Do I hear happiness in here?

Stinky Robinson

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Thu, 28 May 2009 04:51:00 +0000

Dear diary,
Stinky Robinson beat me up today. I think it was because he was upset about being so stinky. All I did was offer him some deodorant. It's not my fault all the kids in class started laughing when I did it. It’s them he should have beaten up!

Dear diary,
Stinky Robinson stole my diary and got mad when he saw I called him stinky again, this time on paper. I'm writing this from the cupboard he locked me in. I think I can smell him from here.

Dear diary,
Stinky Robinson didn't come to school on Friday. Today was Monday and when he did turn up, he didn't smell anymore. Maybe his mum made him put on some deodorant, just like I had suggested. I'm owed an apology after that. But I won’t ask him. That cupboard smells worse than he used to.

Dear diary,
Stinky Robinson doesn't understand that just because he doesn't stink anymore doesn't mean his nickname will change. I don't know why he blames me — all I did was invent the nickname. All the other kids started calling him it too. It's his fault for not discovering deodorant until last week anyway.

Dear diary,
Stinky Robinson is changing schools. Mrs. Ryan told us today. She also said we'd be getting a new kid to replace him next week. I just hope it's not another smelly kid. They'll have to get him a new chair too. Stinky Robinson's stink will have stuck to his seat.

Dear diary,
A new kid joined our class today. His name is Michael. He's quiet and he looks a little bit familiar, but I can't put my finger on why. Maybe I'm seeing things, but I think the new kid, Michael, and Stinky Robinson are the exact same height. I can tell because I only come up to Michael's chest too, which Stinky rammed my head into regularly.

Dear diary,
I snuck a look at the new kid's surname on the roll, and guess what? His last name is Robinson. Just like Stinky! But I guess it's a common name. Anyway, this new kid isn’t anything like Stinky. He's too nice for that. Even though they're about the same size, Michael always combs his hair back and he even smiles. Stinky never did that. He always had a scowl on his face and his hair over his eyes. Another nickname I had for him was the Stinky Spider. But I only called him that in my head.

Dear diary,
I have a new friend. Michael, the new kid. He came over to play at my house this afternoon. When he showed up, guess who was driving him? Stinky Robinson's mum! I think they are family friends or something. I hope Michael never invites Stinky around when I'm with him though. I can't stand that guy.

Affair

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 20:56:00 +0000

Because I worked at the cosmetics testing plant, my wife was never worried when I came home with lipstick on my collar. Little did she know I was having an affair with one of the bunny rabbits.

Self-Determination

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 13:58:00 +0000

When people ask me why my life turned out the way it has, I like to tell them a story. 'Can't you just give us a one sentence answer?' they say. 'No,' I reply. 'It's more complicated than that.' Besides, nobody's gonna pay me for just one sentence.

There are lots of people I've learnt from in my life, but the person I've learnt the most from is myself. I taught myself everything I know, except the very basics like eating and toilet training, which I think were written on the back of a Cornflakes box I found once.

The reason I had to learn everything myself was because from a very young age I was thrust out into the Big Bad World. I was thrust out by my Big Bad Uncle, who sat me down in the grass on my fifth birthday and said, 'Well, you're on your own, kid'. Right there, in the middle of the median strip! Imagine my embarrassment. I didn't even know how to hitchhike.

This early trauma taught me an important lesson about surviving: you need to do it, especially if you're to have any happiness in this world. So I continued to survive, and before long I was having normal childhood encounters, like experiencing my first love.

At the age of 14, I was in love with a girl; and we had chemistry together, I'll tell you that. I didn't get to see her very much because she didn't teach any other subjects. But one day, without warning, she just disappeared. I phoned her fifteen times a day, like I usually did, but she never answered. And when I went for my morning crawl through her front garden, from what I could see through her bedroom window, her stuff had been packed up and taken away. My guess? Alien abduction.

But I didn't let this get me down. After I realised how precious and tenuous our grasp on this planet is, I again resolved myself to forge my own path through life, at least until I found some nice coattails to sit on.

