Bad hair, oh yeah it looks okay

So this woman at my work, let's not mention her name, has the sort of hair cut my mother used to give our dog. It was always heart rendering to see her run into the house, alighted of her heavy load of coarse hair, but still so happy to see me. But dogs are like that. They don't care what they look like. It's a good question though, what do dogs think about? The idea is that they don't recognise themselves in the mirror and that they don't have a theory of mind. They don't ponder their own existence and wonder what it is makes them exist. They don't have a theory that tells them, I am Flossy the Dog and I am a pet of Zournon. Or was. I still lament her passing, but this is not her story. This is the story of the woman with the bad haircut.

This haircut is bad, but I am not going to tell her. Around me my work colleagues are saying how much they like it and they are lying. Lying through there yellow ugly teeth and I sit quietly and say nothing. After all it was not the sort of haircut you could fix by cutting more off. The haircuts my mother would give the dog were functional in nature and would require the maximum amount of hair removed in the least time.The dog would look in the mirror and see another dog, who was it seemed not only getting in on her turf, but also sporting some feral looking chunky unlayered hair. That's if she thought she was a dog at all. It would be interesting to study the logical schema that dogs use to produce a world view. Also how is it that someone could look in the mirror and think they had a good haircut. Well they might have doubts but then everyone they meet, mostly females, are telling them that it looks good. I said nothing, maybe i should have got her a nice hat.

enough time has now passed that even if you know me and where i work, the bad haircut has grown out, even if the delusions that it was good still remain.

Showers

I'm happy with my shower head. Say it three times, but Mohammed Ali is at the front door and handing me a shining new shower head and arm and demanding change. I don't want change. To be fair he's shorter than me and won't look me in the eye, let alone float like a pollen collecting insect.

This new showerhead sure is shiny. He demands entrance to my bathroom and shakes his head at my loverly old plastic showerhead. We argue over whether he can take it off. I say i'll do it myself later and it'll be fine. What i mean is that i will put it in the cupboard and forget about it. He wants to take the old one home with him as a scalp but i suspect an undergrouund market for old plastic showerheads. Mohammed Ali is not happy and i asked him to go outside again. We argue, he tells me the shower head is free and saves water and i tell him i don't want it.

I might be able to win this fight and come out the heavyweight winner of the Darebin region if it were not for my politics-history bastard student friend is laughing himself silly at me and my water wasting ways. His vegetarian, bearded face, smiling eyes behind windowed cells, keeps telling me that i'm not allowed to say no. Even if it does help alleviate the floods by getting rid of the water one shower at a time.

It takes Mohammed Ali about a minute to change it over. He starts to put my address down as Thornbury, i tell him its Northcote and he nods and writes Thornbury anyway. He makes me promise to tell the government men, that will call, that he did a good job.

The Shower is fine but i still yearn to stand beneath an idyllic heated waterfall; with water sloshing wastefully around my feet and out to sea. Maybe a few ferns about and no inner city educated types to not tell me to burn and consume society.

fights.

I was talking some nerd rubbish when i heard a shout and looked around. lying on the ground was a short adolesant boy, his eyebrows high in his face with darwins universal expression of fear. His focus was on the boy who stood over him pulling at his shirt with one hand, with the other hand balled in a fist.

Am a policeman? if only for a whistle and a cudgel. i shout and run over anyway. he reluctantly leaves his prey prostrate on the astroturf. my yapping is incessant and not even i am listening. he moves to rejoin the game. his face is red and sweaty. he tries to push past me. my 93 kilos stop his movements and he gets louder and angrier at me telling him to leave the situation. He runs off and clumsily kicks at the ball. i pick up ball and halt play. now i have the attention of two dozen adolescent boys. I demand that he leaves.

now he is really mad and i am wondering if one of those fists is coming for me and he dances back and forth shouting and swearing at me. I can feel my legs jitter. other students rush him and pull him off the field. where he shouts and raves until told off by my line manager.

he calms and appologises and i give him lecture 38; on the depravity of adrenaline.

Idea for a TV show.

Idea for a tv show. Reality and live. We put a camera in your house, watching you as you watch tv. With commercials that advertise only stuff you like, so we don’t break your concentration. We can pan different angles and display the thing that occupies the television of your world. The focus of your drama. Homo sapiens have always loved gossip and drama; we thrive on it as a species. I got bored of listening to your problems and turned to tv. People used to know their neighbours but real people are scary and kinda ugly. Also the writing is not so good. It’s neighbours and I like true blood, tho none of my friends are vampires and I don’t get invite to those sort of season two parties. You know

So its just you sitting on a chair. A nice chair, I admit and you gaze at the television letting the sound and the light tumble over you. You get bored and pick up the computer. Now you have this. Enjoy.

