Ageing Greys Fully

I've always been a slow mover. My dad once said that watching me was like watching a movie in slow motion. At least he thought I had potential to be on the big screen. Perhaps not. Perhaps I am so slow that I am actually moving backwards. I am Benjamin Button. I only just got my ears pierced, so that must make me at least 12 now. Even the 12 year olds make me feel self conscious. I mean, my pockets don't hang lower than my jeans shorts yet. Difficult for pick-pocketing. Denim undies can't be good in the long term, people.
I wear my sister's hand-me-downs and she is younger than me. It never bothered me.
I am at an age now, when other people my age start commenting on the fact that they are getting old. I feel like I was just born. Yup, I'm currently washing off placenta remnants. You don't see me complaining about my youth. If people are thinking they're getting old in their 30s, what are they going to think when they are 50? Maybe they'll be dead by then because they've been thinking that they're old for 20 years.
I happened to catch 'Sesame Street' the other day. Closet fan, really. I think the only reason people have children is so they can keep watching 'Sesame Street.' Since I'm 12, I don't care. Anyway, the adult cast seems to still be the same, and they don't look that different from 25 years ago. The muppets seem to have changed more. I wonder why. Gordon, Maria, Luis, Bob, they don't seem to have aged at all. So, Maria works in a fix-it shop which never gets customers, maybe the odd non paying muppet with a broken toaster, even though they never seem to eat toast. Well, Cookie Monster eats rice cakes disguised as cookies. I can't say I've ever seen Telly hoe into a jaffal with Prairie Don, though. Surely the 'Fix-it Shop' has been unprofitable and highly stressful over the years as a result, but no. They mustn't lease from Westfield. Maria looks very un 61 for a 61 year old. What is it then? Who put the 'up' into 'grown-up'? Does singing songs around a fake street light keep you looking young? Maybe she's born with it. Why doesn't 'Oil of Olay' sell singing songs in public with muppets to reduce the signs of ageing? Meanwhile, why did they change their name from 'Oil of Ulan'? I guess Ulan ran out of oil. Where is Olay anyway? Too many questions. I do have an answer, though. I am slow. It's ok. I only now feel that I am living how I should've 10 years ago. Back to the future with immature. That's it.

dogs and petrol x

I saw a shooting star on my drive home tonight. I think it was. Well, either that or I went through a red light, or I time traveled back to the 80s. I have a knack for that. I saw a shooting star once when I was 11, on Christmas night. My Dad told me it meant things in my life were changing. Aren't they always changing? Maybe just not so drastically. I couldn't help but wonder if the dog enjoyed Christmas, because I didn't. I should have since I received a mountain bike and a Sega Master System that day. So in. Well, it was especially hot and I drank too much wine, which at 11, wasn't much wine. I'd trade presents for presence, even at 11. I just need to check myself in the mirror to see if I did time travel back to 11. Nope, lookin' good, Rizz.

My Best Friends' Wedding (minus Julia Roberts' Mouth)

Since performing at a number of weddings I developed some kind of immunity to their supposed ‘love infections’. I’m usually part of a musical backdrop to the cocktail swilling, the entrée guzzling, and the interpretive limb flailing white people call ‘dancing’. The brides and grooms all start looking the same, the guests all seem like reused extras from ‘The Truman Show’, and the speeches are less enlightening than the nutritional info on a cereal box. I should spend my set breaks pretending I have rabies, frothing at the mouth on champagne, just to keep it real for myself. I’m not complaining though, I would rather play music than chitter chatter with wind-up teeth attached to humans.

This year has been the first year of my adult life that I have been invited as a non-musical guest to a couple of weddings. Yes, a ‘Truman Show’ extra. It’s like jury duty. My wedding immunity has been a challenge as I have struggled to find the ‘special’ in the special day without feeling the blandness of ‘Special K’. Fibre.