My main problem was that I had no talent. People thought I was a bit slow on the uptake. They did have a point, I'll admit. I once had a conversation for ten minutes before I realised I was standing in an echo chamber. But I vowed to work for change.

So I became an entrepreneur, which is French for 'drifter'. I'd drift in and out of lucrative businesses, until someone would ask me who I'm there to see and could I please leave the foyer, I'm causing a scene. But it also means I'm a self-made man, like Frankenstein, if he had made himself instead of that monster. Basically, it just means I did things for myself.

Here are some things I did for myself:

I worked as a con man. I'd go around asking people to give money to help fund diabetes research. Fooled them. It was really to help AIDS in Africa.

I manufactured shoelaces that were made of spaghetti, for hiking boots. If you ever get lost in the desert, no need to worry about starving. For our up-market customers, I even sold an edible tour guide. His name was Jim.

At one point I sold exploding chewing gum. That venture didn't last very long. There's a limited market for that kind of thing, once people find out what it does. After that, I sold dentures. They were top of the line because they were made from real teeth. Sometimes I could even sell a person's own teeth back to them, if they'd already bought the exploding chewing gum.

I even had a short lived career as a comedian. This was one of my jokes: 'Why don't cows eat at the dinner table? Because they can't chew with their mouths shut.' Get it? No manners. I think I was just ahead of my time. Unfortunately, the booking agents thought I was just ahead of Happy Hour.

So you'll notice I've had some strange jobs in my time, but you'll also notice there's something that they have in common: they all were born out of self-determination, hard work and one too many tequila sunrises. Seriously, those things will knock days off your calendar. Sometimes I forgot that Mondays even existed, which is one reason why my brand of calendars never sold well.

But when I think about the future, I'm optimistic. Although I'm not crazy about flying cars, they are sure to bring in plenty of business opportunities for a drifter like me. Remember, the only things that stopped my ventures from growing indefinitely were complacency, neglect and a couple of criminal investigations.

I have always made my own path through life. I'm like a pioneer, in some ways. In other ways, not so much. But I am something, and there's something to be said for that. Now, where's that pay cheque?

Bobby

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 04:50:00 +0000

Some people say the British police aren't respected because they don't carry guns. I think it's because of the silly hats.

Lost in the Desert

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 09:55:00 +0000

I once sold a man a camel that didn't have any humps. I was miles away with his money before he realised it was a donkey.

I sold tour guides at the Great Pyramid, and gave out maps with directions to the Crap Pyramid. I was safely down by the Red Sea before any of the tourists realised there was no Crap Pyramid. I'm not sure why anyone tried to find it. The name says it all.

At first, nobody came looking for me when I got lost in the desert. Or maybe they did. The maps I had sold them had the desert wrong too.

It's not fun being stuck in the desert. Anyone who says it is probably can live without water for extended periods of time. My camel is writing a book about it, for instance.

Of course, finally someone came to find me. It was a man riding a donkey. He wanted his money back because his donkey had a hump.

'I didn't sell you that,' I said.
'Yes, you did,' he said.

Then we just stared at each other for a while.

'You did!' he said again, after the while was up.
'Now don't start that again, ' I said. 'I sell donkeys and say they are camels. You've got a camel that someone told you was a donkey. That's a whole other thing going on.'

We argued about this for a while. Eventually I took pity on the poor fellow. I gave him a good price on an invisible stallion and he rode off into the sunset, thinking he had a horse under him. So he was happy.

And that's all well and good, but I'm still stuck in the desert. At least I have something to read, though. If we ever get out of here, my camel's going to be a bestseller.

Bad Joke

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Sun, 21 Sep 2008 14:18:00 +0000

Why is a good book like a healthy dog?
You can’t put it down!

Bones

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 13:16:00 +0000

I'll never forget the time I found dinosaur bones while digging in my backyard. They were small, but Mum said it was from a little dinosaur, like the ones that turned into chickens. I only wish my dog Billy had been there to see it, but he had gone to visit my Auntie Bev at her farm a few months back and liked it to so much he decided to stay. I never got to say goodbye because I was at school when he left. Oh boy, he would have loved all those bones!

