A speech by Tim Minchin that is simultaneously terrifying, depressing and incredibly inspiring.
Of all the phenomenal and impressive things my iPhone Archibald (giving him an aristocratic boys makes me feel better about my life choice to spend 23 hours a day cradling him) can do, making calls and contacting people doesn’t seem to be high up on his list. Which is a little concerning considering that is the primary reason for which I have him. Another fine example of a woman giving her life to a man and getting nothing but disappointment back, but I digress.
You see Archibald’s main problem is that during a task I’ve asked him to do, such as accepting a call, he gets bored and then stops doing his task half way through. Basically, Archibald just ceases to function, as if Philip Nitschke had caught him in a bad mood.
Take for example the incident that occurred to me this past Tuesday. Whilst at Uni I ran into Joel the grad student, who upon seeing me, frantically bowed his head down, pretended he didn’t see me and started waking away at the speed of light. Given my mild penchant for schadenfreude (or masochism, depends which way you view the situation) I called his name out. He awkwardly stopped and even more awkwardly started explaining why he hadn’t called me back yet.
This whole situation was unfortunate for obvious reasons, only one of which included the fact that my phone started ringing somewhere in what I can assume was the middle of Joel’s monologue. I answered the call only to have it cut out 5 seconds in. Archibald was clearly preoccupied with his desire to continue listening to Joel’s excuses.
To be honest, whilst the phone call came as a well timed distraction and exit strategy from the situation I found myself in, it did leave me wondering why there was a lack of reception given I was standing in the middle of a large University in Melbourne as opposed to say, sub-saharian Africa.
I quickly concluded that in these harsh economic times, telecommunications companies have realised that they can significantly reduce their overheads if they just stopped wasting money on providing phone coverage.
And in the case of Tuesday’s incident, the telecommunications company obviously concluded they didn’t need to provide service to rural parts of Australia, such as the Melbourne CBD.
Now don’t get me wrong, this lack of coverage is often a good thing. But there are also times when it’s not your mother calling, and you want to speak to people.
I should also clarify that this post is in no way an exercise in blame and I am not going to name and shame my provider, Optus. The same way I’m not going to complain about iPhones with whom I’ve had a long and tumultuous relationship.
You see, I used to have an iPhone 4 which meant that phone calls used to drop out whenever I did something dramatic, like stand up. But fortunately, my new iPhone 5 has fixed that problem by rarely being able to make phone calls in the first place. These days I’m just grateful if the battery lasts long enough to even allow me to attempt to make a phone call.
We’re living in an incredibly technologically advanced society; can we please find a way to make and receive phone calls? Can we please just be able to communicate and share joy with one another? Can we please just be able to send drunken text messages at 2am and know they’ll arrive before we get a chance to regret them in the morning!?
As for Joel, maybe he did try to call but just couldn’t get through…?
Belle up for bestiality charges?
Jasmine fighting the CIA to get Aladdin back?
Ariel losing her sight due to BP?
Pocahontas becoming a little too trigger happy?
Basically, I think you should just stop whatever you’re doing and watch this video.
I don’t meant to get too ahead of myself here but Pope Benedict XVI has resigned before God could ‘fire him’, the world needs a new pope and I have some spare time on my hands. Really, it’s a match made in heaven.
Now I know what you’re thinking, and I agree; I don’t think ‘pope’ is the right word for a female leader of the Catholic Church. You see, since the first pope in 33AD there have been 365 popes’ (thank-you wikipedia) and not a single one of them could find the time to derive a grammatically correct female version of ‘pope’. Popette? Popess? We don’t know because for 2000 years sexism and misogyny have ruled the Catholic Church and women weren’t allowed to resume the top job (or frankly any of the top jobs). This is one of the many reasons why I feel I would be an excellent candidate for the job. How better to show the world you’re progressive than to allow a female to take the reins of your organisation!?
Now to those that know me well, the decision to become pope may seem like it’s a little rash and out of the blue.
That’s because it is.
But rest assured, I feel like I have given it at least some thought and have concluded that taking on the papacy is something I could do for the rest of my life (because unlike some, I’m not a quitter). Not to mention I feel the uniform that comes with the top job would accentuate my features and having what I can only presume is a magical sceptre (much like Gandalf’s staff) is something I have desperately coveted ever since I can remember.
Now, not only am I clearly incredibly passionate about taking on the papacy, I’ll have you know I am also wildly qualified. Admittedly, I’m not a Catholic and was never baptised, but my mum was so given that’s good enough for the Jews it’s good enough for me. Additionally, whilst I haven’t been to a church in a while I have been a religious patron to many a bar on Church Street where I spend my Sundays drinking more wine (a.k.a the blood of Christ) than you can imagine. Again, it’s good enough.
