Friday, July 16, 2010
At the hospital
Well nothing serious, but the doctor said Liam has an attention deficit. i.e. he won't focus on one thing for long enough. He needs to learn to be more patient and to complete tasks given before running off to do whatever he wants. One session is 30min and it's NT$150 for 6 sessions! So Carol is looking at this like it's super cheap kindergarten, haha.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Joan Magrath 20 March 1914 - 9 Aug 2007
Well, being Grandma birthday the other day, I decided to bring this post over from my dead defunct blog on to this one for 'safer' keeping. (Also mother calling me to remind me it was her birthday the other day, ergo very close to mine, to which I replied: Nope, I'm not having anymore birthdays, I officially resign from the institution and concept of aging!)
----Original Post----
Since I live in Taiwan, I'm not able to attend the funeral. Grandma lived a good long life. She lived longer than any other known family member, record breaker :). 93. Since I wasn't at the funeral, I still wanted to say something of course, so...here it is. She passed away in her sleep (while on morphine, so, obviously painless), after many little strokes and well, old age. No more pain, sickness, bad hair days, tax or Monday mornings for Granny. Ahh, if only we could be so lucky.
My Grandma.
Well, my only regret is that I cannot be with you all in person. In fact as this is read I'm probably sleeping. Yet, I can imagine tears. Every funeral seems to have them, and as I write this I begin to tear up a bit myself. I wonder why. Have I lost a loved one? Well, if one believes in the life hereafter as I do, then no. I haven't lost my Grandmother at all.
After my mum called be to tell me of the news, I went to the kitchen and smiled. "Hey Grandma" I said, "This is where we (my wife and I) live". Now she can see it. She can see where we work, where we live. Guess I'd better behave now...Granny is watching. (I can almost see my mother rolling her eyes, Kane...behave?)
Be happy. I recall what Grandma said to me one day. "I miss your Grandfather." Well, Grandma, miss him no more. Perhaps that is why the tears are here. Because now, we get to miss you. But only for a while.
Our own passing is but a matter of time, and what we do with the time allotted to us is what really counts. My Grandmother led a full life. No regrets. She grew up, married, had a lovely daughter. Was able to see her grow up and have her own family. She was also able to see her grandson marry (at long last I hear my mother sigh). This is a life beyond most. I hope we can all be as lucky as my Grandmother.
May the peace of Christ reign in our hearts. With you all in spirit.
Kane.
Grandma's Poem:
2 single beds for a married couple at 121 Martin Street,
Why has still got me beat.
The Green Triumph with pitstops in Taihape.
Sunday dinners with a shandy.
Old cake tins full of freshly baked cookies delivered weekly.
Crochet and Knitting, gifts for all, thanks Granny.
Playing 500, doing Jigsaw puzzles, even if the pieces don't fit.
Buying the latest VCR, with no idea how to use it.
Proudly announcing "I got my hair permed" or "Beans from the garden", and "Ohh, yes yes" with a smile.
Till when we meet again, we'll have to wait awhile.
Also, the last time I saw Grandma from the beginning of this year, this video.
----Original Post----
Since I live in Taiwan, I'm not able to attend the funeral. Grandma lived a good long life. She lived longer than any other known family member, record breaker :). 93. Since I wasn't at the funeral, I still wanted to say something of course, so...here it is. She passed away in her sleep (while on morphine, so, obviously painless), after many little strokes and well, old age. No more pain, sickness, bad hair days, tax or Monday mornings for Granny. Ahh, if only we could be so lucky.
My Grandma.
Well, my only regret is that I cannot be with you all in person. In fact as this is read I'm probably sleeping. Yet, I can imagine tears. Every funeral seems to have them, and as I write this I begin to tear up a bit myself. I wonder why. Have I lost a loved one? Well, if one believes in the life hereafter as I do, then no. I haven't lost my Grandmother at all.
After my mum called be to tell me of the news, I went to the kitchen and smiled. "Hey Grandma" I said, "This is where we (my wife and I) live". Now she can see it. She can see where we work, where we live. Guess I'd better behave now...Granny is watching. (I can almost see my mother rolling her eyes, Kane...behave?)
Be happy. I recall what Grandma said to me one day. "I miss your Grandfather." Well, Grandma, miss him no more. Perhaps that is why the tears are here. Because now, we get to miss you. But only for a while.
Our own passing is but a matter of time, and what we do with the time allotted to us is what really counts. My Grandmother led a full life. No regrets. She grew up, married, had a lovely daughter. Was able to see her grow up and have her own family. She was also able to see her grandson marry (at long last I hear my mother sigh). This is a life beyond most. I hope we can all be as lucky as my Grandmother.
May the peace of Christ reign in our hearts. With you all in spirit.
Kane.
2 single beds for a married couple at 121 Martin Street,
Why has still got me beat.
The Green Triumph with pitstops in Taihape.
Sunday dinners with a shandy.
Old cake tins full of freshly baked cookies delivered weekly.
Crochet and Knitting, gifts for all, thanks Granny.
Playing 500, doing Jigsaw puzzles, even if the pieces don't fit.
Buying the latest VCR, with no idea how to use it.
Proudly announcing "I got my hair permed" or "Beans from the garden", and "Ohh, yes yes" with a smile.
Till when we meet again, we'll have to wait awhile.
Also, the last time I saw Grandma from the beginning of this year, this video.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Liam tries wasabi!
Well the other night after a long day at work, wifey dearest had lovingly made yours truly sushi. (nah, she brought it).
I love wasabi, even had competitions back home over who could eat the most, a competition that regularly ended in massive headaches and tears, but funny as hell. We however were never 'stupid' enough to actually snort the stuff, have a look at some youtube videos of people actually doing that. Funny to look at, but when faced with the proposition of actually doing that yourself, I'd take a flying pass.
Anyho, as my son grows he inevitably always wants whatever your having, regardless whether it's orange juice, beer, sake... (kidding I never let him have juice...)
A couple of months ago, he really wanted some of my noodles. They were very spicy, but he was very insistent. That ended in me getting ice cubes from the freezer to help numb the burning sensation in his mouth. Poor guy.
Well, of course, I'm eating my sushi with wasabi and sonny dearest wants in on the action, and for lack of a better word it is hilarious as like a typical guy, he tries and tries again. View at your leisure and no animals were harmed in the making of this video.
I love wasabi, even had competitions back home over who could eat the most, a competition that regularly ended in massive headaches and tears, but funny as hell. We however were never 'stupid' enough to actually snort the stuff, have a look at some youtube videos of people actually doing that. Funny to look at, but when faced with the proposition of actually doing that yourself, I'd take a flying pass.
Anyho, as my son grows he inevitably always wants whatever your having, regardless whether it's orange juice, beer, sake... (kidding I never let him have juice...)
A couple of months ago, he really wanted some of my noodles. They were very spicy, but he was very insistent. That ended in me getting ice cubes from the freezer to help numb the burning sensation in his mouth. Poor guy.
Well, of course, I'm eating my sushi with wasabi and sonny dearest wants in on the action, and for lack of a better word it is hilarious as like a typical guy, he tries and tries again. View at your leisure and no animals were harmed in the making of this video.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Just going to borrow the car...
Like any teenage boy the car keys represented independence, freedom and of course the license to parrrtayyy. But like many a teenage boy, one must lie through ones teeth to actually procure the car keys without the parents calling the police stating that
1. their son is mysteriously missing and
2. their car has been stolen.
So we would mow the lawns, vacuum the floor etc etc, even try our business negotiation skills on our parents to get them into a sucker deal.
My method was very innocently evil genius. "Can I borrow the keys, Matt and I need to go to Bible study" Of course you know, bible study doesn't actually mean bible study. Well we did in fact go to the class, and I remember absolutely nothing from it, but I do remember the fun we had AFTER it with our parents automobiles.
The area in which we lived had a strong thoroughbred racing scene, and as such the green grassy side of the road was quite wide and flat, useful for horse owners to exercise their horses, also incredibly useful for teenage boys to do something they probably shouldn't be doing. Ok, I'll tell you what we did. We'd drive along at around 60k, drive off the road onto the green grassy side of the road and push in the clutch, throw on the handbrake and turn the steering wheel sharply.
Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, and we'd count how many times we could get the car to spin in a circle. Of course if Mum or Dad found out we were doing this Robinson Crusoe would be able to hear our cries of pain. Doing this of course made the car very very muddy, a clear sign we weren't simply going to Bible study. So when I'd get home at 1am I'd be out in the garage QUIETLY cleaning the car, removing all evidence of our nightly adventures.
Of course doing this came with some inherent risks, like...wrecking the car. Fortunately this never happened, but when a car is sliding...you don't have much control over it, so one day, the car is sliding....and sliding towards the hedge. The hedge is getting closer, the car is still sliding and my mate in the passenger seat (which of course was the side that would hit the hedge first) was really starting to tense up and go, umm,....shiiiiittttttt. My foot is firmly on the brake and turning the wheel the other way...but of course when you're sliding, that doesn't do shit. The car continues to slide and stops just as it touches the hedge. My mate lets out a sigh of relief and I act as if I'd planned the whole thing and was in complete control the whole time. >.>
So one night Bugs and myself are driving home, (I'm driving) and of course we're planing on pulling a few handbrakes on the way home as there is a perfect place to do it. Moreover it had been raining so everything is really nice and slippery, perfect for spinning the car, haha. So feeling like we're going for the record I exit the road at a higher than normal speed.
As I reach the spot where we think it's good I start to drift off the road. For some reason, I decide that a driveway will give us a little bit more road and speed to enter the 'pull the handbrake zone' since you don't want to pull the handbrake where there is a chance of spinning onto the road as that extra traction could be bad...quite bad (flip anyone).
As we are crossing the rather wide driveway and reach the end, Bug and myself suddenly (and wayyy to late by the way) realize something. We both look at each other and with wide eyes start screaming 'Shiiiiittttttt'
Under any driveway there is a drain, quite deep which leaves a ditch on either side of the driveway, so in effect this driveway is more like a low level bridge...and we're driving off it at gulp...too fast anyway.
Shittttttttt.
I had visions of the dukes of hazard and the general lee, dundundun da da dun dun dun dun. (or however that dang horn sound goes like)
Mummy we're flying!
Shiiiiittttttttt.
and then we landed, in the large ditch and it had been raining so there was quite a bit of water in it. SPLASH. Water flew up the side of the car (I remember the water flying up past my window). The car wheels incredibly stayed on and more amazingly the front axle didn't brake. We basically bounce out of the ditch and the first instinctive thing I do is to...?
Slam in the clutch, crank the handbrake and spin the steering wheel!
A jump AND a spin, weeeehaaaaaaa.
After we stopped spinning (we were still in too much shock/surprise to even bother counting how many times we spun) we sat there for 0.5sec before screaming and bellowing 'THAT WAS SOO COOOL'
Yep, I had a lot of cleaning to do that night.
