Thursday, May 26, 2005

True Sociopathy

So, less than a week after pondering the meaning of the term "sociopathy" with a certain Pet Redhead, I was to discover the true meaning of the horrors of Antisocial Personality Disorder...

For Chris Medicine and I had, in the depths of time known as "first year", "fresherhood" and "eee! so cuuute! 18 year old fresh meat!!" attended a lecture in which a lady with Beta Thalassaemia spoke to us of the problems she faced with her disease. In classic style, our decorum was something that would vanish almost as quickly as this story begins...

Beta Thalassaemia Woman: ... and so I survived more than 10 years longer than the doctors predicted.
Me (loudly): You go girl! You show those doctors!
Chris Medicine (to me): Shut up!

Later:
Beta Thalassaemia Woman: My friend, who also had Beta Thalassaemia, and I were out for sushi one day. I just went to the bathroom for 5 minutes. When I came back, she was DEAD.
Chris Medicine (to me): I wonder who ate the sushi?

And thus contemplating the past over MSN, questions regarding this exchange surely surfaced. Who did eat the sushi? Did that person develop food poisoning? Did the ß-T woman eat the sushi and then grieve? Or grieve, then eat the sushi surreptitiously? Or perhaps, bulimic-style, she stuffed her face with the sushi while sobbing in the ambulance? Maybe there was no sushi left because her friend had in fact choked on the sushi? Which led to a discussion on what the rate of death by choking actually was...

Me: My aunt died of choking secondary to her chronic renal failure secondary to her ovarian cancer. Which isn't funny at all.
Chris Medicine: Absolutely not, as there was no sushi involved.
Me: ROFLMAO

Yes, that's right folks: we are the doctors of tomorrow. We are the future.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

The Creator of the "Perpetual Dildo Machine"



Check out his majesty!

Saturday, May 14, 2005

Extraction of Foreign Objects

On this lovely Friday evening, I managed to catch up with our fair characters Araluena, Richey, Tendafoot and Sir Gawain. After a fine wander through the roads of Carlton and dinner on Brunswick Street, we made our sojourn at my residence. Thus ensconced my guests were strangely enraptured with the various implements and appliances. And in time the conversation turned to Marc the Ferret, my ferret toy, and the strange possibilities regarding ferrets and their predilection for trousers. Wondering what it would be like to fit Marc the Ferret down my pants became tiresome and thus I took it upon myself to test this hypothesis.
"It's down my pants and it's vibrating!" I claimed ecstatically.
Not to be outdone, Sir Gawain decided to insert my hairdryer into the groinal region of his trousers.
"It's hot, hard and burning!" exclaimed Araluena.
"It was more interesting meeting your hairdryer," agreed the fair but unchivalrous Sir Gawain
Then Richey took it like a man and stuck my iron down his pants...
"Tendafoot, alarm clock."
"Tendafoot, alarm clock."
"TENDAFOOT! ALARM CLOCK!!!"
"This is the bit where you say 'no way'..."
"No way."

Sunday, May 08, 2005

Prudie, Deficiently

And once again, the time comes in which to mock those who are lesser than us, in reasoning ability as well as the forum in which they air their grievances- yes, that's right, internet advice columns. When I was sent a link to the following article at the impressively mediocre MSN Slate internet magazine, I was unsure what to expect. Perhaps the kind of gratuitous narrative that seems to haunt both agony aunts and the internet, that dispenser of the cruel and unnatural. What I didn't expect (but in hindsight was quite inevitable), was quite the level of impressive mediocrity that followed.

There is just so much wrong with this advice column that it's difficult to know just where to start. Firstly, we have the subject matter: what kind of self-respecting advice columnist takes on "telling your kids that their father has been in jail" given the possibility of answering "what to do when you discover that your secret lover is not only your brother, father and granddaughter but is cheating on you with... your pet horse Pablo" or "how to fix your hydraulic dildo without waking up your grandmother"? This column is boring to the point of being surreal. Then there is the matter of the complainant's recourse to pseudo-feminist ideology in defence of her stupid and frankly guilty husband; besides which, what kind of man ends up being bitten by two skanks in a pub?

And then of course there is the none-too-intelligent "Prudie", our dim-witted agony aunt. I'm not sure how one would "finesse" a question, but I'm fairly sure that Prudie has done a rather poor attempt at it. Then of course: "Prudie hates to take issue with your theory that women are never charged because they are women, but she does"- I am not sure which is worse, the childish reference to herself in the third person or the childish terrible grammar. And of course there is her rather "imaginitive" solution to the problem at hand: there's no point explaining to your child because Daddy will be out of prison before she starts school. Never mind the fact that Daddy has to go and see a parole officer every 2 weeks, and he's not allowed within a 2-mile radius of some random chicks, and all those kids at school say mean things about Daddy. No, it doesn't matter because the moment you leave prison everyone forgets that you're actually a dangerous ex-convict. Sort of like in those "happy ever after" fairytales...

And to top it all off, the letter is signed "Prudie, analytically", after such a retarded response.

I'm speechless.

Edit: To see a compilation of the comments from this conversation go to this link. Feel free to add more to this via comments!

Monday, May 02, 2005

Bleeding Hearts

Now, this post is one dedicated to the 13 year old para-suicide market. Yes, that's right, those whiny goths who listen to Evanescence.

I've been spending far too much time on LiveJournal; the LiveJournal of course that is the headquarters of the whiny goth movement, with its endless streams of posts along the lines of "I got depressed and cried today" and "woe is me, my friends are all dead" and "I got a haircut today, and it was terrible" (it's truly amazing how many bad haircut posts there are on LJ).

So in a moving tribute to poems about wilted flowers, black lace and spiders, I present to you, my dear readers, an account of the revenge that perhaps one day we shall mete out to those peddlers of self-pity, those whores if you will of florid mock Victorian prose...

It begins when we lure interested parties into a den of horrors somewhere in an alleyway off Flinders Street festooned with such slogans as "Extentua, Princess of Gloom", "Katastrophika the Owl", "Atalectesis" and "Black Dawn: The Deathening". Drawn to the dodgy ambiance, our victims will flock, and we shall sequester them alone. And when they pause in the doorway... then BAM! Stake to the heart!
"So, who's got a bleeding heart now, you anaemic vampire wannabe!"
"Love lies bleeding" indeed...