Mastercrapf is bogus

Okay, so we had it on in the background. Wxtching it with the mute on and the colours swirling in the tv while we talked crap. Or something, the repetitive nature of these shows means that you don't really need to listen to it very much to get the general idea. We knew Callum won the something and got to pick a team full of his friends, lovers and chums. you would think the best cooks, but i don't really know. that left the rest of the losers seething in red team, embarrassed and angry at not being picked.

The challenge was to make food for a children’s birthday party and to keep this entry to the very least boring state and because there was a distinct lack of data in the show, i’ll keep this brief. The kids got to vote for there favourite dish and there was 150 of the little spoilt bastards. So with a pack of rather nice looking foods arranged out on a red and a respective blue table the kids smeared the food over there faces and then picked the one they liked best.

The red teams food looked way better. The main brat got to wack 10 points on the table for the best birthday cake. She picked the miserable little blue teams cake, apparently. But her little eyes lit up when she first ate the red teams giant fortress soccer cake. It was fucking magnificent.

Intheend dragged out over endless commercials, they announced the winner. blue team got 83 points which is 73 points plus cake. So the red team got 77 points. Hmm so it came down to the cake. I think the producers had intended for the blue team to win the competition and had to coax the kid into picking the blue cake to make sure they got their wishes. Most suspicious was that there was no footage of the main brat actually saying what cake she liked. If indeed she did pick the blue cake.
okay okay, so it's crap. why did i bother watching over produced shit. fuck it, lets get on with our lives. Look how long this post is. I must be mad. Why are you still reading this?

Your Spelling ugly.

Into this popular brand donut house I stroll and take a look at the merchandise. I channel a Little Larry David and start to ask the sort of mind numbing questions that drive minimum wage slaves to drink.

What’s Kreme? I demand to know. Is it some sort of demented oil sugar mixture or rather real cream but warped in name only.

‘which ones are most popular??” my humble attendant ponders, looking startled. Completely missing even a vague idea of what I was inquiring about. err sorry, she hazards.

I point at the donut, she can't see, What's creme with a K?

Woken from her stupor with my inane line of questioning, she came around the front to see what I was blowing on about. Kreme with a K? what are they playing at. She didn’t seem to know. Real cream mixture. Could be any poison really. So I order my poison packet of non-cream, Kreme injected deep fried bread. Reaching into the back of the tray she pulls the ugliest specimen and squeezes it hard enough with the tongs to leave a mark.

Guess I left an impression on her too.

I should hve taken a photo of the thing. pictures make posts more pretty.

The fat man and the snake

Real estate agents. What a pack of rats, snakes and sharks. Most of them, the nice ones seem so genuine and nice they throw you a little. But this sordid tale is not about them. Its about this pack of three, they normally run in threes at auctions, and the house they were to sell.

The house: it seemed right. The location, size the block. Even the garden was not so bad and the price was there. Right were we could afford it. Something seemed wrong. One the grand day, the place milled with people.

In the kitchen I found two agents. Evidenced by their smug demeanours and the fact they were the only people in suits at the place. I established this and started on some small talk about the wiring sticking out the wall. One was a bronzed snake, who mumbled rather than talked and lent sardonically against the wall. When he moved his head I could see lighter coloured skin in the deep furrows and lines of his neck. Fore. His companion was a ball of a man, round and red faced, with skin that was either close to peeling or just looked like it wanted to.

I shot my question straight in the chest of the fat man. “ Is there anything wrong with the house”. He sweated in his suit and stiffened. His tubby arms found the bottom of his tie and pulled at it. He lurched and paused, found some inner strength and refuted the claims. The fat man looked to the snake, who fervently looked left and right for some exit to the situation and muttered. I looked into the fat man eyes. He searched for safer ground and found it, going on at length on the problem redeveloping the property because of style restrictions in the area.

I found my own agent of evil staring up into the holes in the roof in the bathroom. Faulty wiring? a new roof? it could have been anything. We searched the gardens. The bungalow had an asbestos roof. Was that it? what was wrong with the property that the rats were hiding?

The fat man clamoured through the crowd that had gathered with what I took to be an oxygen machine but which turned out to be a microphone amplifier. He rambled on for 15 minutes about deposits, payments, costs, watering, caveats and redevelopments. Announced it open for bidding. Bid himself. In four auctions I have been two in three weeks. Twice the auctioneer was the only bidder. The fat man had one nervous looking woman who bid and won. She didn’t seem so happy. We could have bought that place, but something didn’t’ seem right. Fuck ‘em, I bet there’s zombie rats under the decking.