The only other crazy thing in the car was driving off road thinking I'd beat my mates on the dirt road. Thing about off road is that it's not flat, so we were suddenly airborne and slammed the car into a small bank, sending dirt flying everywhere and giving my back seat passengers a mild form of whiplash. After grinding to a halt we all got out to survey the damage and after a professional teenage appraisal we all agreed everything was ok, until Dawson pointed out 'umm, where's the license plate?" Later on the road, there was a grinding sound then a crash and a bump as the stone guard fell off. We figured our parents never look under the car anyway so they wouldn't know it was missing anyway. We were right. :D
I forget how we reattached the license plate...
1. their son is mysteriously missing and
2. their car has been stolen.
So we would mow the lawns, vacuum the floor etc etc, even try our business negotiation skills on our parents to get them into a sucker deal.
My method was very innocently evil genius. "Can I borrow the keys, Matt and I need to go to Bible study" Of course you know, bible study doesn't actually mean bible study. Well we did in fact go to the class, and I remember absolutely nothing from it, but I do remember the fun we had AFTER it with our parents automobiles.
The area in which we lived had a strong thoroughbred racing scene, and as such the green grassy side of the road was quite wide and flat, useful for horse owners to exercise their horses, also incredibly useful for teenage boys to do something they probably shouldn't be doing. Ok, I'll tell you what we did. We'd drive along at around 60k, drive off the road onto the green grassy side of the road and push in the clutch, throw on the handbrake and turn the steering wheel sharply.
Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, and we'd count how many times we could get the car to spin in a circle. Of course if Mum or Dad found out we were doing this Robinson Crusoe would be able to hear our cries of pain. Doing this of course made the car very very muddy, a clear sign we weren't simply going to Bible study. So when I'd get home at 1am I'd be out in the garage QUIETLY cleaning the car, removing all evidence of our nightly adventures.
Of course doing this came with some inherent risks, like...wrecking the car. Fortunately this never happened, but when a car is sliding...you don't have much control over it, so one day, the car is sliding....and sliding towards the hedge. The hedge is getting closer, the car is still sliding and my mate in the passenger seat (which of course was the side that would hit the hedge first) was really starting to tense up and go, umm,....shiiiiittttttt. My foot is firmly on the brake and turning the wheel the other way...but of course when you're sliding, that doesn't do shit. The car continues to slide and stops just as it touches the hedge. My mate lets out a sigh of relief and I act as if I'd planned the whole thing and was in complete control the whole time. >.>
So one night Bugs and myself are driving home, (I'm driving) and of course we're planing on pulling a few handbrakes on the way home as there is a perfect place to do it. Moreover it had been raining so everything is really nice and slippery, perfect for spinning the car, haha. So feeling like we're going for the record I exit the road at a higher than normal speed.
As I reach the spot where we think it's good I start to drift off the road. For some reason, I decide that a driveway will give us a little bit more road and speed to enter the 'pull the handbrake zone' since you don't want to pull the handbrake where there is a chance of spinning onto the road as that extra traction could be bad...quite bad (flip anyone).
As we are crossing the rather wide driveway and reach the end, Bug and myself suddenly (and wayyy to late by the way) realize something. We both look at each other and with wide eyes start screaming 'Shiiiiittttttt'
Under any driveway there is a drain, quite deep which leaves a ditch on either side of the driveway, so in effect this driveway is more like a low level bridge...and we're driving off it at gulp...too fast anyway.
Shittttttttt.
I had visions of the dukes of hazard and the general lee, dundundun da da dun dun dun dun. (or however that dang horn sound goes like)
Mummy we're flying!
Shiiiiittttttttt.
and then we landed, in the large ditch and it had been raining so there was quite a bit of water in it. SPLASH. Water flew up the side of the car (I remember the water flying up past my window). The car wheels incredibly stayed on and more amazingly the front axle didn't brake. We basically bounce out of the ditch and the first instinctive thing I do is to...?
Slam in the clutch, crank the handbrake and spin the steering wheel!
A jump AND a spin, weeeehaaaaaaa.
After we stopped spinning (we were still in too much shock/surprise to even bother counting how many times we spun) we sat there for 0.5sec before screaming and bellowing 'THAT WAS SOO COOOL'
Yep, I had a lot of cleaning to do that night.
The only other crazy thing in the car was driving off road thinking I'd beat my mates on the dirt road. Thing about off road is that it's not flat, so we were suddenly airborne and slammed the car into a small bank, sending dirt flying everywhere and giving my back seat passengers a mild form of whiplash. After grinding to a halt we all got out to survey the damage and after a professional teenage appraisal we all agreed everything was ok, until Dawson pointed out 'umm, where's the license plate?" Later on the road, there was a grinding sound then a crash and a bump as the stone guard fell off. We figured our parents never look under the car anyway so they wouldn't know it was missing anyway. We were right. :D
I forget how we reattached the license plate...
Monday, March 15, 2010
Mummy never lies
Today's story takes us way back to the kindi days. Insert the wavy dream movie effect with wooo wooo wooo.
Honestly I remember bugger all of kindi. I think the memory part of my brain wasn't fully developed yet OR I've hit my head so much and consumed umm... not good stuff to erase/nullify that memory part...thingy.
Anyone one thing I do remember is that I was a total angel in kindi. (awkward pause?) *crickets*
Ok, so I wasn't perfect, I do remember in our kindi class we all had our name on the wall. Beside our name was a series of boxes, so kinda like a wall sized Excel spreadsheet years before home computing was a possibility. In each box (corresponding to each day of the week) our teacher would place a star in it. YES A STAR! I kid you not! Unbelievable huh? Stars.
But wait, there is more! These stars may be different colours! Yes my friends, it is true. Stars of different colours. The star placed along our named row could be a gold star, indicating you were are good little bunny that day or a black star, dum dum dum, of course indicating your were less than angelic on that particular day.
As you know from previous stories, my alter ego childhood self was a rather cunning individual, and on one auspicious day whist the teacher was being distracted by my elite squad of kindi terrorists (eep, I used the T word, this blog is now being read by the NSA, CIA, FDA and Greenpeace), I (yes go ahead, cue the mission impossible soundtrack again) snuck up to the teachers desk. Picked the lock on the drawer (just kidding, no lock) open the drawer and 'borrowed' the box of black stars. I then proceeded to place all of the black stars up my arms, using them all of course.
Like clockwork, the teacher turns around to see me gleefully putting the LAST one on, too late to run for cover I boldly accept my fate. A martyr to the end. Freedom from the black stars for my people. It must have been a horrible fate since the memory of it has been suppressed by my subconscious.
It will come as no surprise then that I would on occasion desire to not go to kindi (perhaps because I did something the day before that I believed I'd be shitcanned for the next day, not sure, but it stands to reason). So like all I'd fake being sick. It's a shame that Ferris Bueller's day off hadn't been made yet, as his tips would have really helped out.
My mother being the caring and concerned mother that she is, was very worried when her darling son woke up sick. So sick in fact he felt he couldn't go to kindi. My mother readily agreed I shouldn't go if I felt so bad (and this is where I perhaps overdid it...or she was onto me right from the word go). Preparing myself to return to the sanctuary of my bed I heard "best get dressed and take you to see the doctor". Shock. I froze. I didn't know what to do or say. "I don't think I'm that bad Mum" "No no, if you're too sick for kindi you're sick enough to see the doctor" "oh, ok" Already a plan was trying to be devised in my head as to how I could fool a doctor into believing I was sick and prescribing drugs that would have no adverse side effects on a perfectly healthy young boy.
Remember the title of this tale? Mummy never lies. Yeah, well, that's a lie.
"Now remember, if we go to the doctor, and he finds out that there is nothing wrong with you, he'll take you away and you'll never see us ever again" (I was staying at my grandmother's house at the time). What made it worse was that I'd just finished reading the Pied Piper of Hamlin, so I totally believed what my mother was saying. I believed it so much that not only did I make a miraculous recovery that day and go to kindi, it also inoculated me against fake sickness throughout my primary school days too.
I think I have no way to get revenge on my mother for that one, so I'll just have to concede the point and do the same to my son when he tries to play hooky. (Get my revenge vicariously, muhahahaha)
Nope, still sucks I got duped like that.
Honestly I remember bugger all of kindi. I think the memory part of my brain wasn't fully developed yet OR I've hit my head so much and consumed umm... not good stuff to erase/nullify that memory part...thingy.
Anyone one thing I do remember is that I was a total angel in kindi. (awkward pause?) *crickets*
Ok, so I wasn't perfect, I do remember in our kindi class we all had our name on the wall. Beside our name was a series of boxes, so kinda like a wall sized Excel spreadsheet years before home computing was a possibility. In each box (corresponding to each day of the week) our teacher would place a star in it. YES A STAR! I kid you not! Unbelievable huh? Stars.
But wait, there is more! These stars may be different colours! Yes my friends, it is true. Stars of different colours. The star placed along our named row could be a gold star, indicating you were are good little bunny that day or a black star, dum dum dum, of course indicating your were less than angelic on that particular day.
As you know from previous stories, my alter ego childhood self was a rather cunning individual, and on one auspicious day whist the teacher was being distracted by my elite squad of kindi terrorists (eep, I used the T word, this blog is now being read by the NSA, CIA, FDA and Greenpeace), I (yes go ahead, cue the mission impossible soundtrack again) snuck up to the teachers desk. Picked the lock on the drawer (just kidding, no lock) open the drawer and 'borrowed' the box of black stars. I then proceeded to place all of the black stars up my arms, using them all of course.
Like clockwork, the teacher turns around to see me gleefully putting the LAST one on, too late to run for cover I boldly accept my fate. A martyr to the end. Freedom from the black stars for my people. It must have been a horrible fate since the memory of it has been suppressed by my subconscious.
It will come as no surprise then that I would on occasion desire to not go to kindi (perhaps because I did something the day before that I believed I'd be shitcanned for the next day, not sure, but it stands to reason). So like all I'd fake being sick. It's a shame that Ferris Bueller's day off hadn't been made yet, as his tips would have really helped out.
My mother being the caring and concerned mother that she is, was very worried when her darling son woke up sick. So sick in fact he felt he couldn't go to kindi. My mother readily agreed I shouldn't go if I felt so bad (and this is where I perhaps overdid it...or she was onto me right from the word go). Preparing myself to return to the sanctuary of my bed I heard "best get dressed and take you to see the doctor". Shock. I froze. I didn't know what to do or say. "I don't think I'm that bad Mum" "No no, if you're too sick for kindi you're sick enough to see the doctor" "oh, ok" Already a plan was trying to be devised in my head as to how I could fool a doctor into believing I was sick and prescribing drugs that would have no adverse side effects on a perfectly healthy young boy.
Remember the title of this tale? Mummy never lies. Yeah, well, that's a lie.
"Now remember, if we go to the doctor, and he finds out that there is nothing wrong with you, he'll take you away and you'll never see us ever again" (I was staying at my grandmother's house at the time). What made it worse was that I'd just finished reading the Pied Piper of Hamlin, so I totally believed what my mother was saying. I believed it so much that not only did I make a miraculous recovery that day and go to kindi, it also inoculated me against fake sickness throughout my primary school days too.
I think I have no way to get revenge on my mother for that one, so I'll just have to concede the point and do the same to my son when he tries to play hooky. (Get my revenge vicariously, muhahahaha)
Nope, still sucks I got duped like that.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
A taser gift for the wife
I found this funny story on the net and since it's up to my incredibly high standards of humor it gets honored with it's own spot on my blog. wooooooo.