Healthy

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 15:01:00 +0000

They say if you’re healthy you should be able to read through your urine, but they never tell you how to stop the book getting wet.

Local Paper: Thumbs Up/Thumbs Down!

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Sun, 31 Aug 2008 12:26:00 +0000

Thumbs Up! to the man who returned the wallet I dropped in Main St. on Saturday.
- Joe, Eltham

Thumbs Down! to the man who didn't give me a reward when I returned his dropped wallet.
- Paul, Research

Thumbs Down! to the man who knocked me over while he was rushing to pick up a dropped wallet on Main St.
- Fiona, Eltham North

Thumbs Up! to the lady who fell over and gave me a glimpse of her underwear when she fell over in Main St.
- Rob, Diamond Creek

Thumbs Down! to the boy who looked up a lady's skirt when she fell over in Main St, the shock of which made me choke on my lunch at Bobby's Cafe.
- Carmel, Eltham

Thumbs Up! to the young man who gave an old lady the Heimlich Maneuver when she was choking on her lunch in Bobby's Cafe.
- Hayley, St Helena

Thumbs Down! to the man who stole my wallet when I was busy giving a choking old lady the Heimlich Maneuver in Bobby's Cafe.
- Nathan, Greensborough

Thumbs Down! to the group of people on Main St. near Bobby's Cafe on Saturday who blocked the competitors in the Annual Eltham Fun Run, causing it to be cancelled.
- Councillor Steve Redman, Eltham Council

Thumbs Up! to the Eltham Council for deciding to cancel the tedious annual fun run.
- Jen, Eltham North

Employment

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 16:10:00 +0000

"Sir, I deserve this raise," I said to my boss. "If you look up 'diligent worker' in the dictionary, you'll find my picture,"

"Yeah, I've been meaning to tell you to stop messing around with my bookshelf," Mr. Gianelli said. "There's glue all over it now."

Damn. I guess he wasn't going to appreciate seeing his picture when he next looked up 'role model'.

The Horror of War

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 15:41:00 +0000

Fighting in a war is much more unpleasant than simply having to wear an ugly uniform. The very nature of war is tragedy. And every war has its share.

The First World War, for example, is notorious for its senseless loss of life. J.R. Rudden was only 17 when he pedaled his bike down to the station to sign up. He was hit by a buggy and killed on the way there. Tragedy.

The Second World War was just as awful. Gracie Dvorak was just a secretary in a company that did code breaking for the Nazis. But she fell in love with an American soldier and this put her in a dangerous position. Every night after being with him she’d scurry away, trying to avoid being seen. But sure enough, one morning, Gracie was shot in the head by the American soldier’s wife.

My great-grandfather also fought in that war. He once told me a story about when his platoon was stationed in an abandoned city, somewhere in Europe. There were lot of abandoned old houses everywhere and the mood was tense. All the men could feel trouble was coming. Word was coming through on the radio that the enemy was on its way. So my great-grandfather and his troop sat in a shelled-out storefront, crouched in anticipation. Suddenly, while they were waiting for the enemy, space zombies attacked them from behind.

The lesson: War. Is. Unpredictable.

In war, every battle poses a new challenge. CJ Smith was just a fussy young man when he went to fight in Vietnam. CJ was carrying a grenade belt through enemy territory when one of the greande's pins fell out. It dropped to the ground and CJ quickly ran for cover. It didn’t explode. A miracle! So he breathed a huge sigh of relief, which the enemy heard from across the jungle. He was captured and sent to a POW camp, where the food was terrible.

The horror of war should not be underestimated. It’s a scary world out there and nothing illustrates this more than war. Especially scary war. So the next time you’re watching a Remembrance Day march, think about all the awful things the veterans suffered: the heavy backpacks, the bad jokes told by the other men, the really easy crosswords in the army quiz books.