Meanwhile, how many more times can you witness a bouquet toss to ‘All the single ladies’? Why not Van Halen’s ‘Jump’? I have never been interested in catching the bouquet. Even if someone threw it directly to me I would respond like ‘Santa’s Little Helper’ to the Frisbee. It would just bounce right off-of my face. The bride might as well be throwing a kilo of mackerel guts over her shoulder.

Yesterday was the first time in my adult life that I have actually been part of a bridal party. I keep saying ‘adult life’ because it implies that I cannot play in the dirt in my good clothes. Oh, how the tables have turned. I am typically not bridesmaid material, but thanks to Kate Mackie and Larry, and Kristen Wiig, we made it through. Let’s just say, I’m pretty sure the brides knew of my incompetence well beforehand. Ah, the impractical non-organising obstacle that I am with lines like, ‘Am I more in your way like this?’

I didn’t realize that lacing up dresses was a thing so I pretended the lace was horse reigns. PS don’t do this. The bride is not interested in being ridden before the ceremony, read in a David Attenborough voice. Sorry, Larry. Really though, I never knew putting bridal gowns on people would be like trying to shove a snake back into its shed skin. Get in there already. And once I attached the catheters they were right to go.

Thanks to a lack of bridezillaness, the fact that it rained right on cue for the ceremony was not an issue. Perhaps this was in the hope for a gay rainbow to follow, or Stefans. 80s. Instead of setting up the slip ‘n’ slide down the aisle we walked in, each with a kilo of mackerel guts flowers.

Meanwhile, thanks to fab unfake hair and make-up people, I didn’t look like Heath Ledger as the joker.

Hi, I don’t know if it was the mackerel guts talking but my wedding immunity weakened. Was I finally starting to understand this thing, like a real ‘Truman Show’ extra? Light rain, favourite faces, and love. There it is, bang! I said the 'L' word. I was Liz Lemon when she cried out of her mouth. So, there I was in Kate Mackie and Larry’s vision, they included me. I think I get it now, you guys. It actually was a special day, despite the fact that Kate Mackie wouldn’t fulfill Larry’s request for me to read Salt ‘n’Peppa’s ‘Shoop’ at the ceremony. So, almost perfect, but I went to sleep smiling. It must have been the lolly teeth,

Dogs and petrol xxx

13/10/eleventy

I just bought nail polish remover that says, 'Be Yourself' on the label. Gee, thanks for reminding me, nail polish remover. All this time I was trying to be a giant old carpet stain. Now I can just be myself. FINALLY! And it only took a small bottle of chemicals to get the message across. (Champagne does this too.)
Nail polish colours sure do have some odd names. I just realised that the colour I bought is called, 'Coral Brown.' Coral that is brown is most likely to be dead. Comforting. Well, it doesn't smell like dead coral. The actual colour does not look like brown coral anyway. I mean, I would have called it 'Liver spots Pearl'.

So I ended up in the shopping centre vortex of death because I needed a dress for my friend, Jenny Anderson's wedding. Actually, I should say that I still need one. It took me 3.5 hours to not find a dress. Oh my dog, what am I to do? Well, at least I bought nail polish. I can just be myself.

Meanwhile, I just tried the 'Coral Brown', and it looks exactly like my skin colour. Yeah, I'm dead coral. So, it pretty much looks like I don't have toe nails at all. I have toes with skin where the nail is meant to be. Indubitably freaky. And it seems that this does not make up for the fact that I do not have a wedding dress. These are unfortunate times, people, unfortunate times. It's hard work being yourself, nail polish remover.

dogs and petrol

Loser libraries

I'm going to start my own magazine called, 'Womens' Weakly'. Yes, a weekly brain sucking parasite which spreads its words and pictures throughout its host organism, eventually strangling it to death. Why would I need anesthetic after being forced to read womens' magazines at the doctor surgery. All sensation has been numbed. I don't need to pay $7 for a flimsy compilation to tell me how to live my life. I know what food to eat, because my body tells me. I know what to wear because it feels good when I put it on. I don't particularly want to be in a relationship with someone who wears ridiculously white Calvin Klein undies.
What a waste of a tank of gas.