Pocket Taser Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife.
This was the advertisement in Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop window next to the condo we rented last month in Florida. So I went in to check it out. I saw something that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 30th anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife Gisele. What I came across was a 100,000 volt, pocket/purse-sized taser.
The effects of the taser were suppose to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety. WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two triple A batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button AND pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I'd get the blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.
Awesome!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Gisele what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave. Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-a batteries,. right?!!! There I sat in my recliner, my cat Tabby looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Tabby (for a fraction of a second) and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong? So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, taser in another. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries. All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5″ long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-a batteries, thinking to myself, "no possible way!" What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best..
I'm sitting there alone, Tabby looking on with her head cocked to one side as to say, "don't do it master," reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and HOLY MOTHER, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION@!@$@$%!@ *!!!
I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. The cat was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, "do it again, do it again!"
Note: If you ever feel compelled to "mug" yourself with a taser, one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself. You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three second burst would be considered conservative. SON-OF-A-.. that hurt like he**!!! A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they up get there??? My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I'm still looking for my testicles? I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return.
Still in shock
Pocket Taser Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife.
This was the advertisement in Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop window next to the condo we rented last month in Florida. So I went in to check it out. I saw something that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 30th anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife Gisele. What I came across was a 100,000 volt, pocket/purse-sized taser.
The effects of the taser were suppose to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety. WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two triple A batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button AND pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I'd get the blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.
Awesome!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Gisele what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave. Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-a batteries,. right?!!! There I sat in my recliner, my cat Tabby looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Tabby (for a fraction of a second) and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong? So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, taser in another. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries. All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5″ long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-a batteries, thinking to myself, "no possible way!" What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best..
I'm sitting there alone, Tabby looking on with her head cocked to one side as to say, "don't do it master," reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and HOLY MOTHER, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION@!@$@$%!@ *!!!
I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. The cat was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, "do it again, do it again!"
Note: If you ever feel compelled to "mug" yourself with a taser, one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself. You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three second burst would be considered conservative. SON-OF-A-.. that hurt like he**!!! A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they up get there??? My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I'm still looking for my testicles? I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return.
Still in shock
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Learning to Drive
Ahh the car. The object that gives a young man, freedom, independence, the cool factor, the opportunity to say "I've got a car" without lying. A place to make out because if her father finds out, you're a walking corpse.
So with all the posturing a gloating over, 'I can drive' etc etc, all of your social popularity hinges on one thing....
Can I borrow the car mum?
(The bold cool beast of a man is transformed into a sniveling groveling teen) pleeeeease.
Being the master diplomat/negotiator/jedi mind master that I am *cough* my mother without reservation handed me (without a care in the world) the gleaming jewels, the car keys. Cue an angelic "Ahhhhh"
And off I tear! Making the 1.5L non-supercharged, non-turboed, non-bored out, stock standard, couldn't pull lingerie off a porn star engine whinny like a wild unleashed stallion. Well...at least until I was out of line of sight from the kitchen window.
Growing up in the country, country roads were...awesome. Long, windy, and no traffic. This allowed one to test how quickly you could get to the end of it. My record was "Hells Bells" by AC/DC, by the time the song was finished I was at my mates place at the end of the road. Now when I visit home and drive leisurely along the road I'm dumbfounded at how totally insane I was to go that fast. In order to reach such speeds I would cut the corner. This meant dumping the left wheels into the grass. Over a period of time sizable ruts began to form, which could then really rip you around a corner with flying off into the bank on the other side of the road. (Unfortunately this very thing happened to a friend....sucker!)
Another thing about driving on country roads at night is the scary nocturnal wildlife of NZ. Rabbits and possums...and wild cats. Since we have already established that I was not exactly going the speed limit, if a rabbit et.al. was on the road it was officially breakfast for a hawk tomorrow morning.
As I was a pioneer driver my first 5 expeditions resulted in a fatality EVERY SINGLE TIME. While the first time I was, YEAH, second, WHOO-HOO, third, GOTCHA, forth, Again? fifth, oh man *sigh*. I believed I really was cursed. But then no more deaths and life proceeded as usual. Until one fateful day.
While blasting home listening to 'Highway to Hell' (again AC/DC) blaring on the stock standard, no 12" sub, no 3x9 speakers and no tweeters I rounded corner after corner and bend after bend with such smooth grace and style, perfect lines even Colin McRae would have nodded in approval. I rounded the last bend, tyres screeching and there, caught in my headlights, staring back at me with deer eyes was a cute bunny rabbit.
With the instinct of a natural predator I attacked! Hands gripping the steering wheel tighter, foot firmly planted to the base of the car, the car roaring into greater speeds became my weapon of choice to dispatch the evil foul beast that is the 'bunny rabbit'.
Of course what kind of suicidal rabbit is actually going to sit in the middle of the road and watch an over-sexed (and frustrated) teenage boy mow it down. Well, not this rabbit and off it bolted to the side of the road.
Of course the predator does not allow it's prey to so easily escape, the bullet car follows after the rabbit for about 0.25 seconds. Which was about 0.25 seconds too long. "Ohhhh shiiiitttttttt" now my foot is firmly on the brake and turning the wheels the other way. Now I slide to the side of the road and keep drifting sideways, off the road, into the grass and finally....into the goddamn fence. *cruunch* and stop.
Meanwhile school children huddled around a campfire are listening to a scary story from their camp leader. At a pause in his story they hear a faint yell pierce the otherwise still and quite night.
"FFFFFUUUUUUuuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk"
Yeah, I was all, @#$@# @#$@# @##@$@# @#$#$@$. Oh man, how am I going to hide this! The passenger door was dented and the side mirror was hanging on by...no it was off, retrieved and currently and looking at me from the passengers seat.
Well, I can't hide this, I'm just going to have to tell my mum the truth. And that's just what I did.
Really? You believe that? C'mon! I went home and promptly marched up to my mothers room. "Hey mum"
"Yes dear"
"I had a bit of an accident in the car" cue mothers rolling eyes and the wind coming out of her lungs in a great sigh.
"What happened"
We have cats. Summer in NZ is nice, but when the sun goes down, so does the temperature. And the road absorbs the heat from the day, so it's not unusual to see your cats sleeping on the side of the road after the sun has gone down.
"Well I came around a corner and our cat was sleep right in the middle of it, so I had to swerve to miss her, and I ended up going off the road and hit the fence a little bit"
"Oh" was my mothers, surprised yet relieved reply. "How bad is the damage"
"Just a bit of a dent in the door and the side mirror got knocked off"
"Ok, not so bad then"
And that was it! And now that I've posted this, my mother will/might read it and some young school children around a camp fire will hear the silent peaceful night air pierced with "KAAAAANNNNNNNEEEEEE YOUUUUU LITTTTLEEEEE BAASSSTTTTTTeeeerrrrrdddddd"
So with all the posturing a gloating over, 'I can drive' etc etc, all of your social popularity hinges on one thing....
Can I borrow the car mum?
(The bold cool beast of a man is transformed into a sniveling groveling teen) pleeeeease.
Being the master diplomat/negotiator/jedi mind master that I am *cough* my mother without reservation handed me (without a care in the world) the gleaming jewels, the car keys. Cue an angelic "Ahhhhh"
And off I tear! Making the 1.5L non-supercharged, non-turboed, non-bored out, stock standard, couldn't pull lingerie off a porn star engine whinny like a wild unleashed stallion. Well...at least until I was out of line of sight from the kitchen window.
Growing up in the country, country roads were...awesome. Long, windy, and no traffic. This allowed one to test how quickly you could get to the end of it. My record was "Hells Bells" by AC/DC, by the time the song was finished I was at my mates place at the end of the road. Now when I visit home and drive leisurely along the road I'm dumbfounded at how totally insane I was to go that fast. In order to reach such speeds I would cut the corner. This meant dumping the left wheels into the grass. Over a period of time sizable ruts began to form, which could then really rip you around a corner with flying off into the bank on the other side of the road. (Unfortunately this very thing happened to a friend....sucker!)
Another thing about driving on country roads at night is the scary nocturnal wildlife of NZ. Rabbits and possums...and wild cats. Since we have already established that I was not exactly going the speed limit, if a rabbit et.al. was on the road it was officially breakfast for a hawk tomorrow morning.
As I was a pioneer driver my first 5 expeditions resulted in a fatality EVERY SINGLE TIME. While the first time I was, YEAH, second, WHOO-HOO, third, GOTCHA, forth, Again? fifth, oh man *sigh*. I believed I really was cursed. But then no more deaths and life proceeded as usual. Until one fateful day.
While blasting home listening to 'Highway to Hell' (again AC/DC) blaring on the stock standard, no 12" sub, no 3x9 speakers and no tweeters I rounded corner after corner and bend after bend with such smooth grace and style, perfect lines even Colin McRae would have nodded in approval. I rounded the last bend, tyres screeching and there, caught in my headlights, staring back at me with deer eyes was a cute bunny rabbit.
With the instinct of a natural predator I attacked! Hands gripping the steering wheel tighter, foot firmly planted to the base of the car, the car roaring into greater speeds became my weapon of choice to dispatch the evil foul beast that is the 'bunny rabbit'.
Of course what kind of suicidal rabbit is actually going to sit in the middle of the road and watch an over-sexed (and frustrated) teenage boy mow it down. Well, not this rabbit and off it bolted to the side of the road.
Of course the predator does not allow it's prey to so easily escape, the bullet car follows after the rabbit for about 0.25 seconds. Which was about 0.25 seconds too long. "Ohhhh shiiiitttttttt" now my foot is firmly on the brake and turning the wheels the other way. Now I slide to the side of the road and keep drifting sideways, off the road, into the grass and finally....into the goddamn fence. *cruunch* and stop.
Meanwhile school children huddled around a campfire are listening to a scary story from their camp leader. At a pause in his story they hear a faint yell pierce the otherwise still and quite night.
"FFFFFUUUUUUuuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk"
Yeah, I was all, @#$@# @#$@# @##@$@# @#$#$@$. Oh man, how am I going to hide this! The passenger door was dented and the side mirror was hanging on by...no it was off, retrieved and currently and looking at me from the passengers seat.
Well, I can't hide this, I'm just going to have to tell my mum the truth. And that's just what I did.
Really? You believe that? C'mon! I went home and promptly marched up to my mothers room. "Hey mum"
"Yes dear"
"I had a bit of an accident in the car" cue mothers rolling eyes and the wind coming out of her lungs in a great sigh.
"What happened"
We have cats. Summer in NZ is nice, but when the sun goes down, so does the temperature. And the road absorbs the heat from the day, so it's not unusual to see your cats sleeping on the side of the road after the sun has gone down.
"Well I came around a corner and our cat was sleep right in the middle of it, so I had to swerve to miss her, and I ended up going off the road and hit the fence a little bit"
"Oh" was my mothers, surprised yet relieved reply. "How bad is the damage"
"Just a bit of a dent in the door and the side mirror got knocked off"
"Ok, not so bad then"
And that was it! And now that I've posted this, my mother will/might read it and some young school children around a camp fire will hear the silent peaceful night air pierced with "KAAAAANNNNNNNEEEEEE YOUUUUU LITTTTLEEEEE BAASSSTTTTTTeeeerrrrrdddddd"
Sunday, February 22, 2009
You hit like a girl...