They suffered so we could live in peace. Never forget.

Young love

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 13:57:00 +0000

I was in love with this girl once. We had chemistry together, I’ll tell you that. I didn’t get to see her very much. She didn’t teach any other subjects.

One day she just up and left the town. I called her house fifteen times a day, like I usually did, but she never answered. And when I went for my morning crawl through her front garden, from what I could see through her bedroom window, her stuff had been packed up and taken away. My guess? Alien abduction.

Haunting

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 12:34:00 +0000

People tell me that one day all the bad things I’ve done will come back to haunt me. But so far the only thing haunting me is the ghost of that guy I killed.

Clue

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 14:41:00 +0000

The Detective paced around the murder scene before spotting a clue: fingerprints. This was a new break in the case. ‘Now we know the culprit had fingers!’ he exclaimed, crossing ‘family dog’ and ‘armless man’ off his suspect list.

Birthday Present

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 13:50:00 +0000

I was trying to think of a birthday present for my mother. My friend told me that I should get her something she wouldn't buy for herself. So I got her a submarine.

Best friends forever

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 06:25:00 +0000

Dear Billy

I am very sad that your mum has decided we can no longer be friends. What is her problem anyway? I swear, that’s the last time I try to brighten up her Sunday afternoon with a trip to the emergency room. You can barely see the burns anyway, at least the ones on your face.

Having you live next door to me has been one of the highlights of my life. Before you moved in I used to just spend my weekends throwing rocks at birds. But ever since you came along, I’ve had something much better to throw rocks at.

You mum says that I’m a bully, but that’s a lie. Why do you let your mum tell lies? Every time I’ve asked you if you think I’m a bully, you say ‘No, sir’. One time you even said it after I’d let go of your neck. So who am I meant to believe, your mummy or your own coerced words?

Maybe your mum is just upset because your cat went missing. I don't understand why. That cat was mean anyway. Did you know he once scratched me just because I tied his tail to the tail of my dog, Bruiser? You should get that thing put down, man.

How could anyone think I’m a bully, buddy? I don’t understand. Don’t we have fun together? Remember when you stood in the corner in your underwear and I fired a rubber band gun at you? You can’t tell me we didn’t have a blast. I was certainly laughing.

And it’s just bad timing that mum called us for dinner just when it was my turn to be in the corner. You know how these things go.

Plus, buddy, what about all those great times we had playing video games? I could see in your eyes just how much you enjoyed watching me play that car racing game over and over until I beat the top score, then spent the rest of the night trying to beat that top score. You can’t fake that kind of interest.

OK, I know what this is about. You’re upset about the time I told the teacher it was you that wrote hateful messages in the black kid’s English book. But that just shows how good friends we are! Who else but a real friend would take the fall like that for his mate? I’m sure you’ll get used to your new school in no time. You’ll have lots of time to get to know everyone on that two hour bus ride every day, anyway.

Friends should stick together. And if we can’t see each other, how can we stick together? That must mean we’re not friends. And if we’re not friends, we’re enemies. You know what happens to my enemies, don’t you?

Please let’s be friends again. And if not...maybe you won't ever see Mr. Mittens again.

Your best friend forever (maybe),

Tommy.

Cruelty

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 08:14:00 +0000

The kids could be so cruel during woodwork class. I don't know why Mr. Monty made that rule, but it gave the bullies something to do.

Science and Censorship

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 11:28:00 +0000

Ladies and gentlemen, society needs censorship. You only need to look around you to see things that need to be covered up from view. For me, right away, it’s my ankles. For you, maybe just the legs in general. But even for those of you blessed with shapely stems, the point is clear: there are things out there, in the wide world, which need to be censored.

A cursory glance at any newspaper bears this out. I mean, what is the world coming to? An end? Maybe. In the news recently there was the story about child pornography in our art galleries. This is outrageous. Back in my day if we wanted to see a naked 12 year old, we had to use our imaginations. These days everything is handed to you on a platter. It's disgusting and it's wrong and it's downright unfair.