Baggage

Ugliest handbags ever! Extreme handbag shopping, they're either lipstick containers with straps or huge body bags with zips and tassels everywhere. I just want to buy a normal size handbag, one without pretend animal fur or shiny love hearts hanging off the sides. I am going to have to revert to carrying my belongings in a red bandana on a stick. And I'll walk around with a long piece of grass sticking out of my teeth. Yeah, that's how I roll now. I wonder how that goes as carry-on luggage.

At least I would be able to find things in my red bandana on a stick. Handbags, no matter how big or small, are abysses. Whatever it is you need in that moment, you'll never find it. You will find everything but the item required. If you need your lip gloss it will burrow into the depths of the unknown, like an angler fish in extreme darkness. The lip gloss feeds off bottom dwelling, glow-in-the-dark shrimp.

And when your phone rings you will never find it in time, you will only find phone impersonators; an ipod, a day planner, the packet of cigarettes that you don't smoke, a deck of cards, and a 90s dial-up modem. How did that get there? Well, you never know. It's just one of the many mysteries of the handbag. You miss the phone call.

You find things when you don't need them; a worn $2 coin, a throat lozenge in the shape of hard cow spit, unused tampons, receipts for breathing, 3D glasses, bottle openers, discount vouchers for standing outside a gym annually, a peg, undies, a set of Encyclopedia Britannica, and dregs. Yes, dregs.

If you were to examine the remnants of an empty handbag you would find the contents to resemble that of a vacuum bag. There's dust, pencil shavings, compost, a petrie dish without the dish, moth eggs and a possible cure for cancer. It's all in the handbag, a highly evolved ecosystem. Do I need a new handbag then, a new habitat to carry around? Nope, red bandana on a stick all the way. Woot.

dogs and petrol

Justin Bieber's nostril hair stylist

Today my horoscope said that a friend would set me up with someone I have never met before. Well, this did not happen. BUT, an elderly Indian man totally made eyes at me at Woolworths tonight. The lady at the cash register dropped one of my mandarins and he picked it up and kissed it. Does that mean something? I think this is probably better than being set up with a pretend person I have never met before.
I would like to be set up with an eagle, not like a date, just to hang out. It would be a giant sized eagle, and everyone would stare in admiration as we walked down the street. We would walk in time to the funkiest bass line, that's what we'd do. Then we'd play pinball and drink chandies with drambuie chasers. Yeah. I suppose my only dilemma would be when we high fived. There would be no slap from the flap, would there. Baseball gloves look strange.

Un-news is good news?

Never before has commercial Australian news been so uninformative. In fact, if I didn't watch it at all I would naturally know more. That is actually what  have been doing, not watching the news. And it's growing, there are more and more people not watching the news, at the risk of their own increased intelligence. If I was from a third world country and someone forced me to watch a western news bulletin I would think it was some kind of variety show, light untertainment if you will.

My point is simply that the news is not news. Headlining tonight: exercise after eating chocolate, how to eat meat on a budget, which movies are showing, a blind lady taking her kids to school, and my favourite; a man who grew a tomato shaped like a duck. They called it a duck-ato. Oh my dog!
How can news reporters present these 'stories'? I'll tell you how, they're not human, surely not. You never see the back of a news reporter, do you, just the front. That's because their backs are filled with wires, buttons and knobs. Yes, there is a lot of knob involved in these robotic news reading puppets.

Whilst watching the news one cannot tell the difference between commercial breaks and news 'stories'. What's the difference? It's all a sales pitch. They are selling thoughts and people are buying them. They do not know that they are buying them, but the price is high, the price is you. The news is actually the 'no yous'.
Choose Pepsi.

Why is it so hard to say goodbye?