Another one of my fond memories of college (snr. high). As you can tell from my lack of posting, these memories are hard to come by. I think they are being buried under the copious amount of alcohol that is being forced into my being.
In good ole NZ, baseball isn't popular, at ALL. Yet for some reason, softball is perfectly aye oh kay, but still is just a muck around sport and isn't as high profile as rugby, cricket or netball.
So, nice sunny day, and gym class, and our gym teacher is trying to teach us the finer points of this intricate game, I missed those points as I was daydreaming on 3rd base thinking this is way better than maths. (I actually caught a softball to the side of my head for my troubles, REALLY daydreaming).
Anyway, one of our mates, Andy, (a very very competitive and sporting bloke, a mans man if you would (well, we weren't exactly men yet) is backstop, and so far doing a fine job, but then it wasn't exactly difficult seeing that it was a 'girl' pitcher. No wind-up, just a simple lob, so the softball wasn't exactly sailing in a direct straight line into Andy's mitt, but more of a parabolic arc.
Another girl in batting, and so Andy is making some mocking comments, and taunting our pitcher to 'fire it in here'. She lobs, batter swings, total miss and the ball bounces on the ground and up into Andy's mitt.
Strike 1.
Andy fires the ball back to the pitcher, trying to display his sporting prowess.
Pitch 2, same thing, nice slow lob in the air, the batter again with a big swing completely misses the ball, and again the ball bounces on the ground and up into Andy's......BALLS!
Cue EVERYBODY laughing their guts out as Andy falls over on the ground from his crouching position, cuddling his bruised manhood.
Andy quickly recovers, being the man that he is, and again, fires the ball back to the pitcher "I'm ok" he grunts, "Comon, pitch it harder!"
Everybody is encouraging the pitcher to in-fact, pitch it harder, but alas, her pitch is still the same soft lob to the batter. Again the batter makes a big swing, but she is getting better as this time she manages to nick the ball. The ball flies off the bat at 5000% of it's incoming speed.
The ball now like a bullet shoots INTO the ground, and it BOUNCES straight back up into Andy's BALLS!
"THUUUUUUUUDD" "UUGGGNNNNHHHHHH"
This time Andy really does collapse on the ground and EVERYBODY is crying from laughter. Andy now retires from backstop and we're all too scared to take his place.
Gotta love gym class :)
In good ole NZ, baseball isn't popular, at ALL. Yet for some reason, softball is perfectly aye oh kay, but still is just a muck around sport and isn't as high profile as rugby, cricket or netball.
So, nice sunny day, and gym class, and our gym teacher is trying to teach us the finer points of this intricate game, I missed those points as I was daydreaming on 3rd base thinking this is way better than maths. (I actually caught a softball to the side of my head for my troubles, REALLY daydreaming).
Anyway, one of our mates, Andy, (a very very competitive and sporting bloke, a mans man if you would (well, we weren't exactly men yet) is backstop, and so far doing a fine job, but then it wasn't exactly difficult seeing that it was a 'girl' pitcher. No wind-up, just a simple lob, so the softball wasn't exactly sailing in a direct straight line into Andy's mitt, but more of a parabolic arc.
Another girl in batting, and so Andy is making some mocking comments, and taunting our pitcher to 'fire it in here'. She lobs, batter swings, total miss and the ball bounces on the ground and up into Andy's mitt.
Strike 1.
Andy fires the ball back to the pitcher, trying to display his sporting prowess.
Pitch 2, same thing, nice slow lob in the air, the batter again with a big swing completely misses the ball, and again the ball bounces on the ground and up into Andy's......BALLS!
Cue EVERYBODY laughing their guts out as Andy falls over on the ground from his crouching position, cuddling his bruised manhood.
Andy quickly recovers, being the man that he is, and again, fires the ball back to the pitcher "I'm ok" he grunts, "Comon, pitch it harder!"
Everybody is encouraging the pitcher to in-fact, pitch it harder, but alas, her pitch is still the same soft lob to the batter. Again the batter makes a big swing, but she is getting better as this time she manages to nick the ball. The ball flies off the bat at 5000% of it's incoming speed.
The ball now like a bullet shoots INTO the ground, and it BOUNCES straight back up into Andy's BALLS!
"THUUUUUUUUDD" "UUGGGNNNNHHHHHH"
This time Andy really does collapse on the ground and EVERYBODY is crying from laughter. Andy now retires from backstop and we're all too scared to take his place.
Gotta love gym class :)
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Chips Revisited
Late one Saturday night an accomplice of mine called yours truly up. To say he is a petrolhead is a tad of an understatement and he had been pining (yes I said it, PINING) for a road trip of epic proportions (not really, but it sounds better and is more of an interesting read).
So with little planning or preparation (and wifey unknowing of what she was really agreeing to when dear 'I' ask..is it ok......) and VERY early in the morning for me (ie. the sun had been up for a little over 2 hours) off the duo race on their AWESOME 125cc *cough* scooters *cough* to a beach getaway about 2hours to the south.
At first I had visions of riding all the way along a coastal road, not much traffic, sweeping corners and a smoothly paved road. It's funny how all our dreams are cruelly shattered by some sado-masochist entity (SME).
Part one was to navigate our way out of the city...not so simple as we hit every red light imaginable...(SME?) Finally we get up onto a causeway, where we can really open the throttle of our beasty road hogs, all the way to a whining engine SCREAMING ~100km/hr. Side by side we hurtled over the straight bridge upon which I basically throw up in my helmet as the image of Chips comes to mind. While my partner in crime...let's call him Toka is riding with one arm raised in like a victory salute after winning the King's royal jousting tourney (at 100km/hr...fast horse?).
We quickly weave and pass on the inside of all the slow poke traffic where we hit our first stop...breakfast. Nothing special other than the fact I'm kinda surprised my scooter started after it's screaming fit not 20min before. (in fact the scooter would run perfectly all day...the following week however is another @#$@#$ing story! -.-)
The ducking and diving of traffic continues until we stop again, this time next to a rocky beach for coffee. Well, Toka had a coffee....and a toke and I had a glass of ice since I had previously purloined a coke which had now warmed up a bit...and everybody hates warm coke aye? Toka whips out the camera and proceeds to photo the scooters...many times. In fact in later conversations Toka's wife said "You're sick. You took more photos of the damn bikes than of me/him/countryside/etc" I'll refer you to the comment of petrolhead.
After the coffee/toke/coke pit stop and our machines of war had cooled down a bit, off we proceed yet again to put on our game faces in testing the manufacturing capabilities of our respective motorcycling companies (err...they were the same actually....meh).
Toka is a bit of a fanboy. If he's getting computer peripherals they have to be Logitech. So of course when it came to mp3 players, it HAD to be an iPod (yes, I'm now having to scrub my fingers clean after tying that insidious word, kinda like Microsoft and Bill Gates...ARRGGGHHH, now I'll have to cut off my pinky).
Anyway, we're plummeting down the inside of cars (and some fricken Civic was on the inside shooting pine needles up into my Conan styled chest...) and suddenly Toka piles on the brakes and moves to the grassy curbside. His iPod had stopped working, so he had no Celine Dion or some other pansy crap to listen to. I sat there gloating over his misfortune since we had previously had a mp3 "which one is better" verbal war, of which he believed he had soundly won. But alas...after a bit of a cool down and a reset, his tunes were back in action and then so was our epic road trip.
Next stop was gas...not because our huge scooter engines drank gas like a baleen whale but because the gas tanks are the size of tennis ball. Again photo time, this time of the boys and their toys. Toka is loathe to give someone his camera to take a photo. Not because he's fearful of them dropping or taking off with the camera but because they always take crappy photos...or don't know how to use the camera. (like...where is the take photo button?...looking at the camera like a caveman, "umm, it on the top right" like on EVERY OTHER CAMERA). So Toka props up the camera on a pink towel. I'm rolling my eyes like a frisbee (pink towel...don't get me started). Sure enough, later...the awesome photo has a pink bottom. No comment.
Next stop was a secret beach that everybody knows about...oxymoron anybody. Nice beach, no bikinis, disappointing. Then we cruised past the beach that everybody knows about (and at a later date I almost drowned at, yikes) and continued to the best place for surfers which....had no surfers. Again it was take a bike photo shoot time.
Toka being very familiar with the area showed moi a palm tree. He was shoving his fingers into the scaly sort of bark it had whilst commenting to me in a very matter of fact tone, "you know, they say scorpions live in here" (where his fingers were now probing). I swear to God, I wish I had my video camera rolling as I had visions of the greatest youtube video ever made. "they say scorpions live in here" "really?" "yeah. ARGGGGGGGGHHH"
Alas...it didn't happen. #$@#. At this point we turned our road hogs around and headed for home...until I getting way to cocky and took a turn too fast. Off I go, pretending my scooter is now an x-cross bike. Fortunately I was able to break enough on the road to slow down to a manageable speed and simply did a sideways skid to stop. No harm no foul. The worse part was seeing the car I'd just flown past...go past. Can just imagine the smug look on the drivers face. :(. (don't worry, I passed him again, haha.) But poor Toka. Around the corners we go (he's trying his hardest to emulate Rossi), and suddenly no scooter lights from me....He stops, waits. Visions of dragging my battered corpse back to my wife flash in his mind, causing his pacemaker to leap into overtime. Seemed like my off-road excursion worried him more than me. What a caring guy.
Home we go, and we make another stop...this one for Toka...to toke of course, and I practice doing wheelies. I stopped before I broke the front end OFF (or ripped the handle bars off...you know, scooters are built SOLID...of balsa wood).
Anyway, since we left the city red lights mean nothing. (to cars yes, to us, no). So we had been happily blasting through every set of red lights (up yours SME!). My machine has ABS and I've never fully tested them, so I thought why not now. Up comes the red light, (I'm in the lead at this point as Toka's machine has far superior acceleration but mine has a higher top end) at full speed...kinda, Toka close behind and I SLAM on the breaks. "Wow, not bad" Toka however is more like, "what the fk are you doing?", passes and burns though the red light....with the POLICE on the other side now flagging him down.
BUSTED (did I mention that Toka still had contraband on his person?)
Anyway, being a cool cat, he gives the cop his license and rego, which I think really surprised the cop (most foreigners here don't bother with all that legal stuff :s). So...Toka gets let off with just a warning (all the speeding tickets however will be in the mail). A few k's down the road, I need a pit stop and Toka decides now is a good time to hide the rest of the contraband (from on his person to IN his person)
We finally hit home...with incredibly red arms. Being no stranger to sunburn and know this is gonna hurt tomorrow, I comment to Toka. "Put some Aloe Vera on it" He looks at me and starts laughing his guts out, like I'm some wuss. "Na, I'll be fine, had worse" And shakes his head at the Aloe comment. Next day..."Arrgggh, my arms are burning. Damn, don't touch me" Of course I'm laughing like a jackel. "Want Aloe?" "Shut the #$# UP!"