Fortunately, clear heads have prevailed and that exhibition has now been banned. The 12 year olds involved are now safe to enjoy a normal adolescence full of awkwardness and insecurity about their bodies. Society was threatened and censorship stood in to protect it. Can I get an Amen? I hope so.

This highlights the very real need for censorship in our society. Now I know what you're thinking: here we go with another censorship guy talking about sex and violence in movies and TV. Not so fast, buddy. Where'd you learnt to jump to conclusions so fast, hey? Probably too much violent TV, I'd reckon. Besides, that’s not what I want to talk about. My concern today is censoring science.

That's right: science. Bet you didn't see that one coming. See, we've been taught to think that science is great and that it’s continued to improve society for hundreds of years. Well, you know who taught me that? My year 8 science teacher Mr Schlanker. And he was a jackass. Jackass/science: Is there a connection? You be the judge. (Answer: yes.)

Science has survived too long without appropriate classification and censure. This is unacceptable. Why, I've heard that children as young as 19 can just waltz into a biology lecture and learn about bodily functions and the 'facts' of life. Next thing you know they’ll be waltzing out of that lecture and into the arms of casual sex. How do we stop this? I don't think we can just put up No Waltzing signs around the university. It's too late for that now.

It's not just human biology that's filthy. Take zoology, for instance. Take it away from me, more like! Have you ever been to the zoo or the jungle? All the mating wild animals do; that's downright disgusting. It's just bestiality, if you think about it. (I recommend that you don't.) The only decent animals are the pandas. They refuse to mate, and good on them. Extinction is a small price to pay for decency.

And don't think this excludes you, micro-biology. I know as well you do what single cell replication is: masturbation. And what about those frogs that can turn into whatever sex they want, willy nilly? These trans-sexuals are trans-porting these filthy facts into your children's schoolbooks. And my children’s too, if I have any.

The rest are just as bad. Physics? That Ph looks pretty 'Phrench' to me. Psychology? Don't make me laugh. If I want to know the inner workings of the mind, I'll consult my local shaman like any normal person.

Chemistry; now there's a respectable science. As you were, chemistry.

We need to take drastic action. The first thing I propose is this: ban all sciences from our schools for students under 70. Then, once the students are mature enough to make decisions for themselves, they can opt to sign up for a science class, by which time their brains will be much too deteriorated to retain any of the filthy information.

Sure, we might miss a few things about science – Bunsen burners are sort of fun, and Petrie dishes remind me of cake – but in the long run it will be worth it. After all, it’s more important to be protected from the obscene than it is to know the Earth revolves around the Moon, or whatever it is.

Now, I know some of you are sitting there, sipping your lattes and licking the foam off your upper lip and going 'Ooh, that's good imported coffee'; and you're about to point out that, hey, that's not what science is about and that I clearly have no understanding of the very basics of scientific enquiry. Oh yeah? Says who? Sorry, I forgot. The 'experts'.

Well, I think it's time we stopped listening to the experts. We need broad and specific censorship of all things damaging to our society as a whole, and to its individual pieces. Who says so? I do. It's pretty obvious, really.

I'll leave you with this irrefutable proof. If science isn't a filthy and debauched system, then answer me this: didn't Che Guevara study medicine? And wasn't he a communist? I rest my case.

Check mate, science. See you at the obscenity trials.

Guilt

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 03:52:00 +0000

I keep telling myself I shouldn't feel guilty about what happened, but my lawyer thinks I should at least pretend once we're in court.

Accomplishment

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 16:01:00 +0000

I stood on the winner's podium, proud of myself for everything I had accomplished. 'Hey, get off my podium!' the winner said. So I got down and continued sweeping.

Flashin' Ain't Easy

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 07:54:00 +0000

It's not easy being a flasher. It's not hard, either, but I can think of a few things that are easier. Not being a flasher, for instance. That's much easier.

Just the sheer fact of showing your bits to people can be intimidating, so flashers have that elevated stress level. And because of the nature of the work, flashing is a hand-to-mouth profession. You never know where your next pay cheque or restraining order is coming from.