I'm talking about phone conversations, here. For some reason we need to repeat the word, 'goodbye', and say it in at least 17 different ways before we can hang up the phone. And even as we pull the receiver further away from our mouths to hang up we are still saying goodbye. 'Ok, bye then, see you later, have a good one, see you round, let's block the phone lines for no reason, take care, so long.' Actually, no one really says 'so long' anymore. I think it means, 'SO this is a LONG phonecall. Hang up already.'
Interestingly, I find that if I yell goodbye in the voice of an evil Grover, people on the other line are compelled to say goodbye in a similar silly way. Try it sometime.
If I am person to person, I don't say goodbye 17 times as they walk away from me. In fact, I don't even speak, a wave is fine or even, 'Get the &*%$ away from me', and we're done. Nothin' more to see here, people, the show is over.
We also have the lead up to goodbyes. 'Ok, I'd better let you go', a polite way of saying, 'Totally bored right now'. Then there's, 'Well, I'm on the mobile so I'd better go,' a polite way of saying, 'I'm a tight arse and you are boring.' Let's not forget, 'I've just got someone on the other line,' another way of saying, 'I'm trying to get rid of you by pretending to be popular.' I always find that, 'Yikes, dude! My colostomy bag just burst' works. People don't want to keep talking after that, or eating for that matter.

Why is it so hard to say Hello?

I am absolutely attrocious at saying Hello. I never really know just what to do, so many options to consider. Usually I start out with, say hi, have minimal eye contact and shuffle around them awkwardly from a 1 metre radius. The next one is the nod and hand shake, which is more of an acknowledgement of presence, but still awkward from my female perspective. I'd feel more comfortable head butting a fish as a term of endearment.
But there is one question that always hinders my approach, 'Do I hug them or do I kiss them?' Let's just say we try to avoid the genitle area. Some people just insist on the hug, even if you don't like them, or haven't even met them. For me, you have to earn the hug. And even after that, how do you hug. Do you give the half-arsed arms out but don't wrap around them hug? Or do you secretly try to squeeze them to death?
And the kiss, do you go for one cheek or two? Do you peck or snog? Probaby peck, but not like a chicken or you will peel their cheeks open.
I don't know. Please give me tips on Hellos that don't involve nose rubbing.

Movies Review

Everything has to be in 3D now. Is that because our lives have become 2D?

Well, I’ll tell you what I don’t want to see in 3D, cinema carpet. RSLs, casinos and cinemas must all purchase their carpet from some exclusive carpet dealership that never left the 80s. It’s like unnecessary magic eye on the ground. Find the juggling elephant. I don’t see it.

The carpet has retained that familiar popcorn stench, accumulated over the years. Who decided that popcorn was food? I often used to wonder who discovered that you could eat eggs, but eggs are things that exist naturally. How lame would it be if I wrote, ‘eggsist naturally’. Ok, the damage is done now.

Anyway, someone invented popcorn. They did not discover it in the wilderness. They invented it, and deemed it food. And people went along with it. No one stood up and protested against popcorn. I assume the inventor was aiming to create something with ridiculous texture and zero flavour. Well done. Really, what must our livers think?

Here comes that polystyrene gravel again.

We need to eat popcorn by the shipping container, ramming overflowing handfuls into our faces. Is there no other way to eat it? Chopsticks? Once every crevasse between your teeth has been filled with yellow flecks, dehydration kicks in. Yes, it is a sense of eternal pastiness. What better way to counteract that than with an enormous cylinder of pretend coke. Well, any liquid would be fine, really. Why not drink a litre of unleaded.

If popcorn does not take your fancy you can always try any of the other overpriced trinkets of “food” wrapped in the ridiculously loud plastic packaging. The persistent crinkling has become part of the movie sound track. In fact, I think I would rather eat the plastic packaging than a choc-top. Surely, they’re made of the same stuff.

Next time I go to the movies I plan to eat from an esky filled with crabs and lobsters. Then I am going to crack walnuts and chomp loudly on celery sticks.