And that dear readers is the Chip roadtrip, next up, who knows. Yesterday I remembered how I could get Mum to race back from the cowshed early.
So with little planning or preparation (and wifey unknowing of what she was really agreeing to when dear 'I' ask..is it ok......) and VERY early in the morning for me (ie. the sun had been up for a little over 2 hours) off the duo race on their AWESOME 125cc *cough* scooters *cough* to a beach getaway about 2hours to the south.
At first I had visions of riding all the way along a coastal road, not much traffic, sweeping corners and a smoothly paved road. It's funny how all our dreams are cruelly shattered by some sado-masochist entity (SME).
Part one was to navigate our way out of the city...not so simple as we hit every red light imaginable...(SME?) Finally we get up onto a causeway, where we can really open the throttle of our beasty road hogs, all the way to a whining engine SCREAMING ~100km/hr. Side by side we hurtled over the straight bridge upon which I basically throw up in my helmet as the image of Chips comes to mind. While my partner in crime...let's call him Toka is riding with one arm raised in like a victory salute after winning the King's royal jousting tourney (at 100km/hr...fast horse?).
We quickly weave and pass on the inside of all the slow poke traffic where we hit our first stop...breakfast. Nothing special other than the fact I'm kinda surprised my scooter started after it's screaming fit not 20min before. (in fact the scooter would run perfectly all day...the following week however is another @#$@#$ing story! -.-)
The ducking and diving of traffic continues until we stop again, this time next to a rocky beach for coffee. Well, Toka had a coffee....and a toke and I had a glass of ice since I had previously purloined a coke which had now warmed up a bit...and everybody hates warm coke aye? Toka whips out the camera and proceeds to photo the scooters...many times. In fact in later conversations Toka's wife said "You're sick. You took more photos of the damn bikes than of me/him/countryside/etc" I'll refer you to the comment of petrolhead.
After the coffee/toke/coke pit stop and our machines of war had cooled down a bit, off we proceed yet again to put on our game faces in testing the manufacturing capabilities of our respective motorcycling companies (err...they were the same actually....meh).
Toka is a bit of a fanboy. If he's getting computer peripherals they have to be Logitech. So of course when it came to mp3 players, it HAD to be an iPod (yes, I'm now having to scrub my fingers clean after tying that insidious word, kinda like Microsoft and Bill Gates...ARRGGGHHH, now I'll have to cut off my pinky).
Anyway, we're plummeting down the inside of cars (and some fricken Civic was on the inside shooting pine needles up into my Conan styled chest...) and suddenly Toka piles on the brakes and moves to the grassy curbside. His iPod had stopped working, so he had no Celine Dion or some other pansy crap to listen to. I sat there gloating over his misfortune since we had previously had a mp3 "which one is better" verbal war, of which he believed he had soundly won. But alas...after a bit of a cool down and a reset, his tunes were back in action and then so was our epic road trip.
Next stop was gas...not because our huge scooter engines drank gas like a baleen whale but because the gas tanks are the size of tennis ball. Again photo time, this time of the boys and their toys. Toka is loathe to give someone his camera to take a photo. Not because he's fearful of them dropping or taking off with the camera but because they always take crappy photos...or don't know how to use the camera. (like...where is the take photo button?...looking at the camera like a caveman, "umm, it on the top right" like on EVERY OTHER CAMERA). So Toka props up the camera on a pink towel. I'm rolling my eyes like a frisbee (pink towel...don't get me started). Sure enough, later...the awesome photo has a pink bottom. No comment.
Next stop was a secret beach that everybody knows about...oxymoron anybody. Nice beach, no bikinis, disappointing. Then we cruised past the beach that everybody knows about (and at a later date I almost drowned at, yikes) and continued to the best place for surfers which....had no surfers. Again it was take a bike photo shoot time.
Toka being very familiar with the area showed moi a palm tree. He was shoving his fingers into the scaly sort of bark it had whilst commenting to me in a very matter of fact tone, "you know, they say scorpions live in here" (where his fingers were now probing). I swear to God, I wish I had my video camera rolling as I had visions of the greatest youtube video ever made. "they say scorpions live in here" "really?" "yeah. ARGGGGGGGGHHH"
Alas...it didn't happen. #$@#. At this point we turned our road hogs around and headed for home...until I getting way to cocky and took a turn too fast. Off I go, pretending my scooter is now an x-cross bike. Fortunately I was able to break enough on the road to slow down to a manageable speed and simply did a sideways skid to stop. No harm no foul. The worse part was seeing the car I'd just flown past...go past. Can just imagine the smug look on the drivers face. :(. (don't worry, I passed him again, haha.) But poor Toka. Around the corners we go (he's trying his hardest to emulate Rossi), and suddenly no scooter lights from me....He stops, waits. Visions of dragging my battered corpse back to my wife flash in his mind, causing his pacemaker to leap into overtime. Seemed like my off-road excursion worried him more than me. What a caring guy.
Home we go, and we make another stop...this one for Toka...to toke of course, and I practice doing wheelies. I stopped before I broke the front end OFF (or ripped the handle bars off...you know, scooters are built SOLID...of balsa wood).
Anyway, since we left the city red lights mean nothing. (to cars yes, to us, no). So we had been happily blasting through every set of red lights (up yours SME!). My machine has ABS and I've never fully tested them, so I thought why not now. Up comes the red light, (I'm in the lead at this point as Toka's machine has far superior acceleration but mine has a higher top end) at full speed...kinda, Toka close behind and I SLAM on the breaks. "Wow, not bad" Toka however is more like, "what the fk are you doing?", passes and burns though the red light....with the POLICE on the other side now flagging him down.
BUSTED (did I mention that Toka still had contraband on his person?)
Anyway, being a cool cat, he gives the cop his license and rego, which I think really surprised the cop (most foreigners here don't bother with all that legal stuff :s). So...Toka gets let off with just a warning (all the speeding tickets however will be in the mail). A few k's down the road, I need a pit stop and Toka decides now is a good time to hide the rest of the contraband (from on his person to IN his person)
We finally hit home...with incredibly red arms. Being no stranger to sunburn and know this is gonna hurt tomorrow, I comment to Toka. "Put some Aloe Vera on it" He looks at me and starts laughing his guts out, like I'm some wuss. "Na, I'll be fine, had worse" And shakes his head at the Aloe comment. Next day..."Arrgggh, my arms are burning. Damn, don't touch me" Of course I'm laughing like a jackel. "Want Aloe?" "Shut the #$# UP!"
And that dear readers is the Chip roadtrip, next up, who knows. Yesterday I remembered how I could get Mum to race back from the cowshed early.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Fun Games
Having no siblings and growing up in the middle of nowhere, t'was very easy for boredom to set in and the imagination to...wander. In any child food and sleep run secondary to amusement. Ahh, the quest to amuse ourselves. Running around the house naked didn't work, nobody would start shrieking which of course, GIVES the amusement. The only onlookers are of the bovine breed and they were probably mooing "Oh my God, I've gone blind".
Jumping off the roof, putting ramjet bullets (used in quickly killing cattle) in the vice and squeezing until BANG (or throwing a whole bunch into the incinerator...) were just some of the things one could do to amuse oneself on boring weekends.
The real fun occurred when my best mate would be around for the weekend.
Mother would use what we called spider fences to fence off various parts of the farm. Like a normal fence there were wires (all hot which gave a nice kick, NB: DO NOT PISS ON A HOT FENCE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Try to imagine getting kicked...repeatedly in the testicles by a donkey!) normally 3 wires, the unique thing is the posts. Not made of posts (saving the environment), but of fibreglass (not saving the environment...). So putting up a fence was much quicker and easier since putting the fibreglass rods in the ground was much simpler than digging a huge hole to China and back to put in the traditional fence post.
Fibreglass rods have a couple of unique properties. First and foremost is that if you don't wear 15 layers of gloves your hands will be itching like a really itching thing for the rest of your natural born life. Secondly and most importantly for our amusement is that they are strong yet....flexible with a tendency to snap back...
Dawson and myself first used these new space age technology to make swords, and then we'd try and kill each other with them. (I think the only thing we did kill was a rooster, chased it for ages, got it in the cowshed, Dawson went one way I went the other, came around the corner and all swordplay when out my head and I just swung like a baseball player, BLAT, Dawson and co. 1, Roosters 0).
The thing with using these rods as swords was...no guard. With this in mind I'd regularly slide my 'sword' down his and splat, right into his hands, haha, what a bastard. It happened once, sorry. Twice, sorry. Third....Dawson: "Oh #$%# this" and in a fit of rage threw his 'sword' into the ground. I start laughing like a chimpanzee, and even more when (remember fibreglass rods are flexible) his sword rebounded from the ground and flew straight back up into his head! WHACK. Oh crap that was funny. Dawson hits the ground in a wail of pain (there was even a little bit of blood), I think to this day he's still fearful of throwing stuff when he's pissed off.
Well that was toy one with fibreglass rods. Bearing in mind they are flexible we felt we weren't using them to their full potential. After watching Robin Hood, (light bulb...ON, ding!) BOWS!
We made bows from them with a bit of bailing twine. Brought a few real arrows from the friendly local corner hunting shop. New game! Fire arrow straight up into the air. When it comes down stick your foot out. Whoever can get their foot closest to the arrow (without impaling your foot to the ground wins.) Oh, the hours of amusement...not really. Amusement stopped when Dawson loaded an arrow, pulled back (arrow in the down position) and slipped. Arrow goes flying at point blank into my FOOT!
Dawson of course is pissing himself laughing, and the only thing I can say in a dumbfounded dazed phrase was "Dude...you shot me...in the foot" with of course, the arrow sticking out of my boot and foot.
After writing this I now wonder...did he slip or was it revenge for the sliding sword trick?
Jumping off the roof, putting ramjet bullets (used in quickly killing cattle) in the vice and squeezing until BANG (or throwing a whole bunch into the incinerator...) were just some of the things one could do to amuse oneself on boring weekends.
The real fun occurred when my best mate would be around for the weekend.
Mother would use what we called spider fences to fence off various parts of the farm. Like a normal fence there were wires (all hot which gave a nice kick, NB: DO NOT PISS ON A HOT FENCE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Try to imagine getting kicked...repeatedly in the testicles by a donkey!) normally 3 wires, the unique thing is the posts. Not made of posts (saving the environment), but of fibreglass (not saving the environment...). So putting up a fence was much quicker and easier since putting the fibreglass rods in the ground was much simpler than digging a huge hole to China and back to put in the traditional fence post.
Fibreglass rods have a couple of unique properties. First and foremost is that if you don't wear 15 layers of gloves your hands will be itching like a really itching thing for the rest of your natural born life. Secondly and most importantly for our amusement is that they are strong yet....flexible with a tendency to snap back...
Dawson and myself first used these new space age technology to make swords, and then we'd try and kill each other with them. (I think the only thing we did kill was a rooster, chased it for ages, got it in the cowshed, Dawson went one way I went the other, came around the corner and all swordplay when out my head and I just swung like a baseball player, BLAT, Dawson and co. 1, Roosters 0).