We've tried to counteract these problems with industrial relations changes but nothing seems to work.We wanted to unionise and join with the Nudist Union but they didn't have any pockets to put the membership cards in and we didn't want to carry them where they did. So that failed. Plus, because flashing is a solitary, even lonely, occupation, a lot of flashers are too shy to speak up at meetings. They'll just stand on their chair, flashing. They just don't know when it's knock off time. Dedicated to the work, in a sense. Annoying in another sense (most of them).

But that's just indicative of the philosophical differences in the various schools of flashing. Some of the old school guys think, hey, why not just flash every ten seconds, even in an important meeting? The more progressive ones limit themselves to one or two flashes per meeting, at the maximum. It's a generational thing.

Still, despite all this, don't let anyone tell you is that flashing is all that hard. Look, let's not fool ourselves: it's considerably easier than making an honest dollar. Sure, most of the money comes from people just paying you to stop flashing, but aren't most jobs like that? I worked at a movie theatre once and they gave me a big cheque to stop flashing myself to the customers and never to come back to work. I figured, why not cut out the middle man, and just get paid to stop flashing in the first place?

As flashers there are some ground rules that apply, no matter what generation you're from. First of all, never flash someone walking a dog. Have you ever seen a dog go for a hot dog? The very best that can happen is that it humps your leg, which cramps your style and frankly is looked down upon in the flasher community. Even the few lady flashers don't do it.

Another rule is don't flash children. What's the point? They don't have any money. However, you can elicit money from their parents with the threat of flashing. This is where the now-famous 'flasher eyebrow' comes from.

Invented by, I'm proud to say, my grandfather, the flasher eyebrow is the complicated raising of the eyebrow that says in no uncertain terms that 'I am going to flash your child, unless you give me money'. My family would be much richer today if grandpa had patented it. That's another common problem with flashers; they're no good with money. Just last week I heard the heartbreaking story of an old lady flasher who was being evicted because she hadn't saved up enough in her prime. Bought too many rhinstone studded trench coats and so on. And now she's back on the street. She even started flashing people with dogs. She's so old and decrepit that now people don't pay her to stop, they just punch her in the face and steal her handbag. People can be cruel, if you let them. I'm not sure why we passed that law.

Proper flasher attire is matter of contention in the community. The traditionalist will tell you that a trenchcoat is the only appropriate article of clothing a self-respecting flasher can wear. But there is a younger, more 21st century savvy generation of flashers who will wear anything from mu-mus to velcro stripper pants. My view on the matter errs on the side of conservatism (my grandfather never had to resort to velcro to provide for his family) but I give my blessing to anyone furthering the ideas and practices of flashing.

I bet you didn't know that the first man on the moon was a flasher. Well, not the actual moon, but the first man on the moon-shaped piece of cheese in the Cheesy Barn on Cheese St, Cheesetown (where our national headquarters are). The first man on the cheese, really. But he's a local hero in the flasher community. They call him the Big Cheese, or Moonman.'Hey Moonman!' someone will say. 'It's Big Cheese, you idiot!' another will say.'Aw, shut your face, it's Moonman,' will come the reply. Then they'll start flashing eachother until one or the other gives up. A flash off, I guess.

I have to admit that the art of flashing does seem to be dying out, partly because of fatal flash offs and partly just because the money is so bad. A two-dollar note to 'please leave us alone' doesn't go as far as it used to. It doesn't go anywhere, since they don't exist anymore.

If we don't recruit new flashers to the movement, people will start being able to just walk about the streets without being flashed at. And wouldn't that be a tragedy? Not for them, maybe. But for us, the flashers, of course it is. Why would you even ask that?

In conclusion, please support your local flashers. Pay us to stop flashing or pay us to flash you. Whatever. Just pay us. It's not easy being a flasher. Even though it sort of is.

Bad Secretary

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Tue, 27 May 2008 05:46:00 +0000

Boss:
Is it OK if I take the following days off? Tomorrow, Friday, yesterday. Also, today. (Have assumed yes.)