So with that, it’s pretty clear my qualifications can only really be called into question by logical people, and they’re a natural enemy to the church anyway so really, it’s no big deal.
Moreover, not only will I bring dedication and qualifications to the job, but I will also bring my extensive knowledge on how best to run a successful political campaign. Basically, the main ingredient is you have to be an advocate for change. Which is quite fortunate as there are so many things about the Catholic Church I’d like to change!
I would start by selling off the Catholic Church’s many assets (with the exception of my sceptre of course – I really need that) and maybe use the money to feed the hungry and help the needy (something we really don’t see enough of). Next I would publicly change the Church’s view on all forms of birth control and gay marriage to be more in line with today’s progressive views and thus enable the Catholic faith to help more people accept themselves rather than be oppressed by archaic thinking.
But I’m not done yet. I would also ensure, that under my reign Catholic teachings such as ‘do unto others’ apply to everyone irrespective of their religion, race or sexual orientation. Everyone would be treated like they were God’s children, which is to say like equal human beings. How’s that for change?
Ow, and the child molesting thing would definitely need to stop. Pretty much, I’d just ensure that pedophilia stops being a more forgivable sin than birth control.
So, are you with me?
You can always pray for me to get into the Vatican; but preferably you could also do something more productive and take to facebook and twitter so everyone knows I should be the next
popette, popess, lady-pope!
I think we need to be honest with each other here; the only reason you’re called PMS is because oestrogen-induced-manic-depressive-bipolar-disorder-prone-to-fits-of-psychopathic-rage is too long.
But I gotta hand it to you, at least you’re consistent. Since 2005, every 28 days you come into my life and make me want to turn into a unicorn just so I can stab everyone around me with my head. You curse my hormones, contaminate my thoughts, manipulate my appetite, and generally turn me into a sugar addicted screaming banshee.
FYI PMS, your material is getting old. Like getting me to sob at the Stegglers Chicken commercial filled with a happy family enjoying a meal together? Boring. Convincing me to eat a whole jar of Nutella to get a chocolate endorphin boost? Predictable. Encouraging me to watch The Notebook for the thousandth time whilst eating a family sized bag of popcorn and realising Noah doesn’t exist in real life and I’m never going to find him? Unoriginal.
You do realize PMS that you interfere with 25% of my life? Now let’s get this straight, a quarter of my life is in your hands just because I happen to have fallopian tubes? Seems a bit unreasonable don’t you think? I’ve honestly accepted my fate of suffering through the crimson wave for 5-7 days every month, but why must each period come with a week of pre-gaming!? Why do you insist that I eat everything in sight? Feel paranoid and insecure? Sob about menial things? Severally bloat? And then sob about bloating so much? WHY OH WHY?!?
The thought of your monthly return gives me major anxiety. I’m pretty sure it gives my friends and family anxiety too. We all live in fear of you and all the insane behaviours you cause. I just don’t understand why Mother Nature can’t send me a text to tell me I’m not pregnant rather than put me through this every month. Can you explain that to me?
I hate that I’m a stereotypical moody PMS-ridden woman. I hate all the jokes that get made about PMSing. I hate men who don’t have to suffer through it and therefore makes jokes about it. I hate that they don’t follow the rule of ‘No uterus no opinion’.
But most of all I hate that I can’t decide whether I want to kill someone or have a chocolate chip biscuit more. It’s this indecision that kills me.
PMS, if you happen to read this and hear my pleas, can you do me a little favour? Can you take it a little easier on me next month? I like my friends and my mental health and I don’t want to see either lost over another PMS-Induced ‘episode’.
Love and oestrogen,
P.S. Thanks for the bigger boobs. I know they’re only temporary, but they’re the only thing getting me through this week.
I can’t help myself.
I’ve got to share a video I found.
Last night the Jimmy Kimmel Live show had a time slot change and it ‘interfered’ with the filming of Will Ferrell and Ryan Gosling‘s QVC program Knife Show.
“Since, because it’s an extension of New Year’s Eve, smokers are already on a smoking roll and cannot be expected to stop abruptly on the stroke of midnight… Also, dieting on New Year’s Day isn’t a good idea as you can’t eat rationally. I think it would be much more sensible if resolutions began generally on January the second.”
– Bridget Jones
I completely agree Bridget, except for one thing…for a New Years resolution to succeed, you need to learn from your failures first. Thus, New Years resolutions should start in the second week of the year to give you ample time to fail and subsequently learn from your mistakes in the first week. Flawless logic I know.
