Category: failure

Done and Dusted

What’s up Red Sox?

Hey how’s it going? Yeah, not good. I noticed. You look like death warmed over.

I had intended on writing something completely different today. Something fun and light hearted and possibly hilarious. Possibly.

Sadly, it was not meant to be. Because this happened.

Right now, I’d like to be one of those fans that can ‘check out’ when everything starts swirling down the toilet, but I’m not, and I don’t know if I ever could be.  To be honest, I’d be more than fashionably late to that party now anyway. I’d be the drunk asshole who shows up to your house at two in the morning drunk out of my mind and proceed to fondle your girlfriend’s boobs while I thought you weren’t looking. Because, damn Red Sox, you be fucking with my emotions. And the best way I can express myself at this time is by groping your lady’s mams.

As you well know, you started this asinine behaviour this time last year. I tolerated it at first. Thinking it was just a phase and you would stop as you had before. But this time it was different. You were different and I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was going on. So I hung around. I waited. I thought you knew what you were doing. You didn’t, I now realise.

And it’s not going to end. Not in the foreseeable future anyway. From my calculations we have exactly 13 more months and a metric ton of shit to dig through before there’s even half a chance of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

You can call it ‘restructuring’ or ‘rebuilding’ or whatever the fuck you want; I call your lack of foresight and front office transparency a massive middle finger to the people who make your franchise a lucrative one. It’s gotten to the point that there really aren’t a lot of nice things I can say about you these days. You’ve got a few shining beacons left knocking around the clubhouse, but for how much longer, who can say?

I’m here to tell you Red Sox, as your friendly relationship advisor, you need to sort yourself out because you’re ruining this. Ruining US. You have the adoration of the masses and more than a million people who are effectively so in love with you that, even though you continue fucking all of us in our mud holes with absolutely no lube, we carry on asking for more. Begging you to plug our poop chutes with your sandpaper knobs because for some reason we like that sort of thing.

I remember my grandfather imparting some very insightful wisdom when I was just a wee tot sat on his knee in 1986 (I’m sure the significance is not lost) he said – You can say you’re done, but you never are. They’ll break your heart only to mend it and lift you up only to crush you at a later time.

And it’s true. We only leave to come back. At least that’s what you keep telling us.

We always hear the nonsense phrase that ‘without the bad you cannot truly appreciate the good’. You become lazy, flaccid and complacent when you don’t have to work hard for anything. But dropping a ball off a cliff that cannot be scaled and then asking someone to bring it back to you after you’ve kicked them swiftly off the edge with a smug look on your face is not the way to go about getting that hard work done.

Buck up, take a deep fucking breath and apologise. To us. We deserve it. And if you don’t think so? All may well be shattered, at least for now. Otherwise, whilst you may not lose us forever, we’ll never quite love you the way we used to.

Yours in life and in baseball, Platy


Eff you IE9

Crashy, crashy you log of smeg-  Eating my posts and biting my leg- Worked for an hour writing that piece- Now I’m sat here hating your face. Should I blame WordPress, or my lack of save? No, I will blame you, you fucking knave.

I hate you, I hate you IE9- Your designers are tosspots, your interface a crime. I have no more words to say about this, except I wish FireFox wasn’t such a piece of piss.

 

fin


Accident-schmacident, I am invincible!

To say I was accident prone when I was younger is selling things a bit short.  Accident inevitable is more like it.  Who am I kidding…I’m still the most clumsy person I know.  Poor decisions made on the fly and always tending to leap before I look was/is often the cause of my many disasters.  But some were completely and hilariously out of my control.

As I have mentioned before- I was a swimmer when I was younger. The gangly limbs and 5’10” frame that plagued me in my everyday life seemed to coalesce and find its rhythm in the pool.  Whilst I could easily trip over an ant on dry land, swimming for me was like a well rehearsed symphony.  My body just got it.  It still gets it, just a bit older and slower these days.

This particular incident took place when I was about 16 and readying myself for the first swim meet of the season.  I had spent the weekend before at my best friend’s house and we did the typical things teenaged girls do when you’re hopped up on sugar, hormones and not enough sleep with no parental supervision.  I can’t remember whose genius idea it was, but sometime during our weekend long haze my best friend and I thought it would be just the best thing in the whole world to write all over our hands and legs with indelible marker.  I’m not talking Sharpies here either.  I’m talking about the industrial, big as a baby’s arm, jet-fuel-scented behemoth markers used for…what, exactly?  I still don’t know.