If you are on time for a movie, you probably shouldn’t have been. You have just paid $14 to watch 20 minutes of giant ads. Even the ads have their own ads. Before the movie even begins I think, ‘Thank goodness. I had no idea there were 17 Indian restaurants in this precinct.’

And then there are the previews, which are just ads for movies. When the movie actually starts I am not sure if it is another ad until about halfway through the film.

The problem with seeing a movie is actually the fact that you have to re-enter the real world afterwards. As spectacular viewing as credits make, people must leave the cinema at the end. It’s like watching bats emerge from a cave into the light. And we return to our 2D lives.

Jim

Miss Toilet USA

Why do toilets in motels have sashes around them when you check-in? Well, they've just been in the American toilet pageant.

There she is, Miss American Toilet
There she is, your ideal.
The dreams of a million toilets
Who are more than pretty
May come true in Atlantic Shitty
Oh she may turn out to be
The queen of dysentery
There she is, Miss American Toilet
There she is, your ideal
With so much excrement
She'll take the town by storm
With her all-American faeces and form
And there she is
Struggling for air she is
Fairest of the fair she is
Miss American Toilet

SCAT TALKING

No



I'm down here.

I find it strange that people can say nonsensical syllables in a song but not in a conversation. Why is it acceptable to sing, 'Scooby do wop wop bwee dah' or 'Sha la la la la la la' or 'a do run run run', but not to speak these words? Ok, yeah, it's not acceptable to sing, 'a do run run run'. Barbara-Anne has alot to answer for. Like, who is called Barbara-Anne anyway?
I lose interest in a lot of conversations and for some reason silence is considered to be rude. Some of my best shared moments with people are silent. Silence is Golden, but rude. So since I find talking to people to be boring and frequently superficial I've decided to improvise with some scat talking. For example when people talk about the weather, "Isn't it hot today?"
And instead of saying, "I know, I'm not a reptile, this topic warrants no discussion what-so-ever." I say, "Shoo be doo wop cha wop", and saunter off.
My most unfavourite question is, "What have you been up to?" And since people have stopped believing me when I say that I've been huntng wabbits, I've decided to say, "Ging gang goolie goolie goolie". I might win the next election with such banter.

So Many Worlds of Scum

Dreamworld, so many world's in one. One of those world's is the very fantastical world of 'Gluttonous Bogans'. They are human ibises, chomping at the bit and bustling around. Unfortunately, they are much louder than ibises, not saying anything in particular but yelling it so everyone can hear. They sure do suck. Another world is 'Pram world'. Why do prams look like four wheel drives these days? I think all I had in the 80s was a bread board on wheels. Although I have to say that my personal favourite has to be 'Tourists Loudly Abusing Koalas So They Can Get A Photo World.' If someone tried to get you to pose for a photo by yelling and violently banging things, how would you respond? I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be a snap for the next shampoo ad. Luckily the koala was too smashed to give a shit, and he went back to sleep. I wish that every time someone demanded something from me I could just go sleep.
Tiger Island is not really even an island, it is an enclosure. I guess 'Tiger Enclosure' is not very marketable. The female tiger did not come out to perform today because she was on heat. Imagine if I could call in sick to work with that excuse. Ok, I don't work. But I think I should get a job just so I can try it.
"You've got the job, can you start tomorrow?"
"Oh, tomorrow? Actually guys, I'm on heat, so I can't start for a few weeks. And hey, then when I do I'll be fillin' out my maternity leave."

The Ekka: 10 Days of Pointless Activity

Come on down to Brisbane's annual festival of viruses. The excellent value 
of $22 will enable you to enjoy the sights of cow manure, the back of someone else's head for 5 hours, and trails of spit and gum directly under an overrated chairlift, just to name a few.
This year we have an even larger range of showbags. After all, what do kids 
love more than insignificant, low quality plastic toys and trinkets of food that are made out of the same low quality plastic?