The thing with using these rods as swords was...no guard. With this in mind I'd regularly slide my 'sword' down his and splat, right into his hands, haha, what a bastard. It happened once, sorry. Twice, sorry. Third....Dawson: "Oh #$%# this" and in a fit of rage threw his 'sword' into the ground. I start laughing like a chimpanzee, and even more when (remember fibreglass rods are flexible) his sword rebounded from the ground and flew straight back up into his head! WHACK. Oh crap that was funny. Dawson hits the ground in a wail of pain (there was even a little bit of blood), I think to this day he's still fearful of throwing stuff when he's pissed off.
Well that was toy one with fibreglass rods. Bearing in mind they are flexible we felt we weren't using them to their full potential. After watching Robin Hood, (light bulb...ON, ding!) BOWS!
We made bows from them with a bit of bailing twine. Brought a few real arrows from the friendly local corner hunting shop. New game! Fire arrow straight up into the air. When it comes down stick your foot out. Whoever can get their foot closest to the arrow (without impaling your foot to the ground wins.) Oh, the hours of amusement...not really. Amusement stopped when Dawson loaded an arrow, pulled back (arrow in the down position) and slipped. Arrow goes flying at point blank into my FOOT!
Dawson of course is pissing himself laughing, and the only thing I can say in a dumbfounded dazed phrase was "Dude...you shot me...in the foot" with of course, the arrow sticking out of my boot and foot.
After writing this I now wonder...did he slip or was it revenge for the sliding sword trick?
Thursday, June 26, 2008
More Pics of the Future UFC Champ
Father and Son, moi taking a rest after a hard days work.
Spartaaaaaa!
Gahhhh, for that, you die!!
And my padawan that is how it's done.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Dude! She doesn't know!
One weekend during my teenage years, like any other sweet, parent obedient teen, I DIDN'T have a big party when the folks where away. *cough*.
I don't know why, but mother had entered a competition using her partners Penthouse magazine...umm...yeah... Anyway, she won, and now her and her partner were off to Sydney for the weekend to have dinner with all the playmates...@#$@#$%!!!!
So, they're off for the weekend, so...duh party much? Hmm, what can I remember from that party? This is how smashed we were. We went through Mum's old LP collection. Listening to 'Sneakers, Neil Diamond etc' trust me, it hurts even to type that, let alone my poor ears. Also, an older member of the group brought over a VHS porno, some weird Japanese animi. Now I can say 'Oh God yes' and 'get that tenticale out of my ass' in Japanese. We also discovered that a tampon, soaked in beer, and heated up in the microwave...is bad. That's all I have to say about that.
And of course, (I had to start it) something got broken. I thought it fun to run AT the sofa, it would tip over, and I'd roll off it on the other side. YAY, what fun. Did it a few more times, then Dawson did it. Brilliant. Dawson was the good kid. He never drank when we all started. He refused. But then he discovered Vodka and would regularly skull the whole friggen bottle and be...paralytic (doesn't quite describe the full extent of his inebriated state, woe is the English language). Anyway, Dawson runs, and CRACK. This time when the sofa tipped over, one of the small legs (it had small legs, not big legs, more like a stump than a leg, like an amputated sofa), broke off.
"Aww man, how are we gonna hide this". Of course, from other postings you know, I have great ideas when drunk as a skunk. Off to the toolshed, grab a nail, hacksaw off the head, grab the superglue and return to sofa with a severed leg. Together we perform surgery on the stricken sofa, placing the 'pin' in the leg and gluing it all together. Presto! Fixed! Genius, now...no more sofa tipping (we did that to the cows, but that's another story)
The next morning, everybody has bailed, and I'm stuck with clean up duty. It's ok, Mum and co. aren't due back for another day. So I'm happily listening to music (loud as hell of course) and vacuuming the floor (so of course I can't hear anything that is happening outside...like a car arriving, parking, doors opening and closing etc). Out of the corner of my eye, two figures. I look up and mouth drop. "Errr hi?" Mum and co are staring at me, in mortified shock that I would be cleaning the house out of my own free will. In a few more seconds realization settles in when they notice that I'm trying to get beer stains out of the carpet...busted! But hey, nothings broken... So I get off with rolling of eyes, shaking of head and to finish cleaning up.
Fast forward 12 years. I'm a big boy now. Been living overseas, and return to the scene of the crime. We throw a big BBQ, mates from all over come. Parents as well, family friends, to welcome me home (not really, just an excuse to have a good ole piss up at somebody else's home). We eat, and are merry. A bit drunk, but not as bad as in the days of our experimenting youth. Mother has refurbished the sofa and purchased another set. So she's sitting over on the newer sofa/chairs, and as fate would have it, Dawson and myself are sitting on the old refurbished sofa. Conversation and more beer drinking ensues. During a lull in the conversation, Dawson starts looking at the sofa. A puzzled look crosses his face. Same shape, height, style...but different color...Dawson looks at me questioningly and asks in a very audible tone "Err, didn't we break this sofa?"
Mother looks at us "What!"
I look at my friend, shocked that he would betray, nay STAB his friend in the back right in front of the family! "DUDE, She doesn't know!"
Dawson explodes into peels of laughter knowing that he just dumped me in it, then totally spills the beans telling Mum what happened. I dive into more beer. When I look up....I get the rolling eyes and shaking of head treatment again.
Ahh, we will always be sons to our mothers and get the rolling eyes I guess.
(Thank God there are some things she STILL doesn't know about, shhh!)
I don't know why, but mother had entered a competition using her partners Penthouse magazine...umm...yeah... Anyway, she won, and now her and her partner were off to Sydney for the weekend to have dinner with all the playmates...@#$@#$%!!!!
So, they're off for the weekend, so...duh party much? Hmm, what can I remember from that party? This is how smashed we were. We went through Mum's old LP collection. Listening to 'Sneakers, Neil Diamond etc' trust me, it hurts even to type that, let alone my poor ears. Also, an older member of the group brought over a VHS porno, some weird Japanese animi. Now I can say 'Oh God yes' and 'get that tenticale out of my ass' in Japanese. We also discovered that a tampon, soaked in beer, and heated up in the microwave...is bad. That's all I have to say about that.
And of course, (I had to start it) something got broken. I thought it fun to run AT the sofa, it would tip over, and I'd roll off it on the other side. YAY, what fun. Did it a few more times, then Dawson did it. Brilliant. Dawson was the good kid. He never drank when we all started. He refused. But then he discovered Vodka and would regularly skull the whole friggen bottle and be...paralytic (doesn't quite describe the full extent of his inebriated state, woe is the English language). Anyway, Dawson runs, and CRACK. This time when the sofa tipped over, one of the small legs (it had small legs, not big legs, more like a stump than a leg, like an amputated sofa), broke off.
"Aww man, how are we gonna hide this". Of course, from other postings you know, I have great ideas when drunk as a skunk. Off to the toolshed, grab a nail, hacksaw off the head, grab the superglue and return to sofa with a severed leg. Together we perform surgery on the stricken sofa, placing the 'pin' in the leg and gluing it all together. Presto! Fixed! Genius, now...no more sofa tipping (we did that to the cows, but that's another story)
The next morning, everybody has bailed, and I'm stuck with clean up duty. It's ok, Mum and co. aren't due back for another day. So I'm happily listening to music (loud as hell of course) and vacuuming the floor (so of course I can't hear anything that is happening outside...like a car arriving, parking, doors opening and closing etc). Out of the corner of my eye, two figures. I look up and mouth drop. "Errr hi?" Mum and co are staring at me, in mortified shock that I would be cleaning the house out of my own free will. In a few more seconds realization settles in when they notice that I'm trying to get beer stains out of the carpet...busted! But hey, nothings broken... So I get off with rolling of eyes, shaking of head and to finish cleaning up.
Fast forward 12 years. I'm a big boy now. Been living overseas, and return to the scene of the crime. We throw a big BBQ, mates from all over come. Parents as well, family friends, to welcome me home (not really, just an excuse to have a good ole piss up at somebody else's home). We eat, and are merry. A bit drunk, but not as bad as in the days of our experimenting youth. Mother has refurbished the sofa and purchased another set. So she's sitting over on the newer sofa/chairs, and as fate would have it, Dawson and myself are sitting on the old refurbished sofa. Conversation and more beer drinking ensues. During a lull in the conversation, Dawson starts looking at the sofa. A puzzled look crosses his face. Same shape, height, style...but different color...Dawson looks at me questioningly and asks in a very audible tone "Err, didn't we break this sofa?"
Mother looks at us "What!"
I look at my friend, shocked that he would betray, nay STAB his friend in the back right in front of the family! "DUDE, She doesn't know!"
Dawson explodes into peels of laughter knowing that he just dumped me in it, then totally spills the beans telling Mum what happened. I dive into more beer. When I look up....I get the rolling eyes and shaking of head treatment again.
Ahh, we will always be sons to our mothers and get the rolling eyes I guess.
(Thank God there are some things she STILL doesn't know about, shhh!)
Monday, June 16, 2008
Babies 2nd day
Well here he is, weighing in at 3680g, 11 June, 2008 at 10:15pm. Name? Well, as usual everything I throw at the wife gets met with a screwed up nose, but Liam looks to be it...perhaps, guh.Spent 5 days at the hospital with wifey, never able to hold him, these photos were through the zoo viewing glass, able to be viewed twice a day. I'm surprised it wasn't a pay per view.
And the heavens are crying. When he came it started raining...it's STILL RAINING! Behold the end of the world!!!
Hmm, I wonder what is making him smile...
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Houdini?
Being born exactly 100 years after the great escape artist, perhaps some of his magic was passed on? Bah, who knows, but one evening of drinking and talking to my mother, she told me of an interesting tale of my brief period of a nappy soiling goo goo ga ga.
We lived in Wellington, (or in it's vicinity) small house, front yard, back yard etc. Not much in the the way of furnishings, hey, we no rich eh? Anyway, mother dearest would put yours truly in ones cot, so that mother could get some relaxation time without having to worry that I was stalking a kettle power cord dangling from the kitchen bench. I swear, the 'don't pull' signs only encourage people to in-fact, PULL.
So, mum puts me in the cot. 5min later, TA-DA, I'm out and racing around the house on all fours like Ayrton Senna. (4 legs were still faster than 2 at that point in time).
Mum places me again in the cot, wondering how I got out and again, 5min later, TA-DA.
Mother closely examines my jail. Everything is intact and working normally. Mother is very puzzled. Cute 'I' are too fat/fluffy/cuddly/cute (take your pick) to fit though the bars, and I lack X-men mutant power of pass though solid object. Moreover, I'm too short and lacked the upper body strength of a rock climber to vertically scale the walls of my family imposed prison (and the comparative base jump from the top of the cot to the floor would definitely make a hell of a noise, both the impact and resulting waterfall from the eyes, not to mention I lacked the proper equipment to execute such a feat)
How the hell are you getting out, my mother pondered as yet again she places me in my cage. (cue, Soundgarden, break my rusty cage, and run)
Cue Mission Impossible soundtrack. Mother decides to go super spy, dashes out of the house, skirts the walls, and sneaks, SNEAKS (can't trust anybody these days) up to my bedroom window. She peers in through my window and waits. SPYING on me. Talk about invasion of privacy.
In the cot I lie. Biding my time to execute my master plan to yet again break out into the freedom of the hallway. Mother watches, patiently.