Completely ignoring the warning on the side of the marker that clearly stated DO NOT APPLY TO SKIN, we went to town.  Giggling and laughing at every stroke of the pen.  Writing ridiculous inside jokes up and down our bodies like women possessed.  The Pièce de résistance was a massive cock & balls my friend drew down my left thigh that grew and looked as though it was jizzing on my knee when I would bend my leg.  We were particularly proud of that one.  High brow? Not so much.

You’d think after that weekend, and the fact that I  spent a majority of my life in a swimsuit, that someone would have made mention of the inane scribblings all over me.  But you’d think wrong. I went through the whole week with not one word mentioned by anyone about the writing on my hands or the giant wang on my leg, until that Friday; the day of the meet.

All the sports teams at my school had this silly tradition of dressing up they day you had a game/match.  Something about taking pride in your sport and looking the part, blahblahblah.  Here I am, dressed in a skirt and heels (how was this going to help me again?) kinda thinking I’m hot shit- still with black marks showing through my panty hose, when one of my teammates sees me between class in the hallway and calls me over to talk.  She tells me about some new rule about athletes and visible tattoos whilst competing.  Yeah, and?  She thinks you can get in trouble or disqualified for having writing on your body too.

Shit.

I panic.  No one had said anything to me the whole fucking week and suddenly halfway through school the day of the meet, someone springs this on me.  I try and fail to find my friend to tell her, she’s nowhere.

Shit, shit shit.

Cut to the pool. One hour before the start of the meet.  Having already warmed up, I’m in the locker room frantically scrubbing my hands and legs with soap and a loofah.  It’s coming off my hands, but not my legs.  Nothing is working.  I try shampoo, lotion and everything else within reach to try and get it off me.  I scrub harder, I scratch and tear at my skin.  I even try shaving.  But there it still is…the now slightly disfigured but still very plain as day, expertly drawn, veiny knob.  My skin is so red and raw now it almost appears to be throbbing and glowing.  Mocking me and my stupidity.  My best friend suddenly appears at my side, her skin as fresh and clean as a baby’s ass.  How the hell did that happen?  It just came off, she says.  IT JUST CAME OFF!  Help me then!  Get something, anything- so I can compete today!  Ask Coach, maybe there’s something in the office.

She leaves and returns to my side in less than a minute, with a spray bottle full of flourescent green liquid.  What is it?  She doesn’t know.  Coach said just to spray it on, leave it for a second and it should come off easily.

This friends is, in hindsight, where I should have asked a few more questions, or at the very least read the side of the goddamn bottle. But no.  My hysteric brain wouldn’t have been able to process anything more at the time.  So I just start squirting.  And kept squirting.  I probably used a quarter of the bottle before it started…

The blinding, searing, vagina-shriveling pain.  Yes, being that I was wet and not very careful about where I was applying this death-juice, I not only sprayed it copiously over my legs, I got some of it all up in my hoo-hah.  I produce a blood curdling scream and collapse on the floor quivering.  My friend tries to help and turns the shower head towards my shuddering body.  I cry out again, though the pain and burning is so severe now my voice is just barely above a whisper this time. Suddenly, I realize my Coach is at my side asking my friend what happened. My friend shrugs and says she doesn’t know what happened, I just used the stuff he had given her.  Coach’s eyes widen and he says he didn’t know it was for me, he thought it was for a wall or something, I never should have sprayed it on myself because-

IT’S A FUCKING TURPENTINE SOLUTION! Yay!  Chemical burns!  What fun.

Coach finds a parent to take me to the emergency room as my mum hadn’t yet arrived at the pool, and I am rushed to the hospital.  But not before (get this) my ass master Coach says to the parent to try and have me back before the start of the meet!  Fucking seriously?!  Priorities, anyone?

I’m taken to the ER, but because I am underage and the parent who has brought me doesn’t have consent from my mother to have me treated, I am handed a single Benadryl and sent along my way.  Good for you American Medical Establishment! A panicked, soaking wet, swimsuit clad teenaged girl comes into your ER -with what is a very obvious chemical burn- and you give her a cunting Benadryl!  Way to go. I bet you feel really good about yourself for that.

In the end, I did make it back to the pool just in time for my first race.  I managed to qualify for State Championships, break two longstanding school records and get a personal best time.

All while sporting an angry lobster red chemical burned slightly faded jizzing dick down my left thigh.

Say that five times fast.

 


the pissed on series…childhood trauma #422

My mum didn’t really monitor my reading materials when I was young so much as just let me read whatever the hell I wanted.  Age appropriateness wasn’t really in her vernacular.  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t snuggling down with Penthouse Forum at bedtime, she would typically read the synopsis on the back of the book and then just let me get on with it.  To be fair, a lot of what I was reading at age 10 or 11 were things she knew and had read herself, so she didn’t have a lot to worry about.  This changed with Stephen King.