Some of the popular showbags which will be sold in the large ugly shed which we call a "pavillion" are;
-'The World's Biggest Showbag' ($15) - This is just big because of the 
deceiving size of the bag. It contains a 1cm X 1cm cube of drift wood. -''The toys kids will never use again showbag' ($12) - This includes a 
plastic plane without wings, an inflatable giraffe hoof, a mask without holes for the eyes and mouth, and an army figurine which was discarded in the early 80s.
-'The Gag Magic Bag' ($9.50) - This bag is filled with practical jokes and
tricks that encourage violence among children: a whoopee cushion that 
actually explodes, a real persons' finger, some vomit which was collected 
under the ferris wheel, kool mints which are really moth balls, a plastic camera that squirts sulfuric acid, and some plastic 'dracula' teeth which 
cause gum infection.
-'The Virus Showbag' ($7) - This bag contains every virus available at
the Ekka so you can keep up with the latest trends in sore throats, colds, 
coughs, and lethal flu. It even has a bonus toy nose that can be wound up
to run.

Another Ekka specialty is the food, where there is no other sort like it. The pluto pups, hot dogs, hamburgers, sausage rolls, pies, and chips have all been reheated as left-overs from last year and the year before in order 
to maintain that true Ekka taste and bonus bacteria, which we guarantee will 
assist the development of your Ekka virus. And if you are wondering what 
gives our pluto pups that distinct flavour, why don't you head in to see the 
dogs we have on show.

The reason our Ekka food tastes so great is because we know that it needs to taste even better on its way back up after going on the overrated rides.
As if you hadn't already spent enough money, we also charge you for the rush you get from going on our unstable rides which were last approved in 1982. We charge you for this so we can afford to pay you money back if you decide to sue us for long term ride related injuries. 

Don't forget to check out side-show alley. Throwing something at a bottle 
has never been so much fun, especially since there is a chance that you 
could win a really ugly stuffed toy. The Side-show Alley toys really are stuffed. That is because they have been taken from the crappy toy collections of doctors' surgeries in lower class suburbs of the 70s. If you 
ever win you will receive a faded toy with one eye, patches of lice infested 
fur, and tiny white balls falling out of a split seam.

While you're at the Ekka do not miss the farm animals. They have been drugged in unnatural surroundings on uncomfortable hay especially for your 
viewing. It is always incredibly entertaining to watch a goat barely moving 
its tail, a chicken sitting, and a sheep breathing. The midday cattle parade is also a must. Cows walking around in a circle brings an excited crowd to its feet every day. It's a pity that such talented cows are slaughtered in the next week so they can become Ekka food in storage for the year 2017.

So come on down to the Ekka this year. It's contagious in more ways than 
one. You can see what the ten days of pointless activity are all about. 
You'll find there is so much to do and waste you're money on. There are many drains around the gutters outside so you can throw your money down one if you'd rather do that than come. The Ekka's traditional atmosphere is
great. It's just like going to a large and over-crowded garage sale which sells its unwanted products for double what they are worth, and is filled with the fragrance of animal dung. Who could ask for anything more?

Taking Tips from a Blue-Footed Booby

I watched a show about animals mating. When was it that humans stopped mating and started having sex? People don't meet up with friends the next day and say, "You'll never guess who I mated last night?" There is no book called, 'The joy of mating'. Salt n Pepa did not sing a song called, 'Let's talk about mating'. Let me ask, though, if you've ever seen grasshoppers making love? I think I did once, and they lit a huge joint afterwards.

Each species is different and has its own ritual. The human ritual is boring, but for some reason seems to be the most complex. There should really just be 3 straight foward questions. 1. Do you want to have sex? 2. Are you drunk enough to have sex? The 3rd is more of a statement than a question. 3. Yes, you have had enough GHB to have sex. And yet, it all seems so difficult to me. Why must we find out if we have things in common when the common thing is really just that we are humans who can reproduce. Actually, some people who reproduce are very common.