Now I’m sure last week like me; you were seeing in the New Year both:
(a) obscenely drunk
(b) having decided that 2013 would be your year to be the best person you can to be.
A new year, a clean slate and a ridiculous superstition that you would suddenly be able to achieve everything you couldn’t in 2012.
This time last week I was thinking up a new batch of New Years f
ailures resolutions. At first I dreamt big and thought 2013 would be the year I’d become famous and finally marry Ryan Gosling. After giving it some thought though, I decided it might be best to not set myself up for sure failure and thus to aim lower. Next I decided 2013 would be my year to be healthy. However, given that that has been my resolution for the past 5 years, I thought I should come up with something more original and that I haven’t failed at, 5 years running. And then it occurred to me; this year, I’m not going to set myself up for failure.
This year, mediocrity will be my oyster.
This year my resolution will be simple and attainable.
My resolution will be to go to bed earlier every night, wake up earlier every morning and not waste so much of the time in-between being tired. Practical and easy. The perfect resolution.
Alas, 7 days have passed and I have gone to sleep before midnight once. (One out of Seven ain’t bad though!)
I don’t know what it is, but no matter how long I’ve been up for or how tired I am, the night owl in me refuses to sleep until at least 1am. This subsequently causes me issues in the morning as I spend the hours between 6 a.m. and 11 a.m., trying to get my bearings in a world that is 8 shades too bright and won’t stop making horrible, loud noises. Pretty much, this is me every morning:
However, what irritates me even more than having to wake up, is the ‘morning-I-go-for-a-run-before-work-people’ that I encounter.
No, I don’t want to talk to you, can’t you see I haven’t fully risen out of my coffin yet and I’m only on my third coffee of the morning? No, I’m not a morning person like you. The only way I could ever be considered a ‘morning person’ was if the morning happened around noon and there wasn’t much blood in my caffeine system at the time. And seriously, what time did you get to sleep last night? For me to both justify and have the ability to be such a chipper douchbag at such an ungodly hour I would need to be in bed by at least 6 p.m… the night before.
It’s not my fault that, for whatever reason my brain has decided the hours between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. are the hours at which all interesting and engaging thought is going to occur. Lying down without any external stimulus, my brain will yield a million useless thoughts, occasionally stopping to discover a cure for cancer only to forget it 5 seconds later. It’s between these hours that I want to party, to write, to talk, to blog and to discover the meaning of life. It’s my time, okay? I’m not trying to be a 5 year old intentionally staying up past their bedtime, I’m just a prisoner to my own internal clock.
But I get it. I know that I have to acclimatise myself and live on societies time. I know that the 5 minutes of extra sleep I get every time I press ‘sleep’ feel like small orgasms cuddling me, but I also get that I waste too much time cuddling these orgasms. I’m going to kick the habit. I’m going to go to bed early, make myself fall asleep and wake up refreshed. The next time a ‘morning person’ has a loud monologue describing all they’ve achieved since they’ve been up, I’m going to resist the urge to throw my hot coffee on them because I too, will be refreshed and happy to be awake.
I still firmly believe that whoever invented the saying “the early bird gets the worm” needs to be shot. But as of tomorrow, I will suck it up and make my New Years resolution work. (Except on Sunday, as God didn’t even get up on Sunday so really, not sleeping in would be blasphemy – flawless logic once again I know).
And if that fails…well I guess New Years resolutions can start in week three of the year, right?
Praise be to the lord!
Make some noise for the baby mama!
Just when we thought the Mayans were wrong.
Today in smart people being good role models…Kimye are preggers!
Yes, as predicted by witches, astronomers and tabloids alike, Kim Kardashian is with child. Now these ‘no way can they be responsible for a child’ tidings have sparked a few thoughts:
1. Oh Khrist.
2. Yo Kim, congratulations for being pregnant with Kanye West’s baby, and I’m going to let you finish but Beyonce had the cutest baby of all time. Of all time!
3. Hopefully being pregnant will give Kim the incentive she needs to stay with a man for more than 72 days.
4. The Mayans may have indeed been close as the apocalypse is nigh with the conception of this most unholy child.
5. I look forward to watching ‘Keeping up with the Kontractions’.
6. If it’s a girl, will they name her Khlamydia?
7. What ever you do please don’t name her ‘Bluer Ivy’.
8. This is going to be a longer pregnancy than Jessica Simpson’s, isn’t it?
9. I need to be in medically induced coma until she divorces the baby.
10. Congratulations Kris Humphries…your wife is going to have a baby!
11. Taylor Swift needs to up her game.
12. And on the 18th birthday he found out it wasn’t his.
Like, what exactly compels us to drink our body weight in wine and then spend the next 24 hours losing our dignity and then either passing out underneath a fan or vomiting in a garden bed? Do we actually aspire to be that person walking down the street at 2am, mascara running, shoes in hand, pants unzipped screaming ‘souvlaki’ at the top of their voice? How is it that we lose our inhibitions so much that we deem sexually harassing the cashier guy at McDonalds in the interest of procuring breakfast McMuffins before the designated breakfast McMuffin time an acceptable thing to do?