So here I am, at 10, reading IT.  Being an only child, it was so, so easy for me to let my imagination run wild.  I didn’t have any brothers or sisters to bounce off or torture so it was all left up to me.  I was fine to start.  Fascinated by the macabre, even that young and getting really into the whole thing.

Then comes the violence, the kids dying, the old houses and that fucking clown!  Here’s me, same age as the kids in the book, reading about them, slipping further away from myself every time I crack the binding.  Imagination running, running, running. And  let’s be honest here, scaring the shit out of myself  with every page read.

If you’ve not read it, here’s the low down.  Ancient mystical creature (disguised as a jolly circus clown, thank you very much, Mister King) feeds off children and hunts them through the city’s sewer system.  The large Victorian pipes making it easy for said creature to move about…fucking ANYWHERE.  And there’s a bit where there’s a little girl using the toilet and the creature tries to pull her down through the u-bend and ends up breaking her neck…

(as an aside. adult me thinks ‘who the holy fuck leans closer when they hear voices coming out of the freaking toilet!?’ run, motherfucker, run!)

 

Where do I live?  Old ass house.  With ancient piping.  How old am I? Same as the kids in the book.  This. fucking. creature. is. coming. to. get. me.  Why can’t I put this fucking book down?  Please mum, why won’t you tell me I’m not allowed to read this shit!?  Oh no, another kid’s died….toilet bad.  Water bad…Why am I torturing myself?  Burn it with fire!

 

The long and short of all this, is somewhere in my infantile brain I started equating using the toilet with dying a tortuous death.  But the sink?  The sink was my salvation.  The sink provided me a quiet space where I could keep a damn close eye on anything that might come oozing out of the bowl and run like hell if it did.  I could prop my little bum right up there and give the finger to the ancient creature and y’know, not pee my pants.  So, screw you, mister asshole clown!  You won’t get me!  I’ve figured you out and I’m smarter than you.

Until my mum caught me doing it.

As was/is her way, my mum was less mad and more amused by the whole situation. Through chuckles she explained that nothing was going to jump up and bite my ass while I was trying to snip some cable.  And at the end of the day ALL THE PIPES ARE CONNECTED ANYWAY!  Thanks for that.  So she says, stop pissing in the sink, I know you’re 10 and scared shitless, but it’s gross and you are old enough to know this stuff isn’t real.

Talked down from my sinky perch, I agreed to start using the toilet like a normal person.  (Though it didn’t stop me from taking a sabbatical behind the barn if need be.)

Thereafter though, as was the norm with her, anytime I would have to go to the bathroom my mum would stand outside the bathroom door knock very lightly and whisper, ‘We all float down here.  Weeee alllll flooooat!’  Having read just enough of the book to fuck with me.

It’s surprising I’m not completely mad.


Suppository Silent Treatment

I wasn’t a sickly child, but when I did get ill I seemed to do it extraordinarily well. When I was about ten I came down with a bout of meningitis and spent six days in the hospital. Nothing huge; just fluids and antibiotics and pukeing on five or six different people in quick succession and a lumbar puncture that was oh-so-much fun. Most kids might freak out about a hospital stay but because my mum was in medicine I was used to the environment, and my biggest memory from the whole ordeal was being pissed off that the day I was going to be allowed solid foods (finally!), they discharged me. I still rue the day I didn’t get my hospital pancakes and fruit cup!

Anyway…

Cut to a week later and I have to go in for a quick check up with my mum to make sure my preadolescent engine was ticking over as it should. The nurse asked all the typical questions; was I eating, how was I sleeping, did I seem to be getting back to my old self, was I using the toilet regularly. All yes. Except. Except what? Well, I was going to the toilet, but I told the nurse my tummy hurt because I hadn’t pooped in about a week.

The nurse took this in stride, said that it was sometimes normal not to poo because my little body had been through the ringer, she had just the thing to help push it along the way. She then turned around and grabbed two small pill-like things from a drawer behind her and set them aside. She then said she was going leave the room for a minute while I took off my pants and put on a hospital gown.

Okay, this is where my brain really starts heading into overdrive. Was I going back into the hospital? Why did I need to put a gown on? Why did I only have to take my pants off to take some pills? That was weird. Never shy, I asked my mum.

Me: Why do I have to take my pants off to take the medicine?

Mum: Well, those are called suppositories and in order for them to work, you have to put them in your bum. (Never one to mince words, my mother.)

Me: *SHOCKHORROR* WHY?!? IN MY BUTT?? BY THOR’S HAMMER (I was really into Norse mythology, even at ten) WHY …IN MY BUTT …MOOOOOM!? Noooooo!