Anyway, I might try the approach of the blue foot boobie next time I'm out and about. I will offer my prospective partner some lovely twigs and pebbles, lift my feet up to the sky and flail my arms about madly. Let's see if this works. At this stage I feel that the only person I will attract will be one in a security uniform, but that will do. I wonder if we'll have anything in common.....probably not.

Long Haul Flying

A long haul flight is a lot like being in a womb; sleeping, eating and excreting in confined spaces. I’m just speaking for myself as an economy fetus of the world. My legs are too long for economy class. Economy was originally designed for snakes and lizards to be transported across the globe, then when they couldn’t afford to fly, humans took their tiny seats. You need to slither in and out of them. Economy would be fine for me if I had paper legs and I could just neatly fold them up into springy origami. But I don’t. It’s like trying to relax in a panadol capsule. 

In theory, flying should be a very relaxed thing. You just sit down for awhile. But for some reason it is a gigantic ordeal. I try to imagine myself on the First Fleet, months of vomit and scurvy. A long haul flight can’t be too bad compared to that. But why are we so tired at the end after doing nothing. How do birds feel after they have migrated across half of the world? I assume they are much more tired and yet they just get on with it. 

Airports are cattle stations for people. We all line up and get stamped as we go through the gates, before being herded up and transported away. Catching a commercial plane has so many ups and downs. Checking in isn’t too bad, you are acknowledged as human for this part. It’s all downhill from there; ‘show your passport, where’s your boarding pass’. Felt up and down. Detectors, detectors, no shoes, jackets, belts, liquids or personalities allowed. Everyone is a suspect, an impersonator of themselves until they get through. You’re guilty till proven innocent. When you finally make it through the interrogation to your seat on the plane, you are treated human again. 

‘Thank you for flying with us. Sit back and relax. Have an enjoyable flight. We will do all we can to make you feel comfortable blah blah.’ How much can you ‘enjoy’ a flight? I’ve never met anyone who has told me so. It’s not exactly a night on the town. Let’s see, sitting in confined bumpy space for 12.5 hours, ingesting remnants of processed food. Enjoyable, come on, everyone, join in! Let’s all sit in a crab pot and eat Kraft Singles for a week. 

I think plane food is made in toy factories. It’s more fun to play with it than eat it. I would be better off trying to digest photographs of plane food than trying to eat it. It’s so cleverly disguised as food, but it is actually old car tyres. Once I was on a flight where an option was seafood lasagne. That should never be an option at 14,000 feet or at any feet. My response to that option is gin and tonic X 4. Last time I flew, the breakfast was a stale bread roll filled with weevil looking spaghetti and corn. I wouldn’t feed that to the pets of my pets. Like, if my dog had a mutant grub pet. My sister actually quite enjoys the plane food, not because it’s tastes good but because there are so many different containers to open. Each one is a surprise, ‘Ooh, what’s in here? Gross. What about this container? Gross. Next? Gross.’ Can you imagine paying $1000 to go to an uncomfortable restaurant to buy 5 tiny, average meals, then just eating them because you’re bored and you want a break from tetris because you have RSI. You’ve already watched the 5 movies which did so poorly at the cinema so they had to sell them to airlines to make any money back. The scripts are terrible but that doesn’t really matter because even though you’ve got headphones on, all you can hear is engine noise. But you’ve got your ipod, so at least you can listen to MORE ENGINE NOISE. So what else are you going to do, of course you’re going to eat the plane food, or at least play with it.

You’re never going to look cool on a long haul flight, unless you want to be as comfortable as an expired string ham. The best option is to go for some loose fitting pants. So you either want to look like a pear or a bean bag, something really unappealing. Think Grimace from the McDonalds ads in the 80s. I’m sure he’ll be on The Biggest Loser soon. Last time I was l a little too comfortable, you know, like a step away from incontinents pads comfortable. I wouldn’t have had to move anywhere for the entire flight. Hello deep vein thrombosis. 

