff like this. What a waste.
Also dopey blogs that just rant on about a certain celebrity or other unrequited love object. I found a certain blog today about that opera singer chappy (Jason something?) but it was just too sad to post - I must protect the innocent.
There is good stuff:
Parade of Delusion
ilevel
Lowland Seed
Look at them. Savour the entertainment.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Minor Humiliations
A daily occurrence. Most recently:
* I made a letter template for customer letters including the phrase, "If any further assistance is required, please me on the extension number below". The real problem? No-one did.
* Having cloth ears, I have difficulty with names. I recently put a call through confidently proclaiming the caller to be "Dave Imstadt". His name was Fred Mutch.
In the past:
* The gym our school used had a fitness room where all the blokes hung out, rather than playing squash or whatever. Myself and a "friend" decided to penetrate (eh?) this bastion of masculinity in the hope of attracting them to our staggering and fabulous girlness. Climbing aboard the Torturomatic (tm) running machine, I strode out, waiting for awareness of my presence to permeate the room. I was young, I was nervous, I was sure that boy from my French class was watching me. I smiled tentatively, absolutely convinced of having staked my claim, sure I could now use the gym every week. Great! I belonged! Then my "friend" reset the belt speed from "leisurely stroll" to "minute mile coronary certainty" and I shot backwards like a greased pig from a slingshot and rebounded from the wall. Never been to a gym since.
* Getting fiendishly drunk seemed to be the only way to survive the coming of the millennium, trapped as I was in the third tackiest night club in the world. "Neebleys" or whatever the hell it's called is situated within easy perpetrating distance of the Police Station, but approximately 400 light years from anywhere you'd ever want to be. It still has those streamers of silver paper (think circa 1985 Top of the Pops) strung round the dancefloor, and every inch of the place is painted black. The walls sweat on busy nights. Into the home straight now, Sidekick takes me to a friend's house for the bells. If I'd known, I'd never have had that last vodka and redbull, but a game of Trivial Pursuit was proposed.
Which brought out my vicious competetive streak.
By 2am I am yanking the box of questions from the grasp of somebody's mother yelling "You don't fucking know anything, don't answer any more questions! You fuck!". Don't drink. It can make you the source of pure parental horror. Oh, the humanity.
There's more, I'm sure of it, but I have blanked the memories. If I wake screaming in the night when they come rushing back, I'll probably add them in an effort to exorcise the demons.
* I made a letter template for customer letters including the phrase, "If any further assistance is required, please me on the extension number below". The real problem? No-one did.
* Having cloth ears, I have difficulty with names. I recently put a call through confidently proclaiming the caller to be "Dave Imstadt". His name was Fred Mutch.
In the past:
* The gym our school used had a fitness room where all the blokes hung out, rather than playing squash or whatever. Myself and a "friend" decided to penetrate (eh?) this bastion of masculinity in the hope of attracting them to our staggering and fabulous girlness. Climbing aboard the Torturomatic (tm) running machine, I strode out, waiting for awareness of my presence to permeate the room. I was young, I was nervous, I was sure that boy from my French class was watching me. I smiled tentatively, absolutely convinced of having staked my claim, sure I could now use the gym every week. Great! I belonged! Then my "friend" reset the belt speed from "leisurely stroll" to "minute mile coronary certainty" and I shot backwards like a greased pig from a slingshot and rebounded from the wall. Never been to a gym since.
* Getting fiendishly drunk seemed to be the only way to survive the coming of the millennium, trapped as I was in the third tackiest night club in the world. "Neebleys" or whatever the hell it's called is situated within easy perpetrating distance of the Police Station, but approximately 400 light years from anywhere you'd ever want to be. It still has those streamers of silver paper (think circa 1985 Top of the Pops) strung round the dancefloor, and every inch of the place is painted black. The walls sweat on busy nights. Into the home straight now, Sidekick takes me to a friend's house for the bells. If I'd known, I'd never have had that last vodka and redbull, but a game of Trivial Pursuit was proposed.
Which brought out my vicious competetive streak.
By 2am I am yanking the box of questions from the grasp of somebody's mother yelling "You don't fucking know anything, don't answer any more questions! You fuck!". Don't drink. It can make you the source of pure parental horror. Oh, the humanity.
There's more, I'm sure of it, but I have blanked the memories. If I wake screaming in the night when they come rushing back, I'll probably add them in an effort to exorcise the demons.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
It is not quelqu'un never trusted, this forehead has only one.
Or Never trust someone who has only one eyebrow.
Gorgeous
Just a little translation thingy. Made me laugh like a Red Setter with a new frisbee.
Example:
* original: "I work in a fruit store, from dawn until dusk".
* result: "Work in a memory of the fruit, between l'aube and l'alba".
Nice.
Okapi out.
Gorgeous
Just a little translation thingy. Made me laugh like a Red Setter with a new frisbee.
Example:
* original: "I work in a fruit store, from dawn until dusk".
* result: "Work in a memory of the fruit, between l'aube and l'alba".
Nice.
Okapi out.
Fortune Favours the Mould
So I will never win obsessive housewife of the year, but I consider myself to be a not-entirely unclean person (unclean! Unclean!) but what's with the bright orange mould that is taking over my bathroom?
I swear I have never seen it anywhere else. Perhaps I should culture it in a petri dish and send it to some science whizz?
Gaaadss....it's even colonizing the shower curtain.
At least it isn't the dark mould that led to the ultimate collapse of the bathroom wall. Sidekick, while leaning on the wall, cleaning the bath, ended up falling through it practically ending up in next door's stairwell.
But that was a long time ago, and I've stopped laughing now.
What could be the result of orange mould? Warp dimensions? A new life form? Only time will tell.
I swear I have never seen it anywhere else. Perhaps I should culture it in a petri dish and send it to some science whizz?
Gaaadss....it's even colonizing the shower curtain.
At least it isn't the dark mould that led to the ultimate collapse of the bathroom wall. Sidekick, while leaning on the wall, cleaning the bath, ended up falling through it practically ending up in next door's stairwell.
But that was a long time ago, and I've stopped laughing now.
What could be the result of orange mould? Warp dimensions? A new life form? Only time will tell.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Please notice "snow" adhering tastefully to my behind.
Little Chance
So, hang the disappointment caused by merely being bandwaggony, every other person / creature / disembodied frog-like head with a computer and a handily-held pencil in the mouth is doing the whole blog thang, right?
Nice pic huh? Mystery substance sticking to my supposedly non-stick breeks (look it up, why don't you?) may actually be marshmallow or Yeti doings..... and to think that what mostly passes through my mind when sliding downhill strapped to piece of kevlar'n'wood is "Gee whillikins! 30 seconds vertical and I haven't succumbed to gravity!".
Alright, I freely admit it's really "Check it out - Pushing the big 3 0 and still cooooool...". And I never actually think "Gee whillikins". Tragic.
Technical term for the, um, "stance" I am demonstrating is "too pooped". The shame, the turrrrrible shame.
Nice pic huh? Mystery substance sticking to my supposedly non-stick breeks (look it up, why don't you?) may actually be marshmallow or Yeti doings..... and to think that what mostly passes through my mind when sliding downhill strapped to piece of kevlar'n'wood is "Gee whillikins! 30 seconds vertical and I haven't succumbed to gravity!".
Alright, I freely admit it's really "Check it out - Pushing the big 3 0 and still cooooool...". And I never actually think "Gee whillikins". Tragic.
Technical term for the, um, "stance" I am demonstrating is "too pooped". The shame, the turrrrrible shame.