At this point, with my mother stifling a laugh, the nurse returned to the room and asked me to lay down on my side and draw my knees up to my chest and we would get this done. I think may have started crying at this point, not from fear, but from the sheer inability to conceive why people would stick things UP THEIR BUTT to feel better. I think because of this the nurse then asked me if I would feel more comfortable if my mum ‘administered the medicine’. Immediately my mother protested with an emphatic ‘I’m not doing it’ with that tone in her voice that I knew I shouldn’t argue and just get this whole debacle over with.

It was over before it started- and as anal probes go, I reckon it could have been a lot worse but that didn’t change the fact that I was now very, very upset with my mum. So much so, I refused to speak with her on the drive home. And then for the following three days.

On the fourth day of the UPMYBUTT scandal I heard mum on the phone in the other room speaking to my GramCracka, filling her in on all the sordid details of my previous illness and the subsequent doctor’s visit…

Mum: …I don’t know, Ma. She’s a tough kid. I mean she managed a giant needle in her spine without flinching the week before, there had to have been something about the suppos….here she is, why don’t you ask her.

Mexican stand-off moment; mum holding the phone out to me and me attempting to give her the stinkiest of stink-eyes I could muster. I walked slowly over to her outstretched hand and took the phone. I exchanged pleasantries with GramCracka for a minute and then she asked me why I was busting my mum’s chops so badly.

I looked down and started mumbling something, but then in a fit of lucidity I burst out with BECAUSE SHE WOULDN’T STICK HER FINGERS IN MY BUM, SHE MADE THE NURSE DO IT!

Then suddenly- probably realizing how ridiculous I was being once I finally said it out loud- I looked up at my mum and devolved into fits of giggles, unable to contain myself.

Also, if you’re wondering (and I know you are) I pooped about two hours after we arrived home from the appointment.  I deserve a trophy.


Plant, Y U No want to live?!

I’ve always had plants in my house.  I can remember as a child my mum having a Schefflera so big and beautiful (and older than me) that I was perpetually in awe of it.  That is, until I killed it with Kool-Aid.  See, I decided it would be a good idea to help my poor, overworked mother with the household chores, yet my child brain did not comprehend that the pinknuclearsugarwater! from the fridge was not the same as the stuff that comes out of the tap.  It died, but I bet you saw that coming.  My mother was upset with me but in the end her good humor won out and she forgave me for my transgression.

Skip forward a couple of decades and I consider myself to be relatively good at the green-thumbery.  I can keep my plants not only alive, but in some state of flourish.  In the last couple of years I’ve even managed get my flowering plants to actually flower year after year.  The one black mark on my plant keeping record is this little bastard:

I will die, just to spite you!  Har har!

Now, I do feel bad calling him (yes, him) a bastard.  I love my plants and when they aren’t well, I’m distraught.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t harbor fantasies that my plants are my children, or any other sort of projection psychoses, but when something that requires a minuscule amount of care to live won’t stop dying? Well, you start question your ability to do even the most basic of tasks.  Eating and dressing myself?  Pshaw!  I’ll just ooze along the floor naked and earthworm-like hoovering up bits of food that have been dropped, until someone comes along and takes pity on my poor carpet burned flesh and puts me out of my misery.

The first sign that something was amiss was a week after I bought him and found a brown tip on one of the leaves.  The next week the whole leaf was brown.  The following week, the entire stem.  I was told by a plant-y type friend to cut the offending stem off; sort of like amputating a gangrenous limb.

Apparently, in the plant world this is considered an act of psychological war. 

For the next two years this plant has done everything he can, short of actually dying, to torture me.
The short list of remedies in order of insanity I have tried to help the my little suicidal botanical friend are as follows:
More water, less water, rain water, poopy fish water, new soil, new pot, super nutrient enriched soil, dry fertilizer, liquid fertilizer, more sun, less sun, intermediate sun, no sun high humidity room, dusting the leaves, ignoring him, doting over him, playing music to him (real and badly played guitar), singing, collecting dead bugs and putting them in the soil, breathing on him, giving up and crying into the pot, launching plant into space, shouting swear words and plant based racial slurs at him…

Nothing has worked. Sometimes the green starts to come back and new shoots start emerging from the soil but it doesn’t last.  He lives an eternal cadaverous existence.  Wanting to give up, but taking far too much pleasure in watching me run around in fits of hysteria and probably hoping I burst into flames out of frustration.

I’m now fully convinced that it’s the Schefflera reincarnated making me pay for the Kool-Aid incident.  Jerk.

A few other plants that live happily in my house to prove I’m not entirely inept.

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