Lured into a false sense of security the baby 'I' do a 180, and head to the end of my jail cell. I grasp one of the bars in my chubby mitts, and begin to...UNSCREW! yeah I know, unreal right? Unscrew the bar! After a few turns, Houdini pushes the bar out, creating sufficient space for the master escape artist to squeeze through. But wait, the master is not done, oh no. He turns, pushes the bar BACK into place and turns the bar a few times, effectively screwing it back into place before toddling off into the hallway with a huge smile on his face.
Cue Mel Gibson "FreeeeeeDommmmmmmmmm"
Bugger me, I have no idea how I figured that out, but I also wonder how they ever figured out 'the death touch pressure point', trial and error? Hmm, how about here, 'bam dead', oh yep, that's the spot....
Taking matters into her own hands, mother procures a tube of superglue, fixes the so called problem (damn fascist, depriving me of my freedom). So the next time I try my little escape trick I am met with fierce resistance. The result, I remain trapped, mother gets peace and quiet, well...at least after I've stopped bawling my guts out and pouting that I can no longer escape.
We lived in Wellington, (or in it's vicinity) small house, front yard, back yard etc. Not much in the the way of furnishings, hey, we no rich eh? Anyway, mother dearest would put yours truly in ones cot, so that mother could get some relaxation time without having to worry that I was stalking a kettle power cord dangling from the kitchen bench. I swear, the 'don't pull' signs only encourage people to in-fact, PULL.
So, mum puts me in the cot. 5min later, TA-DA, I'm out and racing around the house on all fours like Ayrton Senna. (4 legs were still faster than 2 at that point in time).
Mum places me again in the cot, wondering how I got out and again, 5min later, TA-DA.
Mother closely examines my jail. Everything is intact and working normally. Mother is very puzzled. Cute 'I' are too fat/fluffy/cuddly/cute (take your pick) to fit though the bars, and I lack X-men mutant power of pass though solid object. Moreover, I'm too short and lacked the upper body strength of a rock climber to vertically scale the walls of my family imposed prison (and the comparative base jump from the top of the cot to the floor would definitely make a hell of a noise, both the impact and resulting waterfall from the eyes, not to mention I lacked the proper equipment to execute such a feat)
How the hell are you getting out, my mother pondered as yet again she places me in my cage. (cue, Soundgarden, break my rusty cage, and run)
Cue Mission Impossible soundtrack. Mother decides to go super spy, dashes out of the house, skirts the walls, and sneaks, SNEAKS (can't trust anybody these days) up to my bedroom window. She peers in through my window and waits. SPYING on me. Talk about invasion of privacy.
In the cot I lie. Biding my time to execute my master plan to yet again break out into the freedom of the hallway. Mother watches, patiently.
Lured into a false sense of security the baby 'I' do a 180, and head to the end of my jail cell. I grasp one of the bars in my chubby mitts, and begin to...UNSCREW! yeah I know, unreal right? Unscrew the bar! After a few turns, Houdini pushes the bar out, creating sufficient space for the master escape artist to squeeze through. But wait, the master is not done, oh no. He turns, pushes the bar BACK into place and turns the bar a few times, effectively screwing it back into place before toddling off into the hallway with a huge smile on his face.
Cue Mel Gibson "FreeeeeeDommmmmmmmmm"
Bugger me, I have no idea how I figured that out, but I also wonder how they ever figured out 'the death touch pressure point', trial and error? Hmm, how about here, 'bam dead', oh yep, that's the spot....
Taking matters into her own hands, mother procures a tube of superglue, fixes the so called problem (damn fascist, depriving me of my freedom). So the next time I try my little escape trick I am met with fierce resistance. The result, I remain trapped, mother gets peace and quiet, well...at least after I've stopped bawling my guts out and pouting that I can no longer escape.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
What is wrong with my puppies?
Today's tale comes from a different era. The college era (snr. high) where the education system in it's infinite wisdom, teaches young terrorists what chemical compounds do what. Enter "Bugs". Bugs loved to do crazy stuff with chemicals or building stuff that was...nuts.
Anyway, one day in Chemistry class, he discovers that ethanol is basically pure alcohol. 'Cool' was his response and the crazed look of a plan forming in his warped mind flashes briefly across his face.
Up comes Guy Fawkes day, and since we live in the country and the folks are away, what better time to have a huge bonfire, and drink ourselves into oblivion whilst thinking we're cool etc etc et. al.
Of course like any party, there is the punch, and like any party the punch needs to be spiked. So what does our host Bugs spike the punch with? You guessed it. Bugs had 'borrowed' a few bottles of ethanol from the chemistry lab, and added it to the communal bowl of drink.
Around the bonfire it went, each person who drank, screwed up their face and yelled, WTF is THAT! It, without a doubt was the most 1. potent and 2. foulest drink I've ever had in my life. But hey, we're poor college students so...alcohol is alcohol right? Well...that was my thought. The witches brew was placed inside and we all continued our semi drunk (it did have a hell of a kick) playing with the bonfire and setting off fireworks (skyrockets were aimed at Bug's pet possum which was frantically running from tree to tree).
I go inside and I see the witches brew, I look around and ... meh, whatever, and take a real good drink. (Yes, it was still mostly full). But for the love of God there is no way I could take another swig. In my now inebriated state, well, logic isn't the best. I figure, we have to get rid of this stuff before we all pass out and Bug's parents come back. Nobodies going to drink it so....pour it down the drain? Well, that's what a sober person would do I guess.
Bugs had a Labrador. Hmm, Jess, I think was her name. She was lovely by nature and Bug's really loved her. So he was happy when she gave birth to a litter of puppies. We all had fun playing with them since of course, puppies are cute, inquisitive and.....thirsty.....
Morning comes, we are all passed out outside, the parents are still gone, and us young revilers are coming to. I look around me and the punch bowl is beside me, empty. Everybody is like SHIT dude! You drank all that crap?
I'm like..."err, dunno, don't remember" Then from the other side of the house we can hear Bugs wailing "WTF is wrong with my puppies!" Over we stumble to the location of the issue and there it is, all the puppies, unable to walk in a straight line, and trying to pick up the ladies with cheesy pick up lines, all drunk as hell. Turns out, I didn't drink all that crap...the puppies did!
They recovered in due time, but the story remains as does the moral. Don't borrow ethanol!
Anyway, one day in Chemistry class, he discovers that ethanol is basically pure alcohol. 'Cool' was his response and the crazed look of a plan forming in his warped mind flashes briefly across his face.
Up comes Guy Fawkes day, and since we live in the country and the folks are away, what better time to have a huge bonfire, and drink ourselves into oblivion whilst thinking we're cool etc etc et. al.
Of course like any party, there is the punch, and like any party the punch needs to be spiked. So what does our host Bugs spike the punch with? You guessed it. Bugs had 'borrowed' a few bottles of ethanol from the chemistry lab, and added it to the communal bowl of drink.
Around the bonfire it went, each person who drank, screwed up their face and yelled, WTF is THAT! It, without a doubt was the most 1. potent and 2. foulest drink I've ever had in my life. But hey, we're poor college students so...alcohol is alcohol right? Well...that was my thought. The witches brew was placed inside and we all continued our semi drunk (it did have a hell of a kick) playing with the bonfire and setting off fireworks (skyrockets were aimed at Bug's pet possum which was frantically running from tree to tree).
I go inside and I see the witches brew, I look around and ... meh, whatever, and take a real good drink. (Yes, it was still mostly full). But for the love of God there is no way I could take another swig. In my now inebriated state, well, logic isn't the best. I figure, we have to get rid of this stuff before we all pass out and Bug's parents come back. Nobodies going to drink it so....pour it down the drain? Well, that's what a sober person would do I guess.
Bugs had a Labrador. Hmm, Jess, I think was her name. She was lovely by nature and Bug's really loved her. So he was happy when she gave birth to a litter of puppies. We all had fun playing with them since of course, puppies are cute, inquisitive and.....thirsty.....
Morning comes, we are all passed out outside, the parents are still gone, and us young revilers are coming to. I look around me and the punch bowl is beside me, empty. Everybody is like SHIT dude! You drank all that crap?
I'm like..."err, dunno, don't remember" Then from the other side of the house we can hear Bugs wailing "WTF is wrong with my puppies!" Over we stumble to the location of the issue and there it is, all the puppies, unable to walk in a straight line, and trying to pick up the ladies with cheesy pick up lines, all drunk as hell. Turns out, I didn't drink all that crap...the puppies did!
They recovered in due time, but the story remains as does the moral. Don't borrow ethanol!
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Boy those are nice goggles!
Here we go again. Who shall I pick on? Hmm, Mungo sounds like a good choice! The setting, back at primary school (elementary), it seems like the most bizzare fun things happened there. It's summer.
Since NZ is an island, ie. surrounded by water, the Government thought it a good idea to make swimming classes in NZ primary schools mandatory. Was a smart move. A stupid move was them canceling that mandate a few years after me and my contemporaries had moved on. Fast forward 10 years and bingo, drownings go up...by a lot, so the Government in their infinite wisdom re-instated the swimming programs, but I digress.
The primary school swimming pool. Ahh, so much fun, running around the pool. Jumping in the pool to see who could make the biggest splash and practicing what I later in life have found out, to be a mild form of waterboarding. So of course, when it's time for swimming class in the middle of a hot summer day with no A/C, boy, do we wanna swim! Hmm, math or swim, hell, even us country folk aren't that dense.
Of course like any other military academy (aka primary school) run by fascists (them teachers who hate kids...so why be a primary school teacher? hmmm) we have to line up in an orderly fashion. Ugh, now you know that takes forever. Finally, off we march like good little worker ants to the swimming pool area! YAY.
In we rush to the boys changing room, and get changed as fast as possible so that...we can give each other a boost up the dividing wall between the girl and boys changing rooms. Why? Because there was a small gap between the wall and the roof of the changing sheds. Builder must have been a man with a vision (or simply sucked at his job). Anyway, of course the girls would notice from time to time which would send whichever boy plummeting back to the floor, amid all of our laughter at getting busted.
On this particular day, same as usual, and once we are finished with changing and our lame attempt at perving out we are sitting on the long bench that runs parallel with the swimming pool. Can we go into the water yet? NO. Why? Because Mungo is still getting changed! Why is he taking so long? Mungo has got himself a nice pair of new goggles, which he is having to adjust for that perfect fit, because as you know, we are all deep sea divers.
So here we are, all sitting down in our swimming gear waiting for Mungo, even the teacher cracks a joke about Mungo taking so long, so when Mungo emerges from the changing room, everybody is looking on with impatient furrowed brow.
So enarmoured with his new goggles, (he is still playing with them as he emerges) it seems that Mungo forgot to do something. The class is kinda in shock, trying to take in the spectacle of Mungo walking towards us with a big smug grin, his new goggles and .... nothing else!
Yep, Mungo forgot to put on his swimming trunks. Here is Mungo, starkers! And he still doesn't know! 'Handy' Andy yells "Mungo" and points down frantically at the same time. Mungo looks down and "OH SHIT" covers himself with hands, turns tail and runs for it while the whole class, teacher included explodes into peels of laughter.