Alcohol makes you it’s bitch. It takes your personality, remixes it, makes you do stupid things and then laughs at you.
This is at least the incredibly hungover me talking. You know the one that wakes up the morning after a big night and tries to recall why she’s sleeping on the floor next to her bed and why there’s a two meter tall stop sign in her room.
Now I know the saying goes that if you ever read about the evils of drinking, you should give up reading. This is why I’m going to stop writing about the evils of drinking and describe how it is I got myself into my current state. Anyone starting 2013 with a mighty headache would have like me, gone through the following stages:
1. The ‘this is nice’ stage
Hey, it’s only one drink. What’s the harm is just having one? It tastes so sweet and fruity. I mean, it’s basically a serving of fruit. It would be irresponsible of me not to have it. If God didn’t want us to indulge, he wouldn’t have made it taste like alcoholic heaven.
I do need to go home pretty soon though, I have work in the morning and things to do. Oooh what’s that, half price meals? Well I could go some potato gems. Yeah, the potato gems do make a compelling argument. And nothing goes with potato gems like another vodka cranberry. Bartender; another round!
2. The ‘I’m buzzed’ stage
Oh I feel amazing! My whole body is tingling, it feels like I’m rolling around in a pit of vibrators. I love it. Time to just relax and enjoy this drink. Or several more. I mean sure, theoretically I need to get up tomorrow, but realistically I don’t need to be out of bed before 8. It’s doable. I can just leave here, not sleep, run a half marathon around 4am and then go to work sometime after that fully refreshed. There’s no limit to my abilities right now. This is what life is about. Being out and having fun. It would be a shame to leave now. Maybe I could eat some more potato gems, but maybe I should just order a shot. Yes, I feel like a shot is what I need most right now. Yeah, a shot.
3. The ‘Heyyyyyyy’ stage
Have you heard this amazing story about my personal life? Look, it doesn’t matter what your answer is because I’m going to tell you anyway. And I’m going to do it at the top of my voice. As of this moment, everyone in this room is my new best friend and I’m going to talk to all of you until I have to pee. At that point I will awkwardly scuffle to the bathroom and when I realise there’s a long line to the girls bathroom I’ll bravely use the boys bathroom. There I’ll find another girl whose done the same as me and we’ll quickly realise we’re soul mates and will loudly gush on about how much we LOVE each others fashion choices.
4. The party must go on stage
Now comrades, no matter what happens this evening and no matter what travesty may befall us: this party does not stop. I don’t care if you have class in the morning or if you have to go home to your children. THIS IS SPARTA! Only the strong will survive. When we agreed to have the best night ever we knew we would have to make personal sacrifices. We can’t leave now. It’s only 3am. Only the elderly and weak go home at this geriatric hour. You must all do a round of shots with me.
5. The ‘I’m fine’ stage
Look I’m fine. You don’t need to hold me like I’m about to fall over. Look, I’m standing. Almost upright. I’m fiiiiiine. Just ignore those tears, I accidentally mentioned my ex boyfriend and my tear ducks accidentally swelled up. I’m fine, honestly, I’m totally over him. And look, who cares if the bouncer is kicking us out? Lets just go to the McDonalds parking lot and then continue the party. I could go a cheeseburger or twelve anyway. I’m fine you guys, we don’t need to go home. It’s not even that late. The sun is barely up. Fuck these birds, that don’t even know what they’re singing about.
6. The pass out stage
Just a random question but does anyone have a bed I can sleep in? You know what, a bed isn’t really that important, maybe just a warm cot that’s not too close to an open door or window? Or even a bathtub? Look, I’m just going to have a little nap on the floor over here. My shoe is a really great pillow, and if I leave my clothes on I’ll be warm. Plus I’m not going to take my makeup off as it’s acting like a little blanket for my face. I’m content here, I just need a little nap and I’ll be fine.
7. The morning after
Oh I feel like death. I may have a hangover but my head hurts too much to actually confirm my hangover status. Why is everything so bright? Can you pass me that water bottle? I’m never drinking again. I have to go work. I’m a relatively fresh corpse. Is my head or stomach in more excruciating pain? I’m not sure. My mouth tastes and feels like a graveyard. Can you pass me more water? I’m cancelling work. I’ll go blog about my drinking experience instead.