Ah, what is flying without that extra little waft of paranoia in the air. Can you smell it? No, most people couldn’t because this time it was swine flu. I felt left out without my mask on so I cut my bra in half and used one cup to cover my face. Actually, that’s a lie. My boobs are so big that one cup would have been way too big to cover just my face. I sat next to a Japanese lady, and pretended I was in my own version of ‘Lost in Translation’. She actually spoke English quite well so it wasn’t really like ‘Lost in Translation’. It was like....just talking to someone. She didn’t believe that I was Australian so I told her I was Samoan and we settled on that. The only Japanese I knew was ‘joogi o kudasai?’ That means, ‘Can I please have a ruler?’ I decided not to use that one on her. I didn’t need a ruler. Interestingly enough, that is one thing that has not been banned on planes. I find it odd that you cannot take over 100ml of liquid aboard, yet we have more than that amount of liquid in us already so that is not really effective. Mistake! 

There is a brief moment that pops up when I don’t mind flying so much, apart from the landing. It’s the bit when I peer out the window at the vast blue, sky and water. Then there are occasional green lumpy bits. I realise myself looking at it then I remember that I am a part of it, just a spec though. And then I look back at the screen inside the plane. Yes, a virtual map with a giant cartoon plane nuzzling forward. Which one is correct, the view outside the window, or the cartoon map? Which one am I in? 

RETAIL-ITATION

It is called Retail Therapy. I do not know why. I find it rather traumatic. It is odd to think that I'd prefer hunting for my clothes. I would rather skin an animal and wrap it around myself than be propositioned by a socially nervous, fashionable stick figure with no sense of self. If I act completely retarded, as though I've never seen an item of clothing before, it seems to work well.

So, I am asked by sales girl number 1 how I am going today, in an artificial, patronising way. Perfect. Should I make up a story about a urinary tract infection to tell her? No, what does she want from me? Um, ok, avoid eye contact and she'll go away.

"Do you need any help with anything or are you just looking?"

What could I possibly need help with?

"Um, yeah, can you carry me around the shop, I'm tired of standing." Sheesh...

She goes back to pretending to rearrange clothes by moving coat hangers forwards and backwards on a rack. Hmm, every time I go to my room I do the same thing. It's so fulfilling swishing my clothes forwards and backwards in my cupboard. I know it's the method she uses to approach me, though. I am the hunter being the hunted.

On the rare occasion that I may find a garment which exceeds generic or ugly, I need to use a change room to try it on. This makes me very vulnerable sales prey. A tiny cubicle with unflattering mirrors, way to get a sale. I feel like I'm trying something on in front of the 'fat' mirrors at the Science Centre. I've never heard anyone ask for clothes that make them look wider.

"Yeah, you got anything that makes me look like a big old round circle?"

So, after it takes me 5 minutes to negotiate the garment off the coat hanger, I can hear the sales assistant lurking outside the door, sniffing around like a starved warthog. I retreat to the corner of the cubicle.

Routine question number 1: "How's it going in there, everything Ok?"

Like, after 3 decades I still don't know how to dress myself. If I emerged wearing a cardigan as pants, what would she do? I'm playing Twister with the clothes. Right foot, left armhole. 

Routine question number 2: "Are you all right for sizes"

Well, I was hoping for a skivvy that would fit a giraffe but this human size one will do. Ps, I'm aware that skivvies are not in fashion at present times.

Tip: Never step outside the cubicle in the new garment. You are relinquishing any remaining control you may have. As soon as you do, enter sales assistant with saliva dripping from the mouth. They will always tell you how good you look, even if you are wearing a scarf as a tail. It is very insincere but they will tell you, and remember, you are vulnerable prey. It is at this point when I choose to empower myself and change my tactics. I select most of the clothes in the store and take them up to the counter. After everything has been rung up, I insist only on purchasing the coat hangers. You can do this too. It is most effective if you then count out each coat hanger like The Count from Sesame Street.

"That's 13, 13 glorious coat hangers! Ha ah ah!"

Perhaps, go to the butchers.....