I've never seen somebodies face go so red, so fast! Nice goggles Mungo, nice goggles.
Since NZ is an island, ie. surrounded by water, the Government thought it a good idea to make swimming classes in NZ primary schools mandatory. Was a smart move. A stupid move was them canceling that mandate a few years after me and my contemporaries had moved on. Fast forward 10 years and bingo, drownings go up...by a lot, so the Government in their infinite wisdom re-instated the swimming programs, but I digress.
The primary school swimming pool. Ahh, so much fun, running around the pool. Jumping in the pool to see who could make the biggest splash and practicing what I later in life have found out, to be a mild form of waterboarding. So of course, when it's time for swimming class in the middle of a hot summer day with no A/C, boy, do we wanna swim! Hmm, math or swim, hell, even us country folk aren't that dense.
Of course like any other military academy (aka primary school) run by fascists (them teachers who hate kids...so why be a primary school teacher? hmmm) we have to line up in an orderly fashion. Ugh, now you know that takes forever. Finally, off we march like good little worker ants to the swimming pool area! YAY.
In we rush to the boys changing room, and get changed as fast as possible so that...we can give each other a boost up the dividing wall between the girl and boys changing rooms. Why? Because there was a small gap between the wall and the roof of the changing sheds. Builder must have been a man with a vision (or simply sucked at his job). Anyway, of course the girls would notice from time to time which would send whichever boy plummeting back to the floor, amid all of our laughter at getting busted.
On this particular day, same as usual, and once we are finished with changing and our lame attempt at perving out we are sitting on the long bench that runs parallel with the swimming pool. Can we go into the water yet? NO. Why? Because Mungo is still getting changed! Why is he taking so long? Mungo has got himself a nice pair of new goggles, which he is having to adjust for that perfect fit, because as you know, we are all deep sea divers.
So here we are, all sitting down in our swimming gear waiting for Mungo, even the teacher cracks a joke about Mungo taking so long, so when Mungo emerges from the changing room, everybody is looking on with impatient furrowed brow.
So enarmoured with his new goggles, (he is still playing with them as he emerges) it seems that Mungo forgot to do something. The class is kinda in shock, trying to take in the spectacle of Mungo walking towards us with a big smug grin, his new goggles and .... nothing else!
Yep, Mungo forgot to put on his swimming trunks. Here is Mungo, starkers! And he still doesn't know! 'Handy' Andy yells "Mungo" and points down frantically at the same time. Mungo looks down and "OH SHIT" covers himself with hands, turns tail and runs for it while the whole class, teacher included explodes into peels of laughter.
I've never seen somebodies face go so red, so fast! Nice goggles Mungo, nice goggles.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Second Time Lucky
I frequently am telling stories of 'back home', so why not put them here for all to share the laughs. Of course, the memory is fading (I blame the booze), so the stories over time have probably changed and grown more, umm, colorful? No doubt my friends who were actually there as well when it happened would have a different account on the events that took place. Well, tough :P. Here is another story.
Back in primary school (elementary), we went to a small country school. About 100 kids, hence the boys my age, well, we were, still are a close knit bunch even though we only talk to each other once a year (if we're lucky). So of course, we would always encourage each other to 'push the envelope'. When something broke, ok...now we know the boundary of doing that! I believe after a couple of years of incessant phone calls to our parents "Sorry to tell you, but your son has been in an accident", rather than the normal panic and fretting that would accompany it, there would have been a rather nonchalant reply of 'oh, again. Yeah, I'll come in after I've finished mowing the lawns'.
During our lunch break, you would find our 'what crazy thing can we do today' group, out in the playing field doing something we shouldn't be doing. On this particular day, we were engaging in one of our favorite activities. Walking across a 3-chain bridge, from one high point to another. But we would never get to the other side. You see, we would let go of one rope (so now it's a 2-chain bridge), and swing out, let go, fly through the air and land on a large circular platform, (about 1m high, which is bloody high for a 10year old). We would all do it with glee, barring one friend, lets call him...Mungo. Mungo wouldn't jump. We would cheer him on, cajole him, even tease. All to no avail. But for some reason, on this day, Mungo threw caution to the wind and he went for it. We all went first, to show, even though it had been raining, it was still as easy as pie. Then it was the moment of truth. Mungo let go, swung out, let go, gracefully flew through the air and landed on the platform. YAY. But (ahh, you knew that was coming aye?), he didn't land quite right, and he slipped. Fell backwards. Now remember about 1m high. Mungo outstretches his arm behind him to help break his impending impact with the ground. Then we hear, the oh so familiar of a bone saying, 'ahh, no. Sorry, I'm not supposed to bend that way nor support that much weight'. Crraccck.
Of course we are concerned for our friend (cue wailing and crying), but...well, we can't stop laughing. We felt guilty, concerned and at the same time found it highly amusing. So inbetween our uncontrollable laughter, we are also trying to be concerned and serious in saying "Mungo, are you alright mate?".
Ahhh. But the story doesn't end there my friends, oh no. It takes about 6 weeks for a bone to heal. So Mungo is a school, very happy with his new 'weapon' and graffiti arm. 6 weeks later on Saturday, Mungo's cast comes off. Monday. First day of school with no cast. And where are we? Out swinging off the 3-chain bridge. And along comes Mungo. "Comon man, do it again. The worst is over now! You can do it!" Fearlessly Mungo, tries again, to great applause and respect from his 10year old peers. Mungo lets go of one chain, he swings, lets go, flies though the air, lands, slips, CRAaaaaaCCKKKKkkkkkk.
Poor Mungo. He never did try again.
Back in primary school (elementary), we went to a small country school. About 100 kids, hence the boys my age, well, we were, still are a close knit bunch even though we only talk to each other once a year (if we're lucky). So of course, we would always encourage each other to 'push the envelope'. When something broke, ok...now we know the boundary of doing that! I believe after a couple of years of incessant phone calls to our parents "Sorry to tell you, but your son has been in an accident", rather than the normal panic and fretting that would accompany it, there would have been a rather nonchalant reply of 'oh, again. Yeah, I'll come in after I've finished mowing the lawns'.
During our lunch break, you would find our 'what crazy thing can we do today' group, out in the playing field doing something we shouldn't be doing. On this particular day, we were engaging in one of our favorite activities. Walking across a 3-chain bridge, from one high point to another. But we would never get to the other side. You see, we would let go of one rope (so now it's a 2-chain bridge), and swing out, let go, fly through the air and land on a large circular platform, (about 1m high, which is bloody high for a 10year old). We would all do it with glee, barring one friend, lets call him...Mungo. Mungo wouldn't jump. We would cheer him on, cajole him, even tease. All to no avail. But for some reason, on this day, Mungo threw caution to the wind and he went for it. We all went first, to show, even though it had been raining, it was still as easy as pie. Then it was the moment of truth. Mungo let go, swung out, let go, gracefully flew through the air and landed on the platform. YAY. But (ahh, you knew that was coming aye?), he didn't land quite right, and he slipped. Fell backwards. Now remember about 1m high. Mungo outstretches his arm behind him to help break his impending impact with the ground. Then we hear, the oh so familiar of a bone saying, 'ahh, no. Sorry, I'm not supposed to bend that way nor support that much weight'. Crraccck.
Of course we are concerned for our friend (cue wailing and crying), but...well, we can't stop laughing. We felt guilty, concerned and at the same time found it highly amusing. So inbetween our uncontrollable laughter, we are also trying to be concerned and serious in saying "Mungo, are you alright mate?".
Ahhh. But the story doesn't end there my friends, oh no. It takes about 6 weeks for a bone to heal. So Mungo is a school, very happy with his new 'weapon' and graffiti arm. 6 weeks later on Saturday, Mungo's cast comes off. Monday. First day of school with no cast. And where are we? Out swinging off the 3-chain bridge. And along comes Mungo. "Comon man, do it again. The worst is over now! You can do it!" Fearlessly Mungo, tries again, to great applause and respect from his 10year old peers. Mungo lets go of one chain, he swings, lets go, flies though the air, lands, slips, CRAaaaaaCCKKKKkkkkkk.
Poor Mungo. He never did try again.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Were you doing anything stupid?
Story one of many of my childhood memories. I'm sorry, I didn't have a shitty childhood like so many movie characters. At times it was lonely, but boohoo. For the whole it was great. I didn't have a pedophile as an Uncle. Mum wasn't an alcoholic, and I wasn't beaten senseless by a deranged Dad.
As kids we loved to do, well not dangerous shit, but shit that was fun and 'could' cause a lot of self inflicted pain. Here is one of these stories.
Primary (Elementary) School. We have ourselves a 3 storied tower to play on. (When last back in the area the tower has been dismantled, deemed too dangerous by modern standards. HEY, nobody died!). There is a fireman's pole running from the top down to where it was fastened in place with an old tire filled with concrete. We would have fun sliding down as fast as you can and breaking at the last possible moment. It was even more fun when we went head first.
On this particular day, it had been raining before so the fireman's pole was a bit more slippery. So Jethro decides to go head first. Down he slides faster than ever. But...his hand brakes work not on a slippery surface. Up comes the concrete filled old tire at full speed. He can't strech is arms out to lessen the impact as that would make him fall faster. So using his face as a cushion...WaaHUmmmPP.
Oh boy did he cry. Blood was everywhere. His lip was split right through by his teeth. Blood nose like a fountain. Front teeth chipped. So off he wanders to the sick bay, with a throng of eager classmates wanting a look at the spectacle.
Out comes the principle to check on the commotion, more like a school parade to the sick bay and I can still hear the words to this day which still make me laugh.
Mr Dunn: "Now Jethro, were you doing anything stupid?"
With blood stained mouth and tears in eyes, gasping for breath between wails of pain...
Jethro: "Sniff, sniff, Nooooooo"
Ahhh, schooldays.
As kids we loved to do, well not dangerous shit, but shit that was fun and 'could' cause a lot of self inflicted pain. Here is one of these stories.
Primary (Elementary) School. We have ourselves a 3 storied tower to play on. (When last back in the area the tower has been dismantled, deemed too dangerous by modern standards. HEY, nobody died!). There is a fireman's pole running from the top down to where it was fastened in place with an old tire filled with concrete. We would have fun sliding down as fast as you can and breaking at the last possible moment. It was even more fun when we went head first.
On this particular day, it had been raining before so the fireman's pole was a bit more slippery. So Jethro decides to go head first. Down he slides faster than ever. But...his hand brakes work not on a slippery surface. Up comes the concrete filled old tire at full speed. He can't strech is arms out to lessen the impact as that would make him fall faster. So using his face as a cushion...WaaHUmmmPP.
Oh boy did he cry. Blood was everywhere. His lip was split right through by his teeth. Blood nose like a fountain. Front teeth chipped. So off he wanders to the sick bay, with a throng of eager classmates wanting a look at the spectacle.
Out comes the principle to check on the commotion, more like a school parade to the sick bay and I can still hear the words to this day which still make me laugh.
Mr Dunn: "Now Jethro, were you doing anything stupid?"
With blood stained mouth and tears in eyes, gasping for breath between wails of pain...
Jethro: "Sniff, sniff, Nooooooo"
Ahhh, schooldays.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)