Boss:
Schoolgirl came to window doing a chocolate drive. Put you down for 5 boxes. Don't worry; have already eaten 2.

Boss:
Re: Lunch. Take away shop didn't have vegetarian salad. Got roast beef instead. Also, no bottled water. Got you scotch.

Boss:
Your wife called. Couldn't find you. Told her you were dead. If not dead, please advise.

Boss:
Called Mr. Carmady to confirm dinner meeting tomorrow night. Happened to mention your 'problem'. Now no need to attend dinner meeting.

Everybody has fears

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Wed, 21 May 2008 17:47:00 +0000

Everybody has fears, just like everybody has responsibilities. But unlike responsibilities, fear isn’t something you can just run away from. The best way to confront your fears is to talk about them, just like how the best way to not confront your responsibilities is to change your name and jump the state, and answer every phone call with ‘What child support?’

My fears aren’t all that usual. Like 47 percent of the population, I’m afraid of the dark. And like 39 percent of the population, I make up numbers to support my arguments. But the thing about being afraid of the dark is true. So what if I’m afraid of dark chocolate and dark matter too? That just means I better understand what ‘dark’ is.

I'm also scared of ghosts, but isn't everyone? Every time I hear Waltzing Matilda I have to leave before the last verse where they talk about the jolly swagman's ghost. Spiders scare me too. In fact, I'm scared of everything that has the wrong number of limbs. I saw an amputee at the RSL once and had to flee from my pokie machine, even as the jackpot music played.

I'm scared of being struck by lightning. People tell me this is ridiculous, since you're more likely to win the lottery than get struck by lightning. That doesn’t help: I’m also scared of winning the lottery. I don't know why I keep buying the tickets.

I’m not sure where my fears come from. I guess it’s something we’ll never know, like what happens after we die or what that big yellow thing in the sky is. But I think having fears is pretty normal. Who among you can honestly say you're not scared of mice and other computer-related things? Technology is always producing scary things, like the pool cleaner. I used to be scared of cameras, thinking they would steal my soul. But I soon realised nobody wanted to steal my soul. They didn't even want my phone number.

You might think it sounds like I'm scared of everything. I'm not. In fact, I'd give you a list of all the things I'm not scared of, but I'm scared of lists. Sure, you might call me a coward, but you might call me a lot of things, like scaredy cat, wuss and crybaby. Don't just leave it at coward, is all I'm saying. After all, sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me. Also, stop with the sticks and stones.

But who are you to judge me, you with your nerves of steel and your hearts of some other kind of heavy metal, possibly manganese? Well, I’m sorry if you can watch horror movies without sitting on a blanket protector and whoopee if you can walk through Chinatown without screaming in terror at all the dragons. Good for you, tough guy. But don’t come crying to me when your brave face gets mauled by dragons.

My point is that it’s only natural to be afraid of things. I know it’s also only natural to run around naked and do your business in the bushes, but I’m talking about a more acceptable form of nature (the nature that doesn’t have your business in it).

I say, embrace your fears and, who knows, maybe one day you’ll find they’re not there anymore. You’ll go the movies and plunge your hand into boxes of piping hot popcorn without a care in the world. You’ll start winning at Snakes and Ladders because you don’t worry about walking under the ladders. Before you know it you’ll be fighting wars and making speeches at your local Fear of Public Speaking Group meetings. So, tell people your fears, get them to understand. Just don’t tell someone you have a fear of blackmail, because that usually ends badly.

And you still don’t have to listen to the last verse of Waltzing Matilda. Nobody’s perfect.

Cats

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Sun, 18 May 2008 16:03:00 +0000

I don't know who came up with the idea that cats have nine lives, but whoever it was owes me a cat.

A poem

noreply@blogger.com (Daniel) — Sat, 17 May 2008 08:37:00 +0000

A see-saw was seen
It seems
In the sea saw store
By the sea
How the sea saw the see-saw
In the saw store
By the sea
